CUANDO CUANDO CUANDO

How many lightbulbs does it take for a man to walk a week in a fortnight? This and other questions could be put to our mayor Luis Felipe who apparently has what is called in English, a surgery, of sorts, like the MPs have in Britain where you can go along with your complaint. I might just take him to task about the ongoing saga re: our barrio and the never ending promise to pedestrianise part of the Plaza Bolinga or Alfonso el Batallador as it is properly known. The last I read concerning this bright idea was before Christmas when the local rag said that work was due to commence after Christmas, but for all we know this could mean Christmas 2019 or after a Christmas when we are all dead and don't care anymore. I have a reliable source in the form of Maite, a lawyer who lives round the corner from me who is often found, usually by her husband, with camera at the ready to catch people out as they piss up the walls to her flat, or throw rubbish into her mum's garage. She often accosts Mr Felipe as he does his rounds and they are more or less on first name terms as he tries to calm her down when she asks him the very questions I daren't ask for fear of ridicule everytime I have to pronounce something with the leter 'R' in it. She reckons said plan won't get into gear until just before the elections in May, although she didn't mention which year... Watch this Space.

Talking of the letter 'R', I realise the dreaded community meeting is upon us again and even though I always go I have decided to stay schtum this time as most of my quejas, complaints, come in the form of perros, dogs, both Mr Ceresuela next door and that beast Piti upstairs who has, despite being allegedly drugged, started to play up again. Regarding the need for so many to piss or shit inside the lift or just outside the front door doesn't even bother me anymore and isn't a Spanish custom. My idea to stick an Aragonese flag in every turd on the street, human or otherwise will never materialise as I would have to stick a Union Jack in those left in the streets of Britain. I recently heard this problem or lack of potty training reaches the TV studios of Channel 4 among others and I might just borrow the harsh words of one of the posters left in the toilets there to try and educate whoever it is that fails to use a toilet in the correct way. A translation into Spanish might be what is needed as opposed to all the polite ones I see here in just about every flat. Henderson also wants to put a sign up in the garage above the small bin we have there encouraging people to put more rubbish in as the one that tells them not to doesn't work.  

Do I need reminding that I live in a Catholic country? Well, obviously I did when I rolled up in Zaragoza this morning to find my favorite cafe the Levante was closed and much to my dismay, everything else by the look of things. I got that sinking feeling that somehow a fiesta was going on and no one had told me and despite living here for ten years I can't be expected to remember all of them. One of the reasons I moved here was on learning that every day somewhere in Spain there is a fiesta, but I had completely forgotten about San Valero who very little is known about but is celebrated every January 29th or today as it is better known. Part of the problem, or my problem, is not really knowing what day of the week it is especially if Henderson decides to do something against the grain like go shopping on Friday instead of Saturday. I suppose I should be glad that I live without the constraints inflicted on the rest of society and it was just for a few seconds that I felt like giving up when it dawned on me my trip to old Valero's hometown was fruitless. So I caught the bus back to Huesca and chose a bemused state to fight off the carefully concealed irritated one. There are moments when you think 'God, what a waste of time, all the things I could be doing now', and then you remember that some of those things might include the hoovering or bleaching and washing the tea towels, two things I have been putting off now for weeks.

Anyway, the journey back wasn't so bad as it always involves getting glimpses of the many birds we have here. The feathered kind I may add, this time in the form of a Milano Real, or Red Kite, which was flying close alongside the bus and then an eagle just a few yards away was glimpsed for a few seconds too. I took the Huesca-Jaca bus back and it was full of teenagers off to the Pyrenees to ski and those that didn't chat were on mobiles or watching DVDs and using laptops. I seemed to be the only one admiring the view but then I guess I have always been the type to be amused by what's in front of me, regardless. So apart from the wildlife I got a sneak preview of a film with Leonardo de Caprio, and enough gossip from all the chatting to last me a lifetime.

Lastly, probably because he felt sorry for me, Henderson took me to one of my favourite restaurants here called Hervi where the rabbit and bottle of Reino de los Mallos did the trick.

POWER TO THE PEOPLE

Well we went out last night to Bar Rugaca and Chairman Babby wasn't there thank God as I didn't fancy an argument with Huesca's equivalent to Citizen Smith. In his place were three waiters instead of the usual one or two which seemed odd as Babby had earlier declared in the local press that fewer people were going out thanks to the smoking ban. The bar is a small one and it's clientele remind me of the 'fauna' that used to frequent The Coach and Horses in Soho were I used to work. Last night still produced the usual rogues gallery and we were the last to leave around 2.30 and went on to Juan Sebastian as they often play decent music. This bar was packed out and of course someone was smoking and we left as like a lot of places this bar seems to be attracting a younger crowd who have no taste in music. It's a pity because when we first landed here ten years ago there were several bars that were run by men of a certain age and played the best tunes I have heard anywhere. Men passionate about music and eager to please when they saw us turn up with our requests for The Allman Brothers, The Kinks or Miles Davis. All things are impermanent.

On the flight back from Stansted, one that featured more turbulence than ever as it tore through the skies like a caterpillar on speed I had the misfortune of reading the Daily Mail and one Martin Samuel who confirms the intelligence of the journalists who write for this rag. Comment driving out fact. He believes the Spanish were (?) not like us with our 'endless red tape and rules and regulations' which reminded me of the time when Henderson who was then a smoker lit up a fag whilst waiting at the Police Station for his ID card only to be told by a copper that sorry, he couldn't smoke there and said copper was meanwhile puffing away like a bastard and pointing to the no smoking sign.Samuel claims he has always had a 'soft spot' for Spain with its hard porn and booze on sale at motorway service stations and even for its shit tele. Wonders will never cease.

I learnt a new word today that I am not sure is English or one of those Spanish words like footing ( jogging)or puenting ( bungee jumping). It is smirting which is a combination of smoking and flirting. I'm glad I don't get involved in either or at least when the latter occurs I think the other peron is taking the piss.

Lastly, I am still feeling stunned from certain events that happened over Christmas with family members and I am not sure if I should write about them but they might make an interesting script. One other thing that didn't involve a family member but a plumber needs to be mentioned. My mother rang a plumber by the name of CS Ray about two months ago to sort out a radiator which wasn't heating up properly and when the plumber came she asked him if he could also get hold of the walter ( ha!) filter they have under the sink to which my dad gave the bloke some money about fifty quid we think the geezer asked for. Bloke didn't come back and on my arrival I got my mum to call him up and I witnessed her make another appointment with him for the next day at 9.30. She was delighted as was I thinking maybe he had forgotten or had been busy or thought he was in Sapin or Spain even. The next day he didn't come and several phone calls proved useless. We left messages and finally a daughter answered who took the usual stance of a Brit who has been rumbled, the old ' there's no need to raise your voice to me' which I always take for an admission of guilt. Henderson and I drove round to his house and his van was outside. Just looking at the shitty van gave the game away but knowing we had to go back to Spain we didn't want my parents to have any repercussions. I rang the magazine which advertises Mr Ray and they were horrified as they pride themselves on not advertising cowboys. The woman I spoke to was hopeful it was a misunderstanding and assured me that normally when there is a problem it gets resolved but at eight o'clock that night she rang and admitted he wasn't answering his phone and that she would get in touch with another one to go round and meet us and let us know that he wasn't a rogue trader. I did wonder what the CS stood for, *unt and Shitehawke perhaps and it's a pity I don't live there as I wouldn't let this one lie despite Henderson and both parents saying we had to forget the incident. Everytime I go down to Dorset there seem to be hundreds of these stories of elderly people getting ripped off and people with dementia being robbed and swindled. It's what I said yesterday about the greed and I am often reminded of Bob Marley and his words on those who are trying to make the world worse are not taking the day off.

GIVERS AND TAKERS

I've been away for just over two weeks to the Motherland and three things strike me whenever I go back which are as one Irish man said when referring to everything wrong with the Western world, 'greed, greed and more ***king greed. Everytime I go back to Britain I can't get over the amount of fat *ucks there are trundling around like out of breath sea lions clapping their hands at the sight of pasties. We're not talking portly, bosomy, on the plump side either. It was a relief to get on a bus at Zaragoza yesterday and be greeted by folk who while not gorgeous at least knew how to keep the weight down and be easy on the old eyes. Whilst walking round Poole which boasts some of the most expensive real estate in the world I wished I had bought my sunglasses to water down the sight of people guzzling readily available foodstuffs whilst dressed in clobber that looked as if you could wipe a floor with. Even Primark looked as though it had gone downhill. Later that day a man on the tele was bemoaning the loss of sales from shops like HMV and Next while another was rejoicing the positive results at John Lewis. I was happy to not walk around Tesco's knowing as Alan Coren put it 'it keeps the riff raff out of Waitrose.It doesn't stop there and once again certain family members showed their true colours with the inevitable signs that they are in no doubt after what little money my elderly parents have. Apart from the obvious greed expressed in the size of my fellow men and women I can't help that notice so much is about making as much money as possible to ward off something, old age, death, starvation who knows? It is an indescribable feeling that people are worried all the time about it and it isn't to do with the recession, it has been there a while now. The Brits for the main part don't know how to enjoy themselves and sometimes their moaning is justified but it spills over into fear and loathing and reminds me why I left ten yars ago. I'm not saying it doesn't exist elsewhere and maybe in a different guise but it is striking whenever I land. I suppose Spain will follow suit as it has with a lot of things that start in the States and then move on to Britain and then the rest of Europe, which gives me about ten or twenty years before I move to a cave.
A good thing has happened while away and that is the new law to ban smoking in bars seems to have been obeyed. I didn't think it would but tonight we are going out to celebrate that it has and will visit Bar Rugaca the bar that has the last known Communist for miles, one Babby or Gabriel who I have mentioned before with his explosions and red face. He is mentioned in the local paper today along with many bar owners and waiters on the above law and while most seem to think that it is a good thing and that it is too early to say whether their bars will suffer or not Babby expressed his 'discomfort' at the 'tyranny' and 'total injustice' of the law and that it makes him feel bad ( me sabe malisimo..) to have to tell a longstanding customer they have to step outside for a fag. He adds that he notices fewer people in his bar and a change from the more traditional or smoking customer to a new clientele. Like tonight when we return. We used to go there all the time till he wounded me. Henderson doesn't take things too seriously but I don't like to give my money to people who offend me.
Which brings me on to the pub we found in the New Forset ( Forest even..) that goes by the name the Alice Lisle. Our bones were suffering with the damp and we stumbled into an empty room with an inglenook fire, sat down in our cords and tweed respectively, and ordered two halves of Best. 'Is this what it boils down to?'  I wondered but took solace that it could have been jigsaw puzzles, elasticated trousers and shoes 'you won't wear out' (sic) and herbal tea.
So all in all a good time was had, a few family things were sorted out till the next ones and I came home to find my wages had gone through despite Henderson telling me they won't as the accountant was leaving early for Christmas and wouldn't be able to do it till he comes back next week.
Happy New Year to all.

KNEES UP MOTHERFU****BROWN

Oh dear. I turn my back and look what happens. Student riots, Prince Charles trying to instigate a Green revolution, suicide bombers in Sweden, Wikileaks, man eating sharks, Madoff's son copycatting Damages, what else? Oh yes, my boss starting a conspiracy theory that his daughter, my pupil, doesn't know, at the age of five, any of the colours and numbers in English, ( more of this later, probably after Tuesday when I have to 'perform' for the parents and show them that 'hey, I'm a clown, I'm a teacher, a nurse, a mother, a psychiatrist! It's never good enough is it!! And yes, when your kids go home after an hour with me they will speak Spanish ). Just as I thought it could get better after a nice relaxing jolly week away in the mountains  Piti rolls up today like a whirling dervish in the back of a police car. Henderson was hanging out the kitchen window, one of his many twilight hobbies of late, and asked the policeman if he was here for the effing bleeder next door and the police man said 'no', rolled his eyes and said 'the dog'. Mercedes wasn't in as I could hear the policeman hammering on her door. When he left I heard Anselmo, Mercede's husband flush the loo ( all mod cons here) and told H that I thought A was in and ignoring the P's calls. 'No,' said H. 'That must be the man upstairs on the third floor'. 'Oh, you mean the one you can hear unravel the loo roll before he flushes away. 'No,' I said . 'You will hear Anselmo coughing any second from now'.  Cue pause.... and he did.
So there you have it. Never a dull moment here, there or anywhere. Boredom has kicked in and not content with a quiet life it seems most folk just want to kick off with or without reason. While students in London took it out on the Royals the effing bleeder ripped out all the letter boxes for the upteenth time and it looks like someone has done something with Piti. Maybe taken him off to the mountains and dumped him there but he made his way home, who knows.
Back to the boss. He reckons that his daughter, my pupil, doesn't know the colurs or numbers in English. This is after a year with another teacher, the lovely Hannah, and, I suppose, learning ONLY colours and numbers at school. If heads should roll it should be my boss for this inane remark. What he doesn't understand is that I will tell him after Tuesday's reenactment of what I do in class, that he shouldn't underestimate his daughter as she is a lot smarter than he thinks and that obviously she takes after her mother when it comes to barins  ( brains even) and beauty. I might even ask him if he is sure the child is his, or I might let Henderson get away with that one. Chutzpah goes a lot longer if it involves him. If you think all this is a bit much then you haven't been exposed to the bullshit here. There comes a time when cleaning or working in a supermarket beckons if it means that you 'missed a bit there' or you haven't stacked those right' and the proof is there for all to see. Rock on.

NO MAKE DO

Christmas looms and mine is already looking Pinteresque. It being spent there rather than here. What else? Well, a certain percentage of Aragonese will, according to the local paper, spend more money this Christmas. Apart from the growing queue of Muslims and gypsies every day opposite our flat I don't see any dramatic effects yet of the current economic situation and last Saturday when we went out to the various tapas bars participating in the tapas competition we had to fight for somewhere to sit down. I have never dived into as many Spaniards graves and am getting quite good at it as the years roll by. Said competition offers a tapa that looks like nouvelle cusine and a 'penalti' beer or a glass of wine. I opted for the wine and Henderson complained about the 'penalti' and gave a torturous look everytime it arrived. If you dont know what a penalti is think what the amount of one large gulpful of beer looks like spat back into a thimble. The only snag of going out before one in the morning is the chance of bumping into your pupils or their parents and by the fourth wine and tapa and glimpses of pupils from 4A and B waving frantically and pulling at their mothers sleeves to say 'look mum! There's my teacher!' I thought I had  better go home or stay for a fifth and start telling the mums 'look! You see what they drive me to!'. At one point one of the mothers came over to say hello and remarked that I looked 'muy guapa' and instead of saying 'thank you' or, 'for a change' I think I said 'I know, it's amazing what a bit of lipstick and half a bottle of Somontano can do these days'. While we were in the first bar, Bar Rugaca, H's favourite and my nemesis or rather the bloke that runs it, I noticed I was finding it all too much what with the local football team Huesca on the tele playing against Elche. I looked up at one point and saw a player headbutt another. At the same time music was playing and a Chinaman had won the entire contents of the one arm bandit or 'tragaperras' as its called here. I often forget this word is feminine and say 'tragaperros' which everyone laughs at as it translates as 'swallowing dogs' but the former surely translates as 'swallowing bitches'.  It was at that point I started to miss the words 'time gentlemen please'.

JACKANORY

There are moments here where I think it can't get any better than this. Like yesterday when I did the storytelling at one of the libraries and the usual chaos ensued. Last year I was lucky to have a seperate room to do these stories but this year I am in Perpetuo Socorro or 'Perpetual Help' and there isn't a spare room so it's all a bit hit and miss as to who will turn up and disrupt things. The storytelling in October went swimmingly but yesterday I was that much away from screaming 'for the love of God will someone keep control of their charges!'. I am used to the chaos here but at the end of the session one of the mothers had the breathtaking gall and asked me if next time I could 'speak a bit louder as we couldn't hear some of the stories'. I think she meant shout as this is often the only way to get heard, raise your voice louder than the rest but as I reminded her, we are in a library, not Glastonbury. Nothing, apart from a Spaniard in a hurry as I have said before, get's my shackles rising as a Spaniard who tries to advise me on how to do things, be it teaching English or talking louder. Another mother complained at the noise being produced by the various bods who had come to cause noise as opposed to listen. Then one added 'couldn't you do it with one of those microphones, 'you know the ones,' she described and put her hand up to her mouth to let me know that 'yes, you know, the ones you might wear at the Apollo if you are doing stand up comedy, or at the O2 singing live or yes, in a small library and they can't hear you at the back. Apart from telling her that as difficult as it is to imagine, I am not a clown and despite being able to multi task I am not doing this while reading stories to kids. Next time I do it, in December, I will do a repeat performance of Peace at Last and shout 'THEN MUMMY BEAR WHISPERED!!!' with the help of a megaphone just in case.

While the Spanish are inclined to do my head in with their spontaneous, absurd and intransigent ways, the Brits are starting to rile with their attitude towards the weather. Already obsessed they have this year as well as last, decided to approach the subject with words such as 'treacherous', 'plummeting' and worsening' just to keep people in fear  as if North Korea, 'an evil country' as described by my dad on account of its ability to freeze petrol, wasn't doing a better job.

British chefs have become a bit of an obsession of mine in the last few years mainly for their use of language and the soaring price of their cookbooks. Jamie Oliver has one called 'Jamie Does' which if any of his programmes demonstrate, is ..'f*** all'. Henderson reckons that like Delia all Jamie does is teach people how to warm stuff up. In my latest edition of Woman and Home I am convinced that a certain Nigel Slater has no friends or lover to cook for and spends his time in Viennesse cafes eating apple strudel and confesses to not fearing a death with a fork in his hand while I misread it as one in his back.