Five Euro Happy.

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Lydia is NOT a tattooed lady - though she shares a name with the one Groucho Marx sang about.

At least, I DON’T think she is tattooed.

There are certainly none visible above her clothes’ line anyway.

Although i have never seen her sunbathing.

She seems to be old enough to have a tattoo if she wants one, but far too young to be swapping ailments as she was today when we bumped into each other at the market.

Apparently she’s been drinking copious glasses of fresh ginger with added hot water and freshly squeezed limes to start the day.

“That makes you wild!” She confided.

I offered her my own recipe for turmeric, pepper and lemon juice as an inflammatory antidote and then we discussed what to do with a grumbling back.

We both embraced the virtues of early morning walking, and then I lay down in the road to demonstrate my favourite exercise.

My cap remained down when I stood up, and she stooped to retrieve it, slipping a disc in the process.

A passing doctor diagnosed the need for surgery and other painful interventions, but instead we walked it off.

Our walk took in a visit to the coffee stall- I had two espresso (i?) – and a longer dawdle by the stall that sells cinnamon rolls.

The merchant who makes and sells the cinnamon rolls is younger than both of us but suffers from commercial confusionitis.

Her rolls used to be a euro twenty each but are now priced at two euro forty for one.

“I realised I had badly costed them.” She explained.

“I was selling at a loss.”

I looked at them.

They were double the size of the one twenty ones.

I bought two.

I would have paid five euro and still have been happy.