Every day is, like, sun day

You'd think that after a quarter of a century of living in a country, a chap might have learned his lesson. Alas, not being the sharpest tack in the box, said chap has done no such thing and continues to make the same, foolish mistake year in, year out. Like a son returning to his parents' house for Christmas swearing that this will be the year he won't get irritated about being treated like a child, I'm simply unable to break the pattern.

It's summer in Malaga and it's blisteringly hot - therefore, for the sake of our health and our sanity, we should all adapt our behaviour accordingly, just as the locals have done for centuries. Simple, right? Well, er, no. Not for me anyway. Here's how the internal conversion goes every year.

"Ok, Peter, it's July and the sun is a demon. You need to start getting up earlier to get things done. You know, like those workmen who begin at 8am sharp with their pneumatic drills and their even more pneumatic yelling."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Don't nag."

"You said that last year, yet most days still got up just in time for a siesta. Then you felt racked with guilt until dusk when I had to give you another gentle reminder."

"Gentle reminder? You called me a lazy lump of lard and wouldn't let me sleep."

"That was the heat. Oh, and those videos of the greatest ever cricket catches plus some 1970s Noam Chomsky interviews. Mostly the cricket, though."

"It'll be different this year. You'll see."

Except it hasn't been different. Not in the slightest. I haven't changed my winter routine one iota which means that while everyone with an IQ of more than 36 is doing something useful, I'm sleeping and while they're sleeping I'm dragging myself around in a pool of perspiration looking for chores that don't involve anything more than the light wafting of a little finger and a quick lie down in the shade. It's madness. However, I think I've found a solution, albeit 25 years later than might have been ideal. He's called Pepe.

Pepe is a builder and I've called him to do some reform work on the house. Pepe will, quite rightly, work only during the hours that sane people work in the summer and, by offering to help him (and studiously ignoring the corresponding look of abject horror on his face), I'm obliged to adapt to his routine. He'll be like a moustachioed guardian angel with a tool belt while I'll be his worst nightmare, dropping and breaking things in equal proportion but, you know, you can't have it all.

Pepe's calling later today to say when he can make a start. I'll probably be watching the cricket.

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