The Roof (or lack thereof)
I know you’ve been super looking forward to hearing all about this.
Picture the scene:
I’m at a friend’s house having a BBQ. Finally feeling like I’m getting to know people here. Washing clothes in their washing machine while we’re BBQing. Considering treating myself to a hot shower while I’m there too.
Their kittens have played around our feet all night, the drinks have flowed, the food’s been wonderful.
Admittedly we had to go to Tenerife to get vegetarian burgers and cheddar cheese. And go to San Sebastián to get good bread. And we won’t even talk about the trauma of trying to get salad cream.
I’m relaxing! The night has been wonderful, and I’m almost beginning to believe that I could actually build a life on Gomera. There’s something indescribably perfect about being able to sit on a friend’s roof terrace with a BBQ, surrounded by a banana plantation, looking at the plethora of stars with hardly any light pollution and listening to the sea (and the occasional angry goat).
Progress is being made with the house - a couple of doorways have been knocked through, there’s an arch where there wasn’t an arch before (EVERY good Spanish home needs an arch) and I can finally turn my bedroom light off from my own bedroom, rather than having to go next door to do so.
The first tentative plants are settling in, and I’m becoming prouder of my herb garden each day. I’m absolutely up to my maximum refurb budget but I’ve had the place rewired and re plumbed, and there’s hot water in almost all the house.
Now, Playa Santiago has on average 12 days of rain a year. 12. A. YEAR. When it rains, it rains pretty heavily for a few minutes then stops. The plants are happy, the goats are happy, and being in a tropical rainstorm every once in a while is a delightful feeling when it’s normally so hot (and yes, I know that’s a major humble brag).
On this night, it rained.
A lot.
And didn’t stop.
We had to abandon the terrace BBQ, and Rose headed back while I decide it’s time to enjoy that hot shower.
20 minutes later, the phone rings.
“Felicity... there’s water in the house.”
Not a MAJOR deal, right? Every house has tiny leaks? Right?
“How much?”
“Erm. It’s in both upstairs bedrooms. And the kitchen. Quite badly. Aaaaaand the corridor is flooded.”
“How badly flooded?”
“Erm. I had to carry Not-My-Cat through the corridor because it was too much to walk through.”
By this time I’m starting to panic. The haze of wine isn’t making this conversation easier.
Rose: “There’s more.”
.....
“The rain... hasn’t really flooded much.”
I mean, I didn’t have much to flood, almost all my stuff was in suitcases.
“Except... both your laptops.”
My laptop is my WORLD. Since touring stopped I’ve been making as much of a living as possible proofreading and editing, and for that you totally need a laptop. So to have my main laptop AND my backup one flooded?
Well. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back alright.
I sat there with my new friends and sobbed. And I have to say, inconsolably weeping about what I was sure was fast becoming the worst decision of my life certainly brings you closer to people.
To this day I’m not sure whether the words, “Huh it’s really unusual, it NEVER rains this much!” are helpful (at least it happened BEFORE I got furniture right?) or simply an encouragement to weep some more...
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