Last Days of the Bus Club by Chris Stewart

began to fill.
    Before long we had reached that interesting state where production was beginning to exceed demand. It occurred to us that, just as we had needed the chickens to relieve us from the burden and waste of left-over food, we now needed Chloé back to relieve us from the glut. Neighbours were no help as they all had chickens themselves, and, although we could have fed the eggs to the dogs, it seemed excessive and a waste, because dogs don’t appreciate the qualities of a good egg. The occasional egg-and-home-produce run to Chloé’s Granada lodgings seemed like the best solution, and a fine, unobtrusive way to keep in touch.



CHAPTER EIGHT
BREAKFAST IN MEDINA SIDONIA
    T HE PHONE – IT WAS M ICHAEL . Michael being my good friend and travel companion Dr Michael Jacobs, art historian, author, stuttering raconteur and formidable cook, calling from his home in Frailes, a village not far to the north of us, near Jaén.
    ‘Ah, Chris … erm … I’ve got myself into a b-bit of a scrape. You see, Cuqui has asked me to be president of the jury at a
concurso gastronómico
in C-Conil. It’s tuna, the
almadraba
– the spring tuna harvest.’
    ‘Mmm,’ I said. ‘Tuna is by a long head my favourite fish, although …’
    ‘Mine, too. But I can’t possibly do it.’
    ‘You what?’
    ‘I can’t possibly do it,’ he said again, with an unusual air of finality.
    ‘Why ever not?’ I expostulated. ‘You must be bonkers. It’ll be the best tuna you’ve ever eaten.’
    ‘Yes, but … well … I’m trying to get this wretched b-book written and so saying no to absolutely everything, and as you know I don’t drive, and going all the way to Conil on public transport will take me the best part of a week there and back. It’s out of the question. I’m not doing it.’
    I could tell what was coming next; sure enough it came:
    ‘Y-you don’t want to d-do it, do you?’
    ‘Come on, Michael. I couldn’t possibly be president of the jury at a
concurso gastronómico
…’
    ‘Of course you could; all you have to do is eat the tuna – admittedly rather a lot of tuna – and then say nice things about it. It’s easy as that. You could d-do it in your sleep.’
    ‘I really can’t, Michael. I’m trying to get a book finished too, and I’ve got the
acequia
to clean and the sheep to shear … I’m right up against it. I mean, it sounds very tempting but I really can’t. I’m sorry.’
    And so we said no more about it. And then I thought about it a bit and, as it got nearer supper time and as I began to feel a little bit peckish, the idea of that tuna began to seem more and more tempting. Also I was looking for material for an article or two, and it seemed likely that on a jaunt of this nature something worthy of an article or two would be bound to happen. Neither should one forget the old adage that ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’
    So I rang Michael and told him that I would do it.
    ‘That’s marvellous, Chris. I’ll ring Cuqui right away; she’ll be delighted.’
    Next there was a silence while a thought occurred to him …
    ‘You know what?’ he continued. ‘I’ve been thinking and I th-thought that if you’re going to go along, then p-perhaps I might c-come along too, and you could pick me up?’
    ‘Well, that would be lovely, Michael,’ I lied (for I had rather wanted to be the president of a jury, the first and probably the last time in my life that I would be president of anything). ‘But surely we can’t both be the president … can we?’
    Another silence, a short one. ‘You can be the p-president,’ he said, magnanimously.
    ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ I, with false modesty, replied.
    There was yet another pause while Michael pondered how best to put something.
    ‘Actually, I wasn’t telling the whole truth about the p-president. Neither of us will be p-president; in fact, there isn’t a president.’
    ‘But surely there has to be a president; you can’t have a