OUT IN THE COUNTRY…
Every five minutes they would come across a village much like the one before, everything closed, faint glimpses of what the village had to offer be it dinosaur footprints or local cheese or in this case an old man holding a small tree. His jacket, Henderson couldn’t help but notice as they whizzed by, was covered in shit, caked on from years of not washing. In the mirror he could see the man waving as one might to a passing train or a coach full of school kids.
‘Just like Ireland’ muttered the Dutchman.
‘What? His jacket?’
'No. He waved. Like in Ireland.’
‘Did you see his jacket?’ asked Henderson. And what was he carrying? It looked like a small tree’.
The Dutchman didn’t answer but carried on looking out at the foothills and tiny dotted villages every now and then spotting an eagle or a kite.
Henderson looked back through the mirror and could still see the man standing there ominously, watching them drive forth into their doom he supposed. ‘It’s nothing like Ireland’ He thought. The Dutchman had just said it to reassure them they were on familiar turf.
‘Take this next turning’ he said, pointing to a dirt track that looked like it was private land. The ground changed and they moved slowly over the gravel surface surrounded by olive trees and shrubs. In the distance they could both make out a church standing solitary against the hills with no sign of life except a stork keeping guard in its nest on top of the turret and the timely arrival of a group of ravens that landed in front of the car as they drew up outside. Henderson felt like turning back. He didn’t feel comfortable visiting places of worship. He had a fear of intruding on something sacred rather than be welcomed by it. Even worse was the anxiety that went with it. He might have a Damascene moment or a religious attack of some sort. He had countless memories of his shoes squeaking across marbled floors, of ubiquitous old women that lurk like heathen detectors at his every turn giving him the evil eye, or the suppressed anxiety he felt on a day trip to Lourdes when he thought he might have a funny turn, a vision, or start to blaspheme in tongues and never be the same again. He’d even fled the Albert Hall during a gospel performance as he suppressed urges to be reborn or converted.
The Dutchman had climbed out of the car and was looking back at Henderson with that ‘are you coming?’ expression that showed he didn’t care if he did or not.
Inside there was an old couple who to Henderson’s relief didn’t do the old ‘you’re not from around here’ routine. They just nodded politely and carried on lighting the many candles. There didn’t seem to be much going on in the way of art or murals or any of the things people are supposed to admire when they have no desire to pray. Henderson picked up a leaflet to justify his presence and was delighted to see it was very badly translated. It also contained the overused words ‘the only’, like ‘the only’ vestige in the village. It was the legend that appealed to Henderson as it would transport him to the 14th century in order to relive the massacre that finished off the religious community that had lived there. A very rich Jewish widower by the name of Levi had only one solace, his daughter Esther. One day apparently a troubadour had turned up as they do and after much singing and storytelling had managed to make Esther fall in love. She gave him money, promised him eternal love and then he did a runner. Esther now ‘pale and gloomy’ moped about and neither her father’s affection nor the ‘manual of the clavichord’ or even the ‘framework of the needlework’ could cheer her up. Old Levi heard through the grapevine that there was an old friar in the village monastery who might help. Yet after sending a messenger he was told that the only cure could come from God. Naturally Levi ‘engaged a party of Moorish and Jewish wicked people to attack the monastery’. 'And so,’ the leaflet went on,‘during the night of Saint John when everyone normally celebrated the summer solstice with bonfires and the like, the ‘wicked ones’ went on the rampage and slashed all the religious men with daggers and stilettos with the blood splashing up the walls. To this daythere is a mark on the wall that attests to the sad event’. Henderson couldn’t see it. All he could see was a bizarre image of Monty Pythonesque characters running amok in the Spanish countryside.
‘It says here’ the Dutchman started to say, ‘that apparently it was finished in 1259 and …’, he looked round and saw the church was empty and he was alone.
Outside he found Henderson smoking and staring off at something. It was the old man. The one with the jacket caked in shit. He was still holding the tree. He was staring and grinning inanely.
‘Get in the car’, Henderson ordered the Dutch, stubbing the cigarette out as if there was no time to waste.
‘I think he wants something’, he said not the slightest bit perturbed.
The man waved and Henderson smiled and waved back. The church, despite the story had left him feeling apocalyptic.
‘Why are you being so apocalyptic? I know when you are being apocalyptic you know.
‘Just get in the car’ shouted Henderson..
‘But we haven’t been here ten minutes’
‘OK, stay if you want but I’m leaving.
‘Alright, we’ll go but I’m sure it is nothing to worry about’
Two kilometres down the road they found themselves speeding through the deserted landscape. They were lost and screaming as the old man gave chase with the tree sitting in the passenger seat. Soon he  took over them and forced them to stop.
‘He’s getting out. What do you think he wants? ‘asked the Dutchman.
‘Just stay calm and we’ll see’.
The only words they understood were ‘key to the church’ to which they replied ‘yes thank you we’ve seen it’, and, ‘would you like to come to my house for some wine?’
Despite the alarm bells ringing they still managed a ‘Yes, that would be nice’.
‘Follow me’ he grinned.
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ asked Henderson.

To be continued........

QUE PASA?

Que pasa? 

Que pasa? I will tell you que fucking pasa. Standing, waiting to be served at the cheese counter with one woman in front of me, another woman arrives. An older woman but really, not that much older than me, so we are both 'old', and possibly invisible. I turn to her and ask 'should we take a number?' knowing that people here love to push in without any shame. She looks at me, sorry, recoils, as  xenophobes often do when they hear languages, 'their' language, being spoken with a foreign accent. She informs me there's no need as we both know she is behind me, I am in front of her so I get served first, solucionado, problem solved. She then walks away with an iron will and stands next to the first woman who finishes her shop and walks away and immediately asks for her order. What to do? I told her 'excuse me, I was first' and the bloody actress puts her hand to her mouth and comes out with 'oh, dear God, it's true, you were first!' Well, I hope dear God forgives me as I told her she is a phoney and her life is a lie but with some great adjectives placed in front. The moral of this story is, let it pass or tell them they are feckin' conts

It's so revealing when someone posts something funny on the internet about Brexit and the first thing someone else says is (still!)  'REMOANER, we're leaving/we won/get over it'. With those comments I think we can safely point out who the miserable, joyless cun* is.

TRUMP SPAIN WALL

I don't like it when people make fun of other people's bodies or their body parts. I find it toe curling and childish to hear about the size and shape of the President of the United States of America's penis. Then I remember all the horrible things he has said about disabled people and women and so on and said them to a worldwide audience so I am sure he can handle it when someone does it to him. Meanwhile did you know he told the Spanish to build a wall across the Sahara to keep the African people from being able to come here? The man's still a dickhead! 

A few days after the Brexit referendum a 10 year old Spanish boy asked me why we, the British, didn't want to be with them, the Spanish, and the rest of Europe. He seemed puzzled and nobody had been able to explain it to him. He ended the short conversation by saying, 'I just don't understand'. Two years on he is now 12 or so and he heard the word Brexit mentioned in conversation between me and someone else. 'Brexit nooo!' he cried and waved his finger as if to put a stop to it. I asked him if he was still upset about it all and he paused for a few seconds and then said 'to be honest, I couldn't care less what you do now'.

I found some old diaries from twenty odd years ago. I had written about a Player's cigarette box I bought in a junk shop and how it had an old photo of some Portuguese petrol pump attendants in uniform inside that appealed to me for some reason so I kept it. In another diary I found a page that said Mr van de Ven, who was then my boyfriend, stumbled across said photo. 'A look of jealousy and crimson crept across his face as he demanded to know "who are these sailors!".

I'm back, standing in the queue at the supermarket and it is getting longer and longer so the girl on the till makes an announcement to see if 'Fulanita' ( all names changed/no relation/not meant in any derogatory way..) could please come and help on the other till. Fulanita doesn't show up, the queue gets longer and the same announcement is made. Minutes go by, they seem like hours, no sign of Fulanita. The girl repeats the message, still no sign. She repeats it again. The manager comes over and tells the poor girl to do it again but this time 'a bit stronger'. The girl says' Fulanita can you come to the till?' Still doesn't show up. The manager grabs the intercom and shouts the Spanish equivalent of ' Fulanita, stop whatever it is you are doing and get to the fucking till now'. About two seconds later she appears tossing her hair and straightening her uniform moaning 'God, can't even go to the toilet these days'.