Had a few ideas for poems

 

. Some provoked by hearing the harpist, another inspired by an event at Murcia airport last Friday. 

 

So what happened at Murcia? This is a tiny airport with only 3 gates, flights to Madrid and a couple of places in the UK. I had a surfboard, it only cost 8 euros but Francis so much wanted to take it home.

 

 Tried to check it into the hold and was told that as it was sports equipment it would cost 25 euros to carry. 

How ludicrous that was, so I tried to cram it into the suitcase without luck, whilst it was on the conveyor belt as well whilst the girl pretended to look the other way. So I told her I would trash it and took it off to find a bin.

 Of course in these days of high security there was no bin in the place. I gave it to Steve and he said he would look outside for one and so off he went. I took the kids over by the doors to wait for him and in doing so noticed at least 10 Guardia Civil with green uniforms and pistolas. Oh dear, would they apprehend my suspicious looking husband?

 Steve returned to the concourse, still carrying the surfboard and looking fraught. 

There were no bins outside either. Then he started to panic as he saw all the guards. Surely they would notice the surfboard whereever we dumped it and a full scale security alert was sure to follow. I ridiculed him to no use.

 In the end and totally exasperated I grabbed it from him and asked the girl in the Ryan Air kiosk to take it off my hands, which she did willingly. 

 Meanwhile a line of boys clutching footballs and soccer magazines had formed from doors to immigration control. I encouraged Dominic to join the line and I stood behind him. Some famous fotballer was obviously using the airport.

 We got the digital camera out so as to be able to identify this famous person at a later date. A short while of waiting when a coach pulled up and the whole of the Real Madrid football team came out and walked through the concourse very close to us including David Beckham. 

Now up until this point I had never really taken notice of him. I knew he was a talented footballer but despised him for his choice of wife, his courting of the press and his profligacy with money. Also the papers and TV had been full of tales of his affairs for the past fortnight to the point of saturation. However, I was strucjk by the delicacy of his features and the finenessof his physique, his silky hair pulled back in a ponytail, he looked like a porcelain doll in his blue suit. I wrote down my impressions and will mould them into a poem. I could see why people think he is classically beautiful for he was, quite thrillingly stunning. So when I have worked on it I will post the poem here.