Steamlessness

The thing is - seems to be - that Granny is lacking in/has run out of steam/steam has run out of her. She could write an acute observation of animal behaviour - the dynamics of the chicken run - a bit like a class of little girls - best friends, bullies, soulful outsiders, smartypants(s) etc etc. She won't. She could write a piece of humorous local observation about search for Post Office and its minder in northern town with Saturday market where Beloved's and Beloved's daughter's bags were lost 10 days ago and from which documents out of said bags reappeared mysteriously by post, yesterday. Were bags at Post Office then? Who knows. Postman wasn't at Post Office in defiance of stated hours of opening. Sundry, toothless locals informed them in accents even more indecipherable than those on rest of island 'this is his car, those are his onions etc. He's delivering mail/ should be back soon.' (Postman lives on site, evidently plus garden; if picture in your head spoke English rural post office boot it out.) Sundry other equally frustrated customers came and went. So did Granny and Beloved eventually. But that's all she's going to say about it. She could do a weather report -last week's haze and warm, good for hammock, replaced by brilliant light/sun, cold wind, not good for hammock - but that's it. Sorry. Manana. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Maybe the smoke from the fires of the festival of St John last week (Spanish equivalent of bonfire night; pagan midsummer festival with Christian trappings) have addled her brain. Or maybe not.