CUANTO TIEMPO SIN VERTE

I can't believe I have neglected my blog for so long and am delighted I have a follower and comments in my absence. Also being stranded in the mountains waiting for the snowplough man to plough through a vat of absinthe when he should be clearing the roads doesn't help to get anything done, especially if you decide to join him.

On my return I discover my nemesis or nemesisis ( nemesi?) are still howling away. Between the mayor, classes 3A and B and Piti the poodle I feel like a cross between Michael Palin in GBH and A Fish Called Wanda with a bit of Herbert Lom thrown in. I hear the Palacio de Congresos has finally been put to use in the form of a Police conference about what to do during 'big events'. Big events being concerts and football matches for those locals zipped up at the back. I can't recall a 'big event' happening here but I have touched on the town's ability to think itself bigger and better than anywhere else in the universe. I can't think who would be troubled enough to go to this conference unless it is the police force and that would explain the recent crime 'wave' we have had this month. Then I read that no, actually crime is down according to someone who is a sub-delegate of I guess local government. One Ramon Zapatero tried to reassure peeved locals with the latest figures comparing crime with last year's but he couldn't deny that most folk can't be bothered to call the police as nothing is ever done. Our mayor who is a co-president of the local Junta claims the police will be 'modifying' some of their 'work criteria' in an attempt to bring security to the streets. There will be more police on the beat he reckons. Vamos a ver.

And so they were this morning as they spent forty mintes trying to tow away a car that had crashed into, knocked down and parked over the bollard that had been planted outside our flats by the council several times in an attempt to prevent people from parking there. I was spoilt for choice beteen this and the alcoholic tramps who turned up to watch and the irate woman driver who found herself trapped in the ensuing traffic jam and spent her time honking, shouting at the police and rummaging through her shopping bags and admiring what looked like the weirdest high heeled shoes I have ever seen. I wondered what had possessed her to buy them and how happy the owner of the car being towed away once was when he lovingly placed a green Champions League beer towel across his dashboard not knowing what the future would have in store as he did so. He was later seen sprinting down the street and doing the inevitable which is give the police a bollocking and 'what about all the other cars parked on the skew whiff?'

As each day passes I fear the dreaded community meeting. As if I don't have enough to worry about this annual event ( big one, may need riot police) starts to rumble before it kicks off sometime later this month in the local community hall. Like a plane journey I wonder if I will survive it and if I don't I hope someone out there stands up as some kind of witness to my anguish. Trouble is brewing and the natives are not happy. Everytime I see one of them in the hallway they are livid and possess the kind of stare which only furthers my apprehension. Buds were not nipped with the 'punkies' and their cohorts, the letter boxes remain broken and Piti is asking for a poisoning or beating of some kind if he doesn't shut up.I can see why people take up arms.

Talking of which, I am surprised no one has taken out the likes of Gordon Brown, Fuld and Greenspan. How long will it be before some disgruntled jobless nutcase decides to shoot them and those at the Royal Bank of Scotland who still have jobs and are set to get millions for fear they may change those jobs and go with other banks and thus ruin this one?

On a lighter note today is Saint Agatha or Santa Agueda, the patron saint of breasts and women in general. It was a year ago that I found myself in the arms of mountain women and caught up in a conga snaking around to the strains of the local 'orchestra' by villagers who seem to leave their homes once a year to go mental on this day.