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Tuesday, 11 October 2011

SEASON OF MISTS AND FRUITFULNESS PART DOS

The weather here is lovely and still warm enough to wear a T-Shirt which is why Henderson and I have had a bet on what it says on the front of Mrs C's after seeing the back which said 'UP'. He has gone for the obvious '*uck', but my money is on 'things are looking....'. She was in a buoyant mood yesterday screeching at Mr C on the hour but was a different woman when social services came this morning. While I think of T-Shirts in Spain with English words on them I am still puzzling over the one my pupil was wearing the other day. I think 'You've Aken on the Creon You Dont Liko Ther' might be Scottish for 'Does Anyone Know How to Crack a Nut?'

I woke up on Sunday afternoon looking like I'd lost the rugby to France complete with nasal strip and minus an ear which is the price you have to pay for a night out in Spain. Actually, I wasn't too bad considering the bar we went to insists its clientele ignore the law and smoke like bastards. Just about everyone had a fag, a spliff or a pipe in his mouth, even folk who don't smoke. It got so bad that at one point when we stepped outside to breath a man followed us, lit up a fag, looked at us aghast and said, 'it's impossible in there, I've come out here to enjoy my cigarette'. One of the regulars told me that they, the other regulars, have all agreed to chip in and pay the fine that will go to the owner Pepe if the police can ever be bothered to turn up and give it to him. I've always said this town is like the Wild West and there is a certain admiration for that anarchistic spirit the Spanish have but they are exceptionally stubborn on things that will eventually kill them or maim them. This bar has been in existence for decades and plays the best music. On first sight it looks a bit of a rogue's gallery with people playing cards and smoking drugs but we bumped into quite a few parents of pupils, plus a few bemused pupils trying to see what all the fuss is about and many respectable bank managers letting their hair down as the Euro dies. On a warm evening I've seen small children challenge one another to jump through it's doors, do a bit of a jig to the strains of Led Zepellin and run out laughing.


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