Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Read Online Free PDF

consider the business idea I've been nurturing. Should it ever see the light of day, I would no longer need to make regular trips back to London.
    Â Â Catalina holds the iron aloft. 'Don't forget Moros i Cristiàs next week.'
    Â Â 'How could I? It's all Ollie talks about.'
    Â Â The Moors and Christians event is part of Sa Fira I Es Firó, a four day fiesta which includes sa fira, a livestock market, and es firó, a mock fight. It commemorates the famed battle which raged between the moros , marauding Moorish pirates, and the cristiàs , the Sóller locals, on 11 May 1561. The cristiàs, who successfully beat off their attackers, are assured victory annually. It's a one day, non-politically-correct marathon and a lethal assault on the ear drums.
    Â Â 'Is Stefan a Moor this year?'
    Â Â 'Stefan is always a Moor. Is more fun.'
    Â Â Catalina's brother, Stefan, the builder who renovated our ruin of a finca , always throws himself wholeheartedly into the local fiestas or festes as they are known locally. His sister is just as enthusiastic. She eyes me through a puff of steam. 'By the way, Stefan wants to know when to put up the front gate?'
    Â Â 'Is it ready?'
    Â Â She shrugs her shoulders and folds another shirt. 'Mes o manco.'
    Â Â More or less. Well, that sounds hopeful. The local blacksmith is making us a simple black iron gate to replace the old wooden effort we currently have propped up at the front entrance. We may not be able to fund walls all round the property yet, but the courtyard is a priority, as is the installation of a decent gate to prevent phantom sheep from popping up all over the place.
    Â Â 'He can come whenever he wants.'
    Â Â The phone rings. It's Alan asking me to collect our mail from the post office. I trace a note of anxiety in his voice as if he's expecting something important. What can that be, I wonder? Apparently he won't be back until the afternoon because he and Pep, his partner in crime, have decided to meet for lunch in Palma. That doesn't bode well. The only reason these two meet away from our local town is so that they can hatch hair-brained business schemes away from prying eyes. In fairness, when the Scotsman learns what sort of venture I am contemplating, he'll be quite entitled to incarcerate himself in his abajo with a large puro and a bottle of Lagavulin.
    Â Â Catalina offers to drive me in to the town to collect the mail but I tell her I'd prefer to go on foot. This is the season when the heavy and intoxicating fragrance of jasmine hangs in the air and rich clusters of lavender fill the hedgerows. Lemons, as common a sight as oranges in our valley, fatten and turn golden with the spring rains and wild baby asparagus shoots up along the banks. It's a good time to walk.
    Â Â On reaching Sóller plaça , the main square, I head off to the post office only to find a mountain of mail and a rather cumbersome box with a New York stamp awaiting me. Somehow I manage to squeeze it all in to a large carrier bag proffered by one of the staff, and walk slowly up the main street. Remembering that my photocopier's out of ink, I pop into HiBit, the local computer shop which is owned by Antonia, a fast-talking Mallorquina with fluent English, and her American husband, Albert, a computer boffin. From the moment we arrived in the valley, this duo guided us through the technical and bureaucratic labyrinth necessary to get us connected to the Internet at our old finca . Several times during severe storms, our entire computer system crashed, and it was always thanks to Albert that we found ourselves up and running again, albeit some weeks later. Behind the counter with ear to the phone, Antonia beckons to me. I set my bag down and wait patiently for her to finish the call. After much si-si ing, she props the receiver back on its perch.
    Â Â 'Hey,' she says, 'Exciting news! We have a new postman.'
    Â Â 'He's from Argentina.'
    Â Â She