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Tuesday, 20 January 2009

MR MUSCLE...SO MUCH BETTER THAN SPIT.

Thursday is Saint Vincent, another fiesta and no work and all play. I can relate to Saint Vincent as like me he was imprisoned, semi-starved and then commanded to sacrifice but refused. I'm sure a crucifixion was thrown in while they were at it as I have fleeting memories of something similar involving an operating theatre and a bright light. Waking up and realising I was left with wounds like Saint Sebastian was the last straw and suffice to say I would rather throw myself onto Saint Lawrence's barbecue than go back to that hospital. At least I can drink again.

Back to Vincent of Zaragoza. I am warned that there will be another big 'hoguera' or bonfire which will be placed next to the fire station I guess in case of the inevitable. 2,000 natives are expected armed with potatoes but I think these might be handed out which explains why so many come. 170 miles of sausage and lashings of red wine, oil, salt, paper napkins and plastic plates ensure a sea of gleeful faces but not what I call a shindig, and not being one who enjoys the 'group thing' will head off in the opposite direction.

I need to delve more into the "English not acquiring the adult mind' theory as I am seriously thinking it is another one of those things that you convince yourself is right but on a final analisis realise that our European cousins are often the masters of. My other concern is the 'English women are the sluts of Europe' view, and I don't mean the sex, that's another one worth discussing along with drinking habits and who has got the best food. I'm talking dust and mess as opposed to neurotically scrubbing and polishing like there's no tomorrow. At last we pick up the dog shit.

Our community meeting looms and like a future engagement with a plane is starting to make me twitch slightly as I know all the neighbours are right now storing up their hatred and bitterness towards whoever will listen once the meeting takes place, sometime in February. Everyone will scream and shout and say how wrong it all is that someone is still breaking the letterboxes and 'Marcos I will kill you' is still painted on the street door as well as all the other gripes. I will sit there and try to get a word in but coming from a background that would have sorted all the problems out earlier on will end up watching them pretending I am David Attenborough. Most attempts at diplomacy are viewed as breaking the rules as the point of this meeting is to have a bloody good slanging match with yourself and, if they can be bothered to listen, your nearest neighbour. People will drift off into other complaints that the 'Gestor' or administrator will be frantically trying to record. Very little will be done except in the way of steam and moralising and all my solutions will be viewed as mad as that is not how things are done here. I'm trying not to count the days.

Our current 'presidente' asked me the other day what size the strip light that has blown in the garage is. I told him I had no idea to which he replied neither did he and his face said 'well what am I supposed to do about this?'. I found myself telling him to get a ladder and take the old one out, take it along to the shop and ask for the same size. Later on I was in the hallway of a block of flats where there are some fifty flats or more and a women entered and asked me if I knew where some 'fulanita' or Mrs. So and So lived and was most miffed when I opened my gob and told her that I didn't. She looked at me horrified and said aloud 'what? you're not from round here'. I told her 'no, thank God' and turned on my heels. The Spanish are very happy to waste my time trying to save theirs and a day doesn't go by without one of them hindering me or accosting me when it suits them. When they are in a hurry or have nothing to say they will cross the road to avoid you. I sussed onto this a while back and have loads of other examples of their inbred laziness.

So that's all for today as I steel myself for the hoodlums and future civil servants of rural Spain. Happy Saint Sebastain and Fabian.

1 comment:

ejh said...

'Marcos I will kill you' is still painted on the street door

Ah that is your door. I thought it was. (Before I painted it, ho ho ho.)