Juan built sandcastles. Every day he went to the beach, collected damp sand from the tide-mark, and constructed dreams. Tourists watched and took photographs – some even threw money into Juan’s bucket, although never enough – but Juan loved the attention.
Lucia wasn’t happy being the only wage-earner. “You must get a real job – the rent is overdue again.”
“I have a job,” Juan replied grandly, “I am an artist.”
But the next night he came home to find Lucia and their possessions in the street – the landlord had thrown her out.
It was time to stop living in cloud-cuckoo land.