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Sunday, 4 March 2012

THE WAY I TELL 'EM, NO MORE

It's a strange emotion when you are able to open a bottle of champagne and send a wreath at the same time but I think that is what I will do later once I am sure Mr and Mrs C have gone and that I am not imagining their departure. If there are lessons to be learnt then number one would be that sometimes you have to appear to be a heartless bastard. H is already considering buying their flat but I've told him only if he gets the place exorcised.

Over a lovingly crafted meal in El Origen last night I had to listen to ten Spanish friends argue with H over who, politically, is to blame for the current state of Spain. I've had the same conversation several times with various friends and between the screaming and shouting every time Aznar's or Zapatero's name is mentioned it is always interesting to listen to the deathly silence and then grudging murmurs of agreement as they conclude that Germany or someone de fuera is going to be calling the shots from now on. It's great fun to sit back and enjoy whatever is on the menu and listen to folk bemoan the current situation while they drink the finest red wine and eat quality food that is locally sourced and would cost a fortuna back in the UK. I'm not sure the term chattering classes exists in Spain because everyone here has an opinion and you are going to listen to it, all of you and all at the same time. 


A couple of times we have made a joke about how we will go and see The Artist in the original version but it has been met with blank faces. We finally got to see it last night but not before we were subjected to a badly tuned radio station blaring out sounds in Sala Numero 4. Nobody seemed to mind and H and I thought we were just being uptight as usual to the unnecessary noise on full blast which I presume was being played in case someone  freaked out once the silent film started. I wasn't sure what to expect of this film but it was not so bad and if you haven't seen it don't read on because at the end I realised the actor couldn't act in the talkies on account of him being French. I wondered if this goes amiss with Spanish folk as no one here knows what a French person sounds like, and thank God the end of the film where the actors get to speak isn't dubbed in Spanish. If so, once more the Spanish are left perplexed at the punch line. 


Later we went for Chinese and made the mistake of not asking for the rice to be accompanied by the meat dishes. Rice seems to be served as a starter here and then your chicken in black bean sauce or whatever arrives twenty minutes later. The waiters keep checking to see if you have finished your rice so they can bring your meal. Later we went to the Rico Rico bar which has become our local of late as a refreshing change to Babi the Communist barman in the Rugaca and his crazy but nice clientele and their amazing way of doing my head in. The woman in Rico Rico seemed delighted with the news about Mr and Mrs C and at one point asked me why I hadn't bought a shotgun and got rid of them before.

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