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Our tea

Eileen and I have fallen into a routine. Every evening around six:thirty we go down to the bar in the Club Nautic and watch the sunset. We call it ‘going for our tea’, a phrase beloved of a late and much missed friend, used in his honour and memory. She has a glass of cava, and I have three beers, one, two three. (She sips, I drink.) ‘Siempre tres?’ the barman asked me a couple of evenings ago. ‘Si, siempre tres.’ These are not large beers, understand, and they are not what I would normally drink, but they don’t stock Saaz.

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