I am on floor six of Hotel Central Playa. Two star generic. Fridge buzzing like a migraine. On floor six I am level with the swallows. Swooping and diving round the rooftops. Passing south facing washing lines, jeans and pants and t-shirts, bleaching in the sun. In their aerodynamic grace they seem so much freer than us earthbound, concrete-contained, consumer creatures. Do they dream of flies when they catch a few seconds sleep on the wing? Or other lives, half remembered, half lived, in hotel boxes, scribbling in books, staring at swallows?