KEEP ON TRUCKING

Johnson will be seen as the victor. Words like 'historic' will be used. The ultras, the ERG, will form a Star Chamber which means they will pay someone else to read the thousands of pages over Christmas to find something to whinge about, and so on it will go. The deal will be nothing like the one being offered during the referendum, or what the British had before. Most of those I know who voted Brexit have forgotten how it was being sold four and a half years ago or simply don't care anymore yet they still don't know what it will all entail. They still think there are no benefits to being in this union. It might take a while but in the end they will see that it was never the EU who was responsible for the incredibly negative and frankly shite aspects to their life. 

BREXIT DEAL IS DONE. FOR NOW...

You heard it here first. A deal is done. Johnson walks away the hero. But then again.....

Brexit. Being trapped in a vortex of existential nothingness with witless turnips. Forever.

ALPARCEROS UNITED

This morning Mr van de Ven and I went our seperate ways. No, we haven't split up, we just went in opposite directions up the road because we both had, ''stuff to do''. God knows where he was going but I had to go to the bank and pay a bill or rather a tax for some water contamination. I haven't contaminated the water but let's just say the public has to pay this tax or risk the wrath of the Aragonese Water Institute. This merits another story but I can't be bothered right now. Anyway, the bit I am getting at is that while on my travels I fancied getting some Pan Montanes, a type of meat from Cerdanya, somewhere near Andorra, eaten as an aperitif. I went into one of the delis here and asked for six thick slices of the stuff. As some of you know, nothing gets past the locals, in fact there is a word for them. Alparceros. The translation might be nosy parker, or perhaps a gossip but when you live in such a close community it is inevitable that everyone knows your business. The woman began to tell me that a man had been in just moments earlier and had bought six thick slices of the same meat. Good for him, I thought, wise man, knows his stuff, good taste and so on. Bit of a coincidence though isn't it read the mind of the woman or at least her face said that. We both paused. ''What did he look like?'' I asked. ''Was he wearing a hat? A fedora?'' She couldn't remember a hat. It was difficult to say what with everyone wearing masks and everything. Reluctant to appear rude she did another face that said, ''maybe''. ''It's him'', I thought. ''What kind of supernatural, paranormal nonsense is going on now? It can't be anyone else. How did he have the same craving as me, and to ask for the same amount, size and so on?''  ''You'd better check before you buy any in case it was him''. Said the woman. I went home and told Mr van de Ven that I knew what he had been up to and where he had been and who he had been with and that nothing escapes she who is now going to be referred to as the leader of the United Alparceros People's Front.  

It will all be made to look like Johnson is the hero of the day. Be made to look like they have left. By then most people will not care anymore apart from some hard core ERG Brexiter types who may or may not take up arms. Let's face it. It will never end. Brexit is an endless existential nightmare. 

BROKEN BREXIT BRITAIN BREEDS BUFFOONS

Britain used to be the sick man of Europe, then the awkward bastard of Europe, recently the spoilt brat of Europe and now it is to become the ball and chain of Europe. Just. F#ck. Off.

Not much to report these days although I am sure I could if I put my mind to it. There is never a dull moment in this house. On the other hand my dreams are always surreal. The other night I dreamt I had a cat. I loved this cat and it adored me. It sat on my shoulder like a parrot and accompanied me everywhere in the dream, even when I was asleep. It could also levitate and we communicated by telepathy. When I woke up and discovered I didn't have a cat I felt quite bereft. 

Is Donald Trump going to end up outside the White House with a shopping trolley full of his wildly and wordly possessions screaming, " I used to be the President!". Is there no end to the madness?

It hasn't been such a bad old day. I had insomnia so I got up, a bit provoked to say the least, opened the shutters, and to my astonishment there was the so called blue moon. It was amazing and well worth putting up with the horrible feeling that I would never sleep again. What's keeping me awake? Mainly you lot. Family, friends, colleagues, students, my allotment, the thief that stole my friend's parents' tools, the magpie that insists on trying to steal my bulbs, the mole that tore up the earth and destroyed my Swiss Chard, a song, Djobi, Djoba, by the Gypsy Kings, and what those words might mean. Song in my head, I made myself a cup of tea and then remembered I had bought some Santiago cake. Chomping away I had another glimpse of the moon. I could post a picture but it will never be the same as my feeling that the blue moon was standing alone, during a curfew with just me to look back at it while the rest of the town slumbered. Trust me, it was beautiful and amazing. Later we had vermouth and bumped into friends and exchanged fears about the virus but left with a feeling of hope. Much later I danced around the living room to the strains of Charles Aznavour's 'Je m'voyais deja.' H cooked fish soup then sea bass, with salad and pureed cauliflower. Those strange fruits called Physalis that my Thai students used to call Syphilis, with blue cheese and crackers and coffee with brandy reminded me that barring a catastrophe, here will always be a nice place to live, even as it burns. Or, despite the catastrophe, I would rather be buried here.  Yours truly,  the citizen of nowhere and everywhere at all times, past and present, 

I've just discovered someone called Laurence Fox, an actor. The kind of person who might buttonhole you at a party with his intolerant and bigoted views and you make up some excuse like, "sorry, I''ve got to go, I think I have left something plugged in at home". Just as you leave he shouts out to you, "don't get me wrong, some of my best friends are black", and you leave thinking, " yeh, Idi Amin".

Long time no see, everyone's favourite clairvoyant here. In future, when I say, ''listen to me'', you'd better believe what comes next!

While I am here I might as well keep going. One of the best compliments I have ever had came from my mother. A couple of years ago I put Mr van de Ven's glasses on as a laugh and turned to my mum and asked what she thought. She looked at me and said 'oh, lovely, you look like Judge Ginsburg'.

I'm presently putting stuff in storage. The amount of shite I have managed to accumulate is shocking. Loads of stuff that I can no longer use thanks to the feckin' virus. Tons of things that nobody will be able to wear or touch, especially the more theatrical contrivances. I am standing in the study and then in the storage room, the 'trastero' as it is known in Spanish. The only word I can conjure up is despair. Bascially a rubbish dump for things you are too scared to throw out. It's Sod's Law that a week later you will find a use for that mile of bubble wrap you kept just in case you meant to send someone something that might break in the post. I could go back years with all this. When I first met Mr van de Ven I witnessed stuff in his flat that had potential to put me off him. One was an apron that had what appeared to be a bikini or bra and pants on it. I turned round to him one day and said 'it's the apron, or me'. He went into a bit of a panic and said it was a gift from a colleague and what if. ' What if what?' I asked. 'Well what if she comes round one day and sees I have thrown it away?' These are the perils of everyone. How often have you wondered this shit? The 'gifts' from the pub on Saint Patrick's night that end up somewhere 'just in case'. The books, presents, clothes, and so on that people get you for your birthday and Christmas that just leaves you thinking 'you don't really know me do you?' Why am I writing this? I guess as a warning. Do not give me anything unless I can eat, drink, read or look at it and admire it. You all have been warned!!

IN OTHER NEWS

In other news...You may or may not be familiar with the local accent here where I live and it is difficult to describe if you have never heard it and quite different from the rest of Spain. There is a tendency to stress the last syllable on certain words especially at the end of a sentence. In other words, everything goes up at the end. Spanish people from other regions say it sounds like the person is singing. The first time I realised was when a student responded with the word 'que?'. Not a quick 'que', more a long drawn out, 'queeeeee?' Later it was the city Zaragoza. Micaela Portaloo ( Michael Portillo, he of the train journey and red trousers, you know the prick) thought it fun to pronounce it Tharagostha, on his recent sojourn there, with a stress on the 'o'. But if you are from there or even here you might like to say 'Zaragozaaaa!'  May I point out that I am not making fun of the accent, I love it and before long I was and am, in the spirit of integration, joining in. For example there was the day I didn't agree with a friend and found myself saying 'pero Jorgeeeeee' instead of 'Jorge' which is just as easy to say. Nowadays I always say to a woman or girl that is doing or saying something contrary to what I think is right, 'pero chicaaaaa!' when a simple 'pero chica' would do. So today when a woman cold called I decided to lay it on with a trowel. She was trying to sell me, of all things, water and I just went into one. 'Pero chicaaaaaa! Hay agua en el grifo noooooooo?' 'Come on girl, there's water in the tap isn't theeeeere?' 'Pero vengaaaaaaa. No me fastidieeeeeeess!' 'Come of it! are you taking the fooooookin' piiiisss?' On I went, egging myself on.  Guess who hung up first?

YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS!

Britain finally becomes a banana republic. A politically unstable country whose economy is dependent upon the export of a limited-resource product, which in this case is comedy!

How often do you lie? Most of the time I convince myself I never lie because I have a problem where I really need to go into the detail of events and make sure nothing went amiss. I tell yours truly that I am accurate and honest simply because I want everyone to know exactly what happened and there is often no point in lying. The truth is more surreal. Yet there are moments when I decide telling porkies is the only way to stop me going mad or from being bored. I lie to strangers. Usually at bus stops. I tell them I have children, chickens, religious beliefs... My favourite lie was telling some American tourists the Changing of the Guard was a public execution and I always tell Dutch tourists that the First Communion they are witnessing are child marriages. I'm only truthful with friends and family. They usually hate it, depending who is on the recieving end. Well, anyway, on account of the virus I needed to fill out a form online to sign on. It looked pretty easy but I should have known there would be some ambiguity or inadequacy. These things are not designed to go smoothly. I couldn't proceed unless I wrote in the expiry date of my time left on this planet or something like that. So I lied. I told them I will be here for the next 100 years. A woman rang and I explained the hole I had dug myself into, or rather would be buried in a century, and she told me not to worry about it. That these things happen all the time. I agreed and said we should leave it as an observation. I am sure the authorities will monitor it. Onwards and upwards!

TAKES JUAN TO KNOW JUAN

Don't know if you've heard but the King of Spain's dad, the ex King of Spain, Juan Carlos is leaving Spain and going into some kind of self imposed exile. Rumour was he was going to the Dominican Republic but I find that hard to believe. Why is he going? Well, have you got another hour to spare or have you heard of Google? Anyway, the bit I'm getting at is the interviews I saw on the BBC World earlier. Several Spanish people were stopped in the street and asked what they think of the whole affair(s). There was a wide range of opinion including those who might like to see the whole royal family beheaded, angry people critical of  his unacceptable behaviour, others wondering why he has to leave and maybe he should serve his time in Spain a bit like his son-in-law, another social liability. However, my favourite was the older woman who seemed to think that he had also done a lot of good for the country, but on the other hand a lot of bad. Yes, it's not like he murdered anyone is it? Oh that's right, I forgot. he shot and killed his own brother. 

You don't want to wear a mask? Fine. Don't wear it. But don't expect me to teach you. Or come near you without a mask until I can have a vaccine. Don't worry anti-vaxers. I will be first in the queue! Having said this I will meet you for a coffee and a 'tertulia', a wonderful conversation over coffee or a beer or vermouth. If you want,  go ahead and mix with dozens of other people who may or may not have the Coronavirus and may or may not catch it and may or may not pass it on to your elderly relations who may or may not die a horrible death away from their loved ones. Just keep away from me for now. For this moment I do not want play some kind of weird Russian Roulette, with my or my husband's health. You do your thing, I will do mine. See you in about two years.........oh, by the way, P.S. we were supposed to be in San Sebastian right now, celebrating husband's big birthday. Well, that 'aint going to happen but we are quite happy to stay in the so called 'hotspot' of Spain that the British and German and Belgian authorities advise everyone to stay away from...well stay away!! Fuck off and don't come then. Who needs you!! Go to Shagaluf, Magaluf. Maybe Spain needs to rethink its image and not be the fecking bar of Europe for the northern Calvinists. Who knows. 

Continental Europe calling.....there seems to have been some kind of competition in the barrio lately. The who can make the most noise challenge. Being stuck indoors during a pandemic and a potential heatwave has gone to our heads and no one seems to give a toss. Next door as you know love to play the same shite over and over again with a cow bell chucked in for good measure. The guy in 1D plays Cuban music, tangos and great blues so I am happy with him except when Mr van de Ven decides it is too noisy and starts banging the wall with his ladle and chopping board screaming ''shut the fuck up'' in Spanish, ''Os podeis callar de una puta vez!'' which I must admit adds to the rhythm of life but anyway. Then there has been the mysterious obscure drums that seem to be coming from the Jai Alai, a kind of disused, thanks to the Covid, music venue where someone insists on playing the djembe drum. I quite like it. For the first two hours. Then I go into a trance. Upstairs lives a rapper and then there is the neighbour at the back who likes to run the engine on his Harley for about ten minutes just because he can I suppose. He once dropped his keys outside and I was tempted to nick the Harley and ride it off very far away, leave it there and get a cab home. The runners up are the boy racers who insist on driving round in circles all night in their 1980s clapped out jalopies blaring out techno. In a ''can't beat 'em, join 'em'' moment I decided to channel the spirit of Fela Kuti but then had a change of heart. From today I shall be playing Ken Dodd's ''Happiness'' on a loop. Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe Pinky and Perky's How Much is that Doggie in the Window....

My ancestors were always walking away or running. I guess I thought I would keep it up......

Permission to chip in. David Starkey. Or as I thought, Jack Whitehall's dad. Who? Exactly. And what about the young guy who sat there making a crust from just nodding, in supposed agreement? Is he not experienced, or perhaps sadly, for one so young, just doesn't care enough to pull the bigot up on his prejudiced, dumb-ass, unscholarly views.

Why doesn't the UK television just host something called ''Britain's Got Racist Talent''. ( In the interests of equality why not go further...the sky's the limit, could have one week Britain's Got Xenophobic/Anti-Semitic/Anti-Muslim/ Anti-Women Talent.) They could all be there. Katy Hopkins, Tommy Robinson, Prof Starkey, Farage, the Daily Mail, and all the other awkward bastards ( have you got an hour to spare..) who think making money from being an intolerant, jingoistic, racist, immigrant bashing, pig ignorant, uncool prick beats working for a living. Then there could be a programme for the winners called I Am A Racist Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, and we, the rest of us, the vast majority, the general populace who I still believe is good and kind and more than fed up with watching this bullshit can vote to throw them in the Pit of Tarturus or better still, why not an inactive volcano. Anything, anything to leave us in peace to be good and kind and funny and helpful. In case of doubt, there could be a kind of Eurovision version. Chuck in the far right from Spain, Italy and Germany too or perhaps there will be no time as they all seem to be doing a great job of self immolation. Forever the martyr the lot of them, let them go to their own hell. 

I realise I am getting to the point where although I care passionately about so much I am at the same time a bit vague, to put it politely. Earlier I was reading about a woman whose house was torn to shreds by a tornado. Not a poor person in the States but a prosperous, fortunate person writing about the awfulness of her experience in north west London. At one point she remarked that she couldn't find, 'a glass free spot for Doushka', and I assumed this was some new London expression for 'nor love nor money'. Turns out it was her pet dog.

Briefly. H needed to get some shoes so we went to the shop that for years had a window display of shoes and none inside. You weren't able to pick up the shoes as they were either in the shop window or out the back in boxes. Now they have shoes inside piled high on shelves. You can't touch the shoes without gloves so as you go in, like all the other shops here you get a pair of those plastic gloves for buying fruit and then it's OK. Except this shop had run out of said gloves and only had the plastic feet version, the ones used so that your and other people's feet won't ever touch the sacred inner sole of the footwear. I did all this and after about two minutes gave up as the foot gloves kept falling off and my hands became a sweaty mess. It was also a moment of switching languages when I remembered that gloves in Dutch, handschoenen, is believe it or not translated into English as 'shoes for hands'. 

Perhaps they want to discourage you from wearing masks in the UK because the billions of pounds spent on security cameras and so on will be rendered useless.

Feedback people! Feedback! Otherwise I am on my own here!!!

I'm such a nosey parker. I just want to know everything. I look at buildings and think, 'I want to go in and look around'. I love pushing my luck with people and asking them stuff. Today I peered into a hole in the ground that had some grating over it. I discovered it was a well. Apparently a 900 Arabic year old 'pozo', according to the plaque next to it. Amazingly it is still in use and irrigates the land here.

Since the quarantine started way back in the middle of March I have left the house about five times. My agorophobia has come back and my hand washing and fear of germs. If I had the money I would quite happily become a recluse. It is a regret that the government didn't furlough me as I would have been great at staying at home doing feck all. Just pass me that opium pipe!! Today I went out to meet a friend in a cafe and well, what can I say? First H prevented me from going out dressed along the lines of Howard Hughes with tissue boxes on my feet and other peculiar sartorial splendor. In the end I settled on some plastic gloves I knicked from the local supermarket and clothes I am willing to burn on return. What should have been a pleasant experience instead left me frazzled and fearful something undesirable would happen. In the space of an hour I managed to get accosted by a madman for money I no longer carry and then I got caught up in a demonstration of sorts in the main square led by the people who welcome refugees who were then interrupted by the lamest of far right protestors. There were about fifteen of them, the far right, and they looked like they were having a great time banging saucepans furiously. You know, talentless, no sense of rhythm but will do anything to get noticed. Trying to drown put any decent conversation the rest of us were having. Jealous probably. Wrapped in flags if you please. I suppose in case they forgot what nationality they were. Judging on their unhealthy vibe and that general ugliness the far right can never shake off, I doubt they would have been able to take anyone on if a fight or beauty contest broke out. There we were, the foreigners, the ones they think shouldn't be here. Romanians, Moroccans, Latin Americans, Chinese and me, all looking on bemused. Remember not that long ago they were telling us we would all come out of this lockdown as better people? Well it didn't take that long did it? Nothing has changed people, nothing has changed!! 

Remember that time I almost got arrested and my head kicked in for turning up at a far right rally dressed in a burka with a big, 'I Love Vox' placard. It doesn't take much does it? Well Mr V is now warning me not to go to tomorrow's with any of my 'funny' ideas. 

SHIT FOR BRAINS

Years ago I had one of those derailments typical of one's youth where I found myself not at the desired destination of a nightclub but inside what can only be described as a barn waiting to see a band called Gong. The place was packed and I really didn't want to be there and once Gong began to play I sat down and started grimacing till a friend leant over and asked if I could see. 'I've seen it all before', I replied, and indeed I thought I had till today when I saw with those same eyes a middle aged man, sweater ceremoniously draped over his shoulders, loudhailer stuck to his gob demanding the government of the day hands its notice in. All while sitting in a chauffeur driven convertible Mercedes during a pandemic. The entries for the Darwin awards are far exceeding the normal standards of idiocy and derangement these days.

DARWIN AWARD GOES TO......

The Darwin Awards salute the improvement of the human genome by honouring those who accidentally or perhaps in this case willingly remove themselves from it in a spectacular fashion, has to go to the residents of the Salamanca neighbourhood in Madrid, one of the most expensive places to live in Europe who took to the streets en masse in protest against the present day government. Presumably the same people who moaned and whinged that said government fucked up by not locking the country down sooner. Go Team, Go!
Los Premios Darwin saludan la mejora del genoma humano al honrar a aquellos que accidentalmente o tal vez en este caso voluntariamente se retiran de manera espectacular, tiene que ir a los residentes del barrio de Salamanca en Madrid, uno de los lugares más caros para vivir en Europa que salió a las calles en masa en protesta contra el gobierno actual. Presumiblemente las mismas personas que gimieron y se quejaron que dicho gobierno por haber fastidiado al no poner en cuarantena el país antes. ¡Vamos equipo vamos!

Sorry to be so grim but let's hope for a vaccine as soon as possible. In the meantime we will have to learn to live with this until we die of something else. There is no guarantee a vaccine will be found. The only positive side to this is that now no conspiracy theorist can tell you that we are all going to be vaccinated with a microchip hidden in the vaccine. 

WHAT HAS THE TORTOISE TAUGHT US?

This post is very much late in the day because I have been busy working trying to keep things afloat, the country included and I haven't had time to write about the porn star and the toad that killed a man who inhaled its venom or the sighting of a Nile crocodile in the rio Pisuerga. Anyway for now British politics....for the love of God! Spanish politics? Jesus wept! So how are the Dutch doing? Surely they are the sensible ones? The pragmatic go to people. Everytime BBC radio does a series on teenage pregnancy, drugs and so on they are often heard saying, 'now let's go over to the Netherlands and see how they do things'. Well, you may be aware that the Prime Minister there is centre right, well kind of, and a while back one of his members, Geert Wilders felt, like so many other politicians who are afraid of hard work, to set up his own party, some kind of offshoot party, you know, those parties that exist all over the place, let's call them all the, 'Beats Work Party'. Then there is the Party for Animals. This party seems to only be interested in animals, nothing else really. Also you have a party for the over 50s, called, guess what, the Over 50s Party. The woman from the Animal Party got a bit bored and said why not trees?' or something like that and left. The guy from the over 50s party left because thanks to some demented old guy who joined and the whole thing fell apart. If you think banjo player in Deliverance you might forgive me for calling the old guy a senile, inbred, Trump loving racist. ....and somehow these two have hooked up to form the Well What?Party. Then you have a party called Denk, or Think, which I think came about in response to your man Wilders. I'm not sure if it is a party, more of a movement of sorts. They don't have a leader at the moment because their leader was expelled for, well fuck knows, what do you want me to do, I'm not here to do your feckin' research! Anyway, in an attempt to be productive and join in with the 'better than work' ethos of most politicians, I have proposed a new party. The Party for Animals Over 50 Party. There are quite a few. Gorillas, elephants, me.... The reasoning for this party is because in the end you will get more sense out of a feckin' tortoise. 

My eyesight is going. There was a woman on the BBC chatting and I thought it was Katy Hopkins. I thought that she seemed nice for a change and that maybe she had had a Damascene moment. I squinted and saw that it was Emma Thompson.

Would love to know what people think of my blog!!!!!! Don't be shy!! 

AN HOMAGE TO PETE AND DUD

I'm compiling a book. It's feckin' biblical. It's not the Book of Esther or the book of Enoch. It's called the Book of C#nts. It is subject to change. In first position is Donald Trump. For obvious reasons. If you need an explanation then you are possibly a c#unt yourself. Number two is the president of China. For thinking it is OK to have a million people in concentration camps. Bit too like Hitler, the cunt's cunt. So definitely a c#nt. Third place goes to joggers who go out jogging and don't give a shit if you get into their slipstream of sweat and bad breath. Cunts. I'm beginning to think most people are c#nts in my book. Fourth place goes to Piers Morgan. Why is he a c#nt? He just is. Doesn't matter what he says. You can agree or disagree with him but he is still a c#nt. At this point you are probably thinking 'where are the women?' Ok, then fifth place goes to someone called Katy Hopkins. I actually feel a bit sorry for her but, still a c#nt. Boris Johnson? More of a dickhead. Bit of a prick. In all likelihood more of a c#nt in real life but tries to sell the oafishness too much just to distract everyone from thinking he is a c#nt so not sure where he fits into the grand scheme of c#nts. Too many people like him and they are all c#nts too. I could have called the book the Book of Dickheads but that would seem too lame, and time consuming. Sixth place I guess should go to Brazil's president Bolsonaro. For being a leading c#nt that when asked about the deaths of his fellow citizens remarked, 'what do you want me to do?' Possible psychopath to boot. Seventh? Well, let's see. Have you an hour to spare? Personally it has to be the leader of the Spanish far right whose name is banned in our house as no bad vibes must be emitted in the family home. He is neck and neck with his fellow c#nts of which there are many. People who could never win a talent show so decided to go into politics and do something extreme in order to keep them in the public eye, earn a living or truly encourage a war between their fellow citizens. These people would be number one c#nt but they just join the ranks of other c#nts whose names we hopefully won't remember in a few years time once they are past their sell by date. They include people on the left and right of politics and gobshites... George Galloway, Amjun Choudray, Ed Balls, Nigel Farage, Geert Wilders, Matteo Salvini, Ken Livingstone, and so on. I could go on forever.......

Nota Bene..I am done with the lot of them. They can all fuck off.

Today is my birthday and it is also the day that the Spanish government has said it is OK to go for a walk or do exercise at certain times and under certain circumstances. You can walk within one kilometre from your home. If you want to do exercise you can go alone and so long as you keep within your municipality you can go as far as you like. I have had a look at the map and have figured out that I could run towards the foothills to a village called Apies except I don't run. I would only run if it was to get away from someone. As in rule number one. Leg it if need be. Why don't I like running? I realise it is because I went to a school that was pretty much run by sadists as I am guessing most English schools were in the 70s. Our school was a mad mixture of sadists and LSD dealing hippy types and that was just the teachers. The brutes were mainly the PE teachers. Evil bastards both the men and the women. I'm trying to remember their names, Mr Weller was one. Then there was Mr Carruthers who was eventually sacked. Not for snogging a twelve year old girl at the end of year school party. Not for positioning his cock on the table every time he had to be substitute teacher for maths. No it was for smashing a kid's head onto a table in a furious rage. Evil. Don't get me started on the girl's PE teacher. Her name I can't remember. I wonder why. It was something like Miss Turnbill or Miss Hornbill. What she did was abusive and can not be repeated here. When we were growing up we thought we were modern, contemporary. When we spoke to our parents and grandparents we would wonder, 'how did you live like that?' Such poverty and cruelty then. Now I realise I have entered an age where my tales must sound horrific to young people. May we enter a new age where we can still improve everything. This world is so much better than before and yet I still think we have a lot of work to do. Here's to the next 54 years, and may they be an improvement in all areas!

There are days when I just want to lie on my bed and weep for humanity. It's always been like this. For a while when I was about three I used to get up at the crack of dawn when my dad was on his way to work and just sit up for a bit. The radio would be on and one day my mum caught me silently crying. She asked me what was wrong and I looked up at her and between sobs I said,  'it's this song. It's so sad!'. The song was Amazing Grace and I'm guessing it was the version sung by Judy Collins. 



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtteRD5bBNQ

UNSUNG GENIUS

Joke of the year. Can only be understood if you understand Spanish and the culture of the regions here.....Mr van de Ven just asked me if if I could live in Galicia. I replied that probably not as it took me about twenty years to understand the Aragonese, so I didn't fancy spending the next twenty years trying to understand the Galicians. To which he replied ...'perhaps you will, perhaps you won't'.

Other half just asked me what I would like for my upcoming birthday. To quote a line from Withnail and I, I replied 'the finest wines known to humanity, and cake'. Then added, 'Oh, and a bargepole I won't be touching anyone with!'. 

Spain, like Italy, is a land where everyone kisses, embraces and stands and chats in close proximity on a daily basis. I get, or should I say got kissed every day. Colleagues, friends, friends of friends, new friends and so on. The vast majority of Spanish people like being together. If not, they are seen as a bit weird. They must be the most sociable people on the planet.You can sit next to a lake and if a northern European comes along they might nod if you are lucky, and then walk to the other side of the lake. A Spanish person will almost always sit next to you. They may even offer you some of their food and if things go really well you will end up being friends or at least acquaintances. I'm quite a tactile person but normally with people I know so it took a couple of years but in the end I gave into the fact that people would end up more or less sitting on my lap or have their nose sticking into my ear whenever I went out to socialise. I knew I had fully integrated the day I felt the presence of a body behind me, some other persons back was touching mine and so without an ounce of shame I leant into this back for about a minute, in the way you might with an old friend from your childhood, until I realised I had no idea who it was. I stopped, stood up straight and apologised to a huge fella who thought it was funny and said it was fine, don't worry about it. This will be one of the most difficult things to adjust to in the coming days, months, years, not being able to stand near people. Where you can walk into many banks and post offices and there is no plastic screen separating you from the clerk. Little children run up to you and their parents never glare at you when you say hello to their child and start ruffling their hair. Nobody ever complains if I or Mr van de Van start chatting with someone's kid. Spanish people can be loud, boisterous, bon vivants, gregarious, warm hearted, passionate and spontaneous. They love old people and children. Young people are not demonised. Everyone lives on the streets, the elderly sit on street benches in the summer watching the whole of society play out in front of their eyes. This is going to be an enormous challenge for at least another year to maintain what is essentially a warm, civilised society. The alternative is not worth contemplating. Spain has its share of dickheads and arseholes like elsewhere. There will be no time for power crazy people, politicians or other maniacs. People who once given the power will almost certainly be useless. Every day decisions will be made at a local level where common sense will prevail and help will come from anyone else who shares that sense of solidarity. No one will care which nationality or race or creed it comes from. I made my life here and I have no intention of leaving. 

How are you all? I was going to post another photo of me when I was young and gorgeous and didn't realise but decided you might rather laugh at my expense instead. So here you are. Word of warning. There are some words not for polite ears but I'm sure you can cope.
It's not difficult to learn a language, but there can be difficult moments while learning a language. The most common mistakes in Spanish are often because people think they just need to add an o or an a onto the end of a word but doing this changes everything. I think the usual error when learning Spanish is to confuse pollo ( chicken) with polla, ( cock, dick, penis, take your prick, sorry pick). Many butchers get fed up with foreigners like me confusing this word, thinking the person is doing it on purpose, slamming their machetes down and shouting the Spanish equivalent of 'what's up with the schlong already?' Then there was the evening when I ordered a steak and when asked how I would like it done I suffered a bout of Spoonerism and asked for it be to be 'hay mucho' ( is there a lot?) when I meant 'muy hecho' (well done). I still confuse my sleeves, ( mangas)  with my mangos, (mangos). Who can forget the day I told some friends I had hurt my rolling pins ( rodillos) and not my knees ( rodillas) the same day I announced, 'look at all that mind growing over there'. (mind=mente, mint=menta) One friend never quite recovered when I told her that I didn't mean to f~ck her ( follar) when I meant let her down ( fallar). Ha! just remembered the time I was upset with one of the doctor's receptionists because I felt she was being mean and unhelpful and all the other receptionists came rushing out and tried to calm me down by saying, 'oh please daughter of ours, don't be angry', to which I replied, in Spanish, that I wasn't angry, I was 'livido', thinking this would translate as livid. I found out later that the surprised faces and the following silence might have been because I said the equivalent of, 'I am not angry I am of a pale complexion', or worse that I had some libido left in me. Ordering a shot of  oruga, (caterpillar) instead of orujo, ( liquer) has since been framed. I once ordered a Crema Catalunya ( Creme Brulee) instead of a Crema Catalana and will never forget the waiter's face and exuberent laughter coming out of the restaurant kitchen. The only way to describe this mistake is to say something like, 'oh, you speak very good England'.  But the one they all remember is the day I was being wheeled through a hospital corridor on a stretcher still coming round from the anaesthetic when the doctor informed me I was being taken to another floor ( planta). Feeling the urge to broadcast this to anyone willing to listen I propped myself up on one elbow and cried out as we passed a waiting room, 'they are taking me to another planet! (planeta) which I think we can all agree, explains a lot.

INCURABLY STUPID

Spain calling. Everyone's favourite disenfranchised, tax paying, citizen of nowhere here. How am I ? Fine, apart from the scurvy, hemorrhoids and mild depression but thanks for asking. Anyway, you probably know by now that Whatsapp is imposing a limit on how many messages you can forward to slow the circulation of fake news. Some people especially conspiracy theorists and the far right think the government or governments are doing this to control us all. It's seen as some kind of censureship but you'd never know it as I can still hear them bleating on like there's no tomorrow with all the excitement of a 14 year old boy who has just discovered Hitler or worse, David Icke. People who really haven't stopped to think about how harmful and depressing they are because it's everyone else's fault and they don't have the soul to shut the fuck up and do something kind for once in their lives. Folk who believe the first thing they hear or see and accept it because otherwise it might mean having to educate themselves. I'm actually delighted the fruitcakes, including the far right in Spain are encouraging users to move over to Telegram, the messaging service used by ISIS, organisers of gun rallies, mass shootings and so on. The one run by two Russians who must be having a right old laugh at the abundance of bullshit merchants in the so called civilised world and profiting from it. Great, now I don't have to be the 200th in line to receive what was first sent out by some hard core lunatic, filtered its way through dozens of degrees of separation to land in my lap in the form of some half baked tin foil hat idea cooked up in the brain of someone who has never read a book and is happy to go through life without thinking, forget critically. Whatsapp has an encryption that ensures that only you and the person you are sending to can read the message, but you know I'm probably lying because encryption means secret code and you now want to believe I am part of that secret code. You probably think I vote Labour. So yes, I am relieved they have all moved over to Telegram where they can all talk shite together and leave me the fuck alone with my own devices. 

Did Pablo Casado grow that beard to blend in with the far right or to just appear to be an adult?

Dear Priti Patel. How long does it take for a man to walk a week in a fortnight?

IMMATERIAL

Never have the words 'none of that matters now' mattered more than now.

I haven't left the house for three weeks, four weeks? It feels like forever. I have no idea what day or month it is anymore and that's fine. I would be quite happy to never go out again except for my Sunday vermouth. Or dinner. Maybe lunch? To see my family. Friends. Nature! The sea! The mountains! What am I on about? I love being out.The only people I see at the moment apart from my love are my neighbours hanging off their balconies every evening. Or the police randomly stopping cars and asking for their permission to be out and about. Then there are the cats across the road and the redstarts, siskins, starlings, blackbirds, Monarch butterflies and so on. H suggested I go and get the essentials. Of course this involved about an hour of me planning the whole disinfectant rigmarole outside and on my return. There are no joggers here so at least I don't have to worry about getting embroiled and contaminated in their slipstream. Being outside for the first time in ages felt weird and agorophobic. Not a soul. That awful dread I sometimes get in open spaces. A need to leg it back home. I felt like I was the last person on earth but then I would be with my congenital self importance in such a situation. Unexpectedly, from a side street came the Spanish Armed Forces. Well, OK, about six of them. I had a flurry of nerves, thinking they might ask me for a receipt or proof of address, but this soon gave way to a stirring of the spirits when you see soldiers and they don't want to kill you, just to give you a wink. And yes, they really are as good looking as the photos that are doing the rounds. 

THE GREAT AND THE GROTESQUE

When I tell my British friends some of the goings on here they seem a bit shocked and ask where the hell am I living. Spain doesn't have an obvious class system. We live in the centre of the town so it is a rich mix of people from all walks of life yet sometimes it probably sounds like we are living on Skid Row. Take today for example. None of us are supposed to leave the house unless we need to buy food or medicines. It seems the vast majority of the 46 million occupants of the peninsular have done this but there are always arseholes. Out of boredom one neighbour serenades us all at a reasonable hour with his guitar and well chosen songs. Everyone happy, so far no complaints. Then it was suggested we all play bingo and again everyone thought this was a good thing until the anti social ones on the left rocked up as a threesome in the street just as we were about to start. Oh it's alright for you to make noise one of them said as he banged a can of San Miguel on the window of some unfortunate bastard's car. There was some injustice he said when we were all making a racket and he can't ever play his let's face it, shit music without someone complaining. Someone pointed out to the dickhead that there was a big difference between messing around for an hour at 4 o'clock in the afternoon playing decent music during what feels like a prison sentence at times and him playing shit music at seven in the morning all year round. You could see he was gunning for a fight but was a bit dense and was not sure how it was going to pan out seeing as we were all on our balconies and he was on street level with a raging virus lurking God knows where. One of his mates starting moaning to us all that they, the three clever dicks, had just been fined by the police for going out in a group and not for essentials. A woman two doors down told them that beer was not an essential item and why didn't they buy their booze the day before like the rest of us. Much more was argued and in the end one of the girlfriends came roaring out, pushing them inside saying that we would all call the police if they didn't get in like the rest of us. Bingo continued and about ten minutes later we heard a crash of broken glass. There was a pause and then bingo resumed. My other neighbour out the back texted me to ask what the hell was going on what with all the music, bingo, arguing and so on. I was just texting back to say that it was the usual shennanigans when two police cars arrived and an ambulance. The anti social one with the can of San Miguel, you know the type, one shandy and he's anyone's was led out with a slashed wrist. Just the one so don't think he wanted to end it all completely, and he needed one hand free to drink I guess. As the emergency services drove away there was a round of applause from all the residents. Who needs Valle Inclan when it is live and direct during a quarantine. All that was missing was the parrot.

YOU THINK YOU KNOW SOMEONE....PART TWO THOUSAND

You think you know someone ( husband) and then you find out they were once the stand in for a knife thrower's assistant, you know, a human target. On  the wheel of death if you please!

I slept better last night for a change and the dreams were less, well what exactly? Erratic? Whimsical? I dreamt I saw the Spanish army carrying guns and on seeing my worried, volatile expression one of the soldiers said that they weren't there to shoot us but were there to stop us shooting one another. There were some other soldiers, four of them and they were sitting in a Ford Capri. Even in the dream I was thinking 'of course they're sitting in a Capri, this is a dream they can do what the hell they want'. Next to the Capri was a girl, a familiar girl, someone I have met thousands of times, a person I have known over the years. A mix of everyone you have ever met and liked but weren't able to stay friends with cos your paths went different ways, a funny girl, the girl that turned every awful job or situation into a laugh. I got close to the girl and I realised it was me. I left her while I went off to take some photos of the past. I was sitting outside the Spanish cafe as it was known in Old Compton Street trying to take a photo of some people but I didn't want to ruin their moment. They were doing nothing special just laughing and being friends. One came over and asked why I was taking the photo and I told them that one day we all would be nothing but there would be at least one photo that someone would come across, in a box, in a junk shop or a gallery and other people would wonder about the story behind the photo.

Regarding the dream in the daytime and especially the Capri bit I suddenly recalled a moment that really happened while walking home with my friends Derek, John and Will. We had been to some kind of promotional a party I think near Highbury Fields and we were walking home when one of us noticed we were being kerb crawled by the police.  They drove by slowly and we looked at them expecting them to say something when we  saw that one of them had a police dog, a German Shepherd, sitting on his lap and the dog was wearing the policeman's hat. So don't wonder or worry about my dreams. People are weirder in so called real life.

I had another dream that I was with the actor Oliver Reed. I am not sure what we were up to but he was sobre and quite charming but I got the feeling he might kick off at any moment. He seemed quite humane and chatty but also philosophical. I hope he is not my spirit animal. 

QUARANTINE DREAMS

WARNING. IF YOU ARE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE YOU'D BETTER LOOK AWAY. IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT I AINT NORMAL and am having more weird dreams. I have had them before but they are getting more intense. I am asleep but aware of beings around me. They are not bad just a bit strange. I can't quite identify them. Sometimes they appear to tuck me in. I can feel them. Physically and spiritually. Ocassionally one of them gets a bit over zealous and wants me to join them. I put up a fight. It takes all my strength to plead with this one to tell them to leave me alone. I feel I am being wrenched fom my body before my time. At the same time it would be very easy to go but I feel I am not quiet ready yet and find myself calling out for earthly help. It really is quiet anoying and draining. I wish they would just fuck off and leave me be. 

I am reminiscing. One of our first dates many moons ago. When we were young. We went to Presto, an Italian pasta place in Soho London. It's no longer there and I have no photos but believe me it was one of those wonderful cheap eatery places in London similar to the Polo Bar in Old Compton Street, and many other Italian cafes and restaurants, 'a peculiarly British tradition', according to the writer Joseph Conrad. All formica tabletops and affordable grub with that orange hue that threatens to come back in fashion, you watch. Mr van de Ven was in love and to tell me in that moment of awkwardness he said he thought I was very pretty. Instead of accepting the compliment I asked, 'so you are saying I'm ugly'. He was confused and later told me that he really thought I was pretty but my warped sense of incomprehension and lack of indulgence made him love me even more.

I write for myself. I take photos for myself. I'm quite selfish like that. It amazes me people are even remotely interested in what I say or see!! 

QUARANTEEN

It's been almost two weeks we have been in quaranteen in Spain. We can't go to the parks like people can in the UK and we are all finding this difficult here. We can go to the shop but just for essentials. It's not a good thing to go every day and is discouraged. I finally have my classes up and running and although there are some glitches I feel better about this life change now. It was very difficult being thrown into this but I am grateful I can keep on working although I would have no problem adjusting and taking on a job in a supermarket or cleaning or whatever I would have to do to get by. I don't mind doing a job that doesn't pay so long as they feed me and let me sleep somewhere warm! 

YOU THINK YOU KNOW SOMEONE...

You think you know someone ( husband) and then you find out they once worked in animal quarantine.

CORONAVIRUS SPAIN

So much is going on and I have to try and write it down before it all escapes me. Yesterday there was a piece in the El Pais that the army had discovered elderly people dead or dying in care homes and the careworkers had appeared to have abandoned them. The defense minister said the full weight of the law would come down on these people if it was found to be true. Then I saw the BBC do a report on this and they repeated parrot fashion what they had heard. Today it is starting to appear that these elderly people are in homes where most of the staff have fallen ill to the coronavirus leaving the homes stretched to the limit.They are often run by nuns who are elderly too. One of the nuns has since died. The director of one of the homes has appealed to the army to help. The army have gone in to disinfect the places and found the dead. On top of this the coroner, the funeral director and so on have to put on protective suits and masks when they collect the body of the deceased. Many of the care workers didn't have the best protective clothing etc, so it is no wonder they got ill. It is possible that fear made some of them abandon their posts. There is also a strict protocol that prohibits workers from  touching bodies. More of this story will come out but I didn't like the way it was reported by the BBC. It made it look like the careworkers didn't care and I am sure this is not true.

I haven't wriiten much lately. Mainly because I have been weighed down by a feeling that can only be described as waiting for a hurricane to hit us.

Wow Facebook really doesn't know me. Or I have, being impervious to everything, really fucked them up. Gone are the adverts for Royal Ulster paraphernalia, the Stenner stairlifts and far right rallies. Now they expect me to be interested in baking bread, spells, and feckin' yoga!

Some of you may have seen the Dutch health minister collapse from exhaustion while speaking in the parliament the other day. He was later told, just like in the films, to go home and take some rest, but this is real life and he said he would resign as the country needed someone who was capable of doing this job and he didn't feel he was. What did the Dutch coalition cabinet do now that they had no health minister? They chose a politician from an opposition party, in this case the Labour Party who do not form part of the coalition. During a press conference the Dutch PM was being questioned on the usual, what did he think about what so and so said etc etc, when he turned round to a journalist and basically said, 'no, no, no, this is not a time for normal politics'. He is right it isn't and I hope to see more of this pragmatic attitude. There is no time for wind up or bullshit merchants right now. We really are all in this together. 

I have had horrible nightmares lately due to stress but the other night I had a dream that still haunts me. I was asleep, but also asleep in the dream, when you fear you are going to have to wake up twice and hovering over me was a friend ( you know who you are!) dressed as some sort of physician, very old fashioned with what looked like arm bands on his sleeves. He said something like, 'well you know what this is all about don't you?' I said I didn't and asked where I was. He told me that I was in a game show and said it was called something on a par with, 'Guess Which Celebrity You Are Going To Wake Up Next To? and explained that there was a famous person next to me under a sheet and I had to reveal who it was. Next to me was a figure hidden by what looked like the Turin Shroud. Reluctantly I pulled back said sheet to uncover I had been sleeping next to none other than Herve Villachaize that fuckin midget from Fantasy Island AKA Tatoo dressed as an admiral. He looked at me with eyes a bit too gleeful and said, 'surprise!' That will teach me for reading Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain before I try to go to sleep.

Spain calling. Mr van de Ven and I are still here despite it all. Our eclectic ancestors survived a famine, wars, a pogrom, Nazis and much more which helped us be where we are today which is here and we are not prepared to fall off our perches yet!

THE ARC OF THE UNIVERSE IS LONG....

I have a horrible deep fear that the UK is turning a blind eye and that Prime Minister Johnson never expected he would have to deal with something so worrying. Brexit is out of the window. No one cares anymore. What a privilege that has been.

I am not ashamed to say that on Friday and yesterday I was in a state of shock when the Spanish government said it was issuing a state of emergency.

THINNING OUT THE HERD?

When Italy declared they were going to close down the country lots of people panicked and got on trains to get to other parts of Italy mainly to be with their families or out of fear the virus was coming to get them. Here in Spain a state of alarm was announced yesterday and many felt sick to their stomachs but immediately started to be practical, sorting out how they would be able to work, who was going to look after the kids and so on. What did lots of people from Madrid who have second homes along the costas or up in a pretty village in the Pyrenees or as far away as Galica do? They got in their cars, jumped on trains and buses to get to said second home. On the train to Murcia an elderly man, late eighties, who had been told to go home by doctors in Madrid and isolate thought they must have meant his second home in Murcia. He got there did a bit of supermarket shopping with his wife and is now in intensive care in a hospital. His wife, like everyone else is now at home but alone. The mayor made it quite clear what he thinks of this and has decided to close everything except chemist's and food shops. Apparently there have been bus loads of people turning up asking what touristy things are on offer thinking the state of alarm is just a holiday. We are all going to get this virus whether we like it or not, but the thing is, and the Italians and Chinese have both said the same, we don't want to all get it at the same time and we don't want to give it to doctors, nurses, the cleaners and so on. You know, the people who will do their best to help us stay alive and herd immunity or not, we want our doctors and nurses to be as healthy as possible to do their job of looking after and curing us. On top of this if you have an accident or stroke and get to the hospital but it's full of people on life support because they all have pneumonia, the medics will have to decide who to treat. Common sense people! If you feel ill stay at home and if you get really sick, meaning pneumonia go to the hospital, where hopefully they will be able to give their all to help you and just hope it's not full of reckless dickheads. 

So the bog roll hoarding has started in Spain. For the love of God what do you think that thing that has been sitting in your bathroom for the last three decades is for? You know, the bidet, the thing everyone keeps 'stuff' in, like rubber gloves, magazines, bathroom scales etc etc depending on your perversion!!

Serious question. How do British people think they are going to circumnavigate the lack of freedom of movement within Europe. Why is it that British people think they can still turn up in a European country and live and work but this freedom ends for anyone coming to the UK?

What is it about the Brexiters, the people who voted to leave the European Union who think that they will still be able to live and work in the rest of Europe because and I quote from a million voices, that, 'we were able to go and live in Europe way before the EU came about'. What is it about freedom of movement that they don't understand? That closing the borders works both ways and no, you won't be able to just turn up in Spain and get a job or get residency just as foreigners will be unable to just turn up in the UK to do the same. There is a cut off point and any British person who seriously thinks they can just rock up and be a resident in another European country is seriously uneducated, deluded or both. There will be no preferential treatment for you either. 

Tory Party Chorus. 'We're not racist, immigrant bashing xenophobes! Just look at the medley of dickheads we've got in our cabinet right now!'

There she blows. Priti Patel. The unlovable lummox. 

ALWAYS JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER

I don't have to like Priti Patel. Not liking her doesn't mean I am a woke lefty, whatever that is. I just don't like her because she comes across as a right 'orrible cow. In the interest of equality she thinks I am one of the worst idlers in the world. Only interested in football and pop music. 

I never wanted a Mr Darcy. I wanted a Charles Bukowski. Well, actually, maybe something in between..

Freudian Slips

Freud is quoted as saying the Irish are impervious to psychoanalisis but there is no record that he said this, just as there is no record of me saying 'a Porsche wouldn't go amiss', when Freud asked 'what is it that women want?'

LIBERTY BELLS RINGING

I keep getting targeted by something called Liberty con, a so called libertarian group focused on economics who are hosting a conference or grooming seminar in Madrid. I think they need to sort out their algorithms or whatever it is they use to try to get my interest as this awayday is about as much use as the Royal Ulster Defence bath towel someone keeps trying to flog me. I suppose it is important to know what is going on in their minds as they certainly don't know what is going on in mine. I shall be sending them a chocolate euro and a note to keep up the good work.

If in doubt I am reminded of the family motto. Per operculum semper iudicatur liber. Always judge a book by its cover. Suffice to say, Dominic Cummings looks like a right interfering, miserable bastard.

I TRY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS...

In another point in time and space I found myself in a band playing bass guitar. I don't know how to play the guitar and I had to somehow hoodwink everyone into thinking I was a professional. I started fretting that I was going to be found out but during rehearsals I discovered I could just pretend to play a couple of chords. The band was a bit shouty so I guessed no one would notice my existence but then quite a lot was running on me as the band was being advertised as a symbol of diversity and I was the one touted as the one not representative of any  type, group or class. Just before we were to go on an assistant started to attach an apparatus to hold a flute to my head which I was unable to play as well. Then the manager came across to me and asked if I could sing. I told him I couldn't and that I had more than enough to bluff my way through a set to which he said 'surely you must know some Beatles' songs?' and to demonstrate I started to sing 'what would you do if I sang out of tune.......'.

I love going into my study. It's full of books and memories in the form of diaries and photos. Boxes full of mad ramblings, poems and so on. Some people say they will leave their bodies to medical science but I will probably leave that room instead. Just now I went in there and came out with a piece of paper torn out of a diary with the words '..outside the Coach and Horses Paul said I was a Godlike genius..'

La Troublemaker

Soon I will no longer be the president of our community and the muggins who has to sort out all the shite that goes on in our midst. I was hoping to get impeached so someone else could do it but fat chance. Last week I was on the blower to the police because our neighbours, AKA Los Oompa Loompas, thought it would be hysterical to start operating a saw mill at 6.30 in the morning. The police arrived about five minutes after I rang and there I was, hanging out of the kitchen window telling them that the Oompa Loompas were up to their latest antics, cutting into sheets of metal. God knows what they were making but they shut up when they saw the police and the matriarch hung off her balcony trying to bend reality at her will, informing the police that nothing was going on and that I was, and I quote, 'problematica'. I think this is what psychologists call 'projecting' but I didn't rise to it. I just asked the police if I had the aspect of a person who has nothing better to do on a Sunday morning and they agreed that I didn't look like the type, and yes, I was the only one with the cojones to call as they noticed others peeping from behind their shutters. They were quite polite but did that weird thing of going up and down on the balls of their feet which was kind of jarring especially as I had said the word bollocks around the same time. 

I could never do stand up comedy. I'm much funnier in real life. This would be a hard act to follow!

SOCIAL ANXIETY PART ONE

Sometimes there is a disproportionate amount of men in the cafe where I asked for a flick knife. Most of them are playing cards or watching the football and they leave me alone but from time to time one of them starts saying stuff to me. The day after the flick knife episode I did something out of character. In an attempt to assimilate and get over an occasional social anxiety I reached over the counter in a really pushy, selfish way towards what looked like a delicious sponge cake and the man next to me started to get a bit miffed and asked me if I would like him to move as it was clear I had no regard for him. I told him the Spanish equivalent of 'no, you're alright mate', and then he started to interrogate me using verbs and nouns that were a bit too colloquial for my liking so I had no idea what he was going on about. Don't ask me why but I said the first thing to get rid of him and answered, 'not until nine o'clock', to whatever he was enquiring about and left, sponge cake in hand, leaving him scratching his head. I'm wondering what it was he asked. Maybe it was whether I am legally resident here and do I have all my papers in order or whether I was going to give him a bite of that cake or else. I will never be able to go there again.

Mack the Knife

I sometimes wonder what I am on. When you have a snack or a cake in Spain you are always offered cutlery and a napkin. The waitress in my cafe asked me if I would like said utensils and forgetting the word at that moment I said, 'oh, a flick-knife will do'.

So much has happened recently that I was too busy living it to comment but one thing I thought I'd share was over the Christmas period I found myself in Liberty's in Regent Street and at one point I thought we would never get out as I felt I was being sucked into some sort of neurological experiment that only occurs when I enter big cities. Mr van de Ven announced he needed the loo and off he went leaving me to entertain myself with men's silk dressing gowns in the style of William Morris. He was gone awhile and I felt an awful existential angst that something might have happened to him once fifteen minutes had passed. That English side of me didn't want anyone to know I might be perturbed so pretended I was interested in the old photos and history of Liberty's that adorn the walls outside said lavs. I comforted myself while looking at them that things used to be, well, what exactly? I don't know, somewhat neater, ordered. It didn't take me long to admit that things were probably much shittier than now but anyway. While waiting outside the loos grumpy fathers with their kids and faces like thunder were heard muttering on passing, 'this is why there should be MEN's and WOMEN'S loos'. Then an American man, quite tall but someone who, despite his height, you might feel you could mess with,  came out with his young kid and told his wife that said kid was OK now but some 'guy' in the loo was berating him that the kid had a digestive problem and on seeing him spending twenty minutes in the loo said, and I quote ,' I know you Americans have a shit diet but you should in fact take the kid to A and E and he ought to be given an enema', or words to that effect. As soon as I heard these words I just knew who said them and obviously hung around to hear what was coming next. The supposed wife then exploded and asked, ' and what did YOU say??', to which the supposed husband grew a few inches and said, ' well I TOLD HIM our son was only seven!'. The wife then asked what the 'guy' said and the husband said confidently , 'well of course he just shrank and shut up!' I tried to stifle a laugh but at the same time felt a frisson as I knew that it was Mr van de Ven and that there was no way he would have shrank in such a situation and if anything would have preferred a massive punch up. Just then yer man exits stage left and says to me ' Jesus, twenty minutes to have a slash, THAT kid needs an enema!'