J To be honest, I thought we’d already done the grand tour of Spain

S I’m desperate for a change of scenery

J Are you saying my ugly mug’s not good enough any more?

S It’s just that I’m going stir-crazy. Hey, it’s not personal, Jessie-Baby

J We can’t have that, can we?

S We passed a field of sunflowers facing the sun that resembled rows of beatific Stepford-like devotees being communally married at a cult rally

J It’s torturous driving in the heat without air conditioning. Do I complain to Stan the Man? No

S Stout old women in mourning black, chalky-white houses with green shutters, a string of red peppers dangling from a wall – the real Spain

J Yes, the real Spain, where they sell chocolate con churros, thick drinking chocolate dipped with doughnut fingers

Senegalese men with the lope of gazelles hawked goods up and down the coast, arms draped with baubles, and sarongs, which were really headscarfs back in Dakar, and bead necklaces, which were once pods on West African trees.

Gaudy amusement arcades whirred, clunked and squawked next to empty afternoon discos that, undeterred, blared the latest Euro-techno-beat.

Britain, France, Ireland, Belgium, Germany, Sweden, Denmark and Holland catered for their nationals with restaurants, pubs and supermarkets, conceding only to Spain’s fresh bread and vegetables.

‘Catering for those who want to turn abroad into home,’ Jessie commented, as they sat outside a café under a striped umbrella. ‘They want the sun, but they can’t stand foreign, except when the natives dress up in colourful costumes and dance for them. How sad is that? Now us, we’re independent travellers.’

S I keep expecting another ghost to appear. I miss them

J Has these conversations – in his head. I can see his lips twitching

S If only Mum were alive, I’d take her on holiday to the sun and the sea. It’s what she left behind

J He won’t give me a penny for them

S We’d visit the most ostentatious palaces and have fun detecting passing ghosts

J So long as he’s by my side, I shan’t ask for more. When he’s ready …

S I vaguely remember … I was such a small child … seeing a queue of cars at traffic lights turn into horse-drawn carriages

J Stanley calls me the Calor Gas Queen. Tonight I cooked paella, steam rising off it like a miniature volcano, with salad

S I’m good at salads

J Yes, the way he washes lettuce is nothing short of miraculous

S I’ve bought a guide book, much to Jessie’s disgust, as they’re for tourists, not independent travellers

J For dessert we had aniseed cakes, macaroons, pastries bathed in honey. Then he goes and spoils it by saying he wants to go to Ronda tomorrow. Another dead village