It's Fathers' day today in the UK. Mr van de Ven and I agree that both our fathers were mysterious men, difficult to get to know. Perhaps, in my father's words, awkward bastards but we loved them and we believe they loved us in their peculiar way and ultimately, without them we wouldn't have found one another, and as this is an endgame I guess that is all that matters now. Spread love wherever you go.

I forgot to say that I went back to the police station and on my way I armed myself with my best persuasive expletives just in case. When I got there policia told me my name wasn't on the appointment list. I could see it was but it was spelt with a hyphen so I told her that was the other ANN-MARIE, the one who inhabits higher spheres and realms and has the potential to be a godhead if she would only get her act together and the ANNMARIE in front of her was the lazy, earthy, sweary, anarchic one that has a tendency to channel the spirit of her ancestors scrappy ways and philosophise and kick off at the same time. She gave me a scorching look that would explain why the wheels of officialdom are constantly welded, referred to me as 'your worship', and gave me a form to fill in while she filled in my details on the computer with her cloven hooves. After more comings and goings and other things lacking in sense or meaning there was a complete change of atmosphere and character as she presented me with my official papers, the culmination of almost two years and 600 euros. There was a round of applause from the other immigrants and I left with Voltaire ringing in my head. 'All is for the best in the best of possible worlds'. The End.

I got my 'certificado de concordancia' and went off to the police station to update my details. If you have any experience of Spanish bureaucracy you will know that it is often accompanied by a feeling of dread as you wonder what bullshit they will spring on you this time. The policia who dealt with me looked at both passports and told me that my name had been written ANNMARIE in one of them and ANN MARIE in the other so this threw a doubt as to whether I am actually the person in either. I said the equivalent of 'are you taking the piss?' which seems more persuasive in Spanish, something on the lines of 'are you touching my bollocks' which sounds even better when it is said by a woman whose got some.

Meanwhile, the witless, gormless yobbo whose name we never mention in this household, AKA Mummy's Little Soldier, Thomas the Martyr, is languishing in prison imagining he is some kind of Mr Bridger, Noel Coward's character in the Italian Job but minus the repartee, while pretending to convert to Islam like the Duke of Marlborough did while he was in prison just to get more and better food the greedy, cowardly self obsessed little bludger.

It was a great relief to be no longer addicted to Netflix. Mr van de Ven and I have watched the lot. It didn't last long. Having seen everything worth seeing we have turned our attention to the stuff we missed the first time round. We are now on the third series of In the Line of Duty the police crime drama. Talking about how corrupt the police force is or can be and how some of the characters in the series make me sick, Mr van de Ven added, 'that's why that type join the police, because they can't make friends, just like magicians'. (I'm not sure what he meant by the last bit but will pursue it later...) I set about thinking how cut off, lonely and shunned the police must often feel and was reminded of how my late father began a conversation with me circa 1994 about the police force which managed to obliterate the Police Commissioner at the time, in a matter of seconds. 'I don't know what you make of that Sir Paul Condon', he started. 'He seems like an amicable bloke. Well actually he seems like a bit of a prick. Look, to be perfectly frank I can't stand the bastard.

AGE CANNOT WITHER HER

Children can be very nosy, always asking you how old you are and do you have any children etc. Some nine year old pupils have not let up with the age thing. I have informed them it is rude to ask an elderly woman her age but they keep at it. I told them one day that I was 26 but they seemed unsatisfied with this so another day I told them I was 66 but this puzzled them even more. On another occasion I gave in and announced I had been around for about a million years and had reincarnated so many times that I was getting sick of it to be honest. Then the other day I introduced them to Dr Who, the BBC series that has been running since the 60's I believe. They learnt about the different doctors and at one point started to ask me if I had been around when William Hartnell (1963-1966) or Patrick Troughton ( 1966-1969) had been the doctor. I told them that no I hadn't and that my favourite had been Tom Baker ( 1974-1981). I then heard some whispers and some conclusions that ' I reckon she's about forty five'. I looked over and it seemed they were placing bets the cheeky perishers!