While the feeling of meltdown is still being felt elsewhere the most I can come up with here is the market may stay open till five next week and I did see a chicken cross the road by the town wall. He'd obviously had enough and if he could have he would have given the town the finger like Dana the terrier did recently as she hopped on board the fast train outta here. Talking of fingers, I haven't seen one of our street's characters 'Manolo 'no fingers'. He is a poet and has tacked a sign on his door warning people that one lives there. I no longer see Celestino which is his real name as The Hermanos de Cruz Blanca have upped sticks and gone. It is quite weird not to be able to see them from my kitchen window anymore as it was reassuring to be able to see neighbours. I wonder who will move in or perhaps the council will tear the lovely building down and put up horrible new ones which they like to do.You can look out of the window at any time of day and see others who I have nicknamed or are waiting to be named. There is an old woman who looks serene and as she walked along during one of our blackouts this evening she took on a ghostly quality that I found soothing, her grey hair and coat glistening as the cars drove by. I think I will call her Lady Grey.
Perhaps it is a good thing Woolworths and MFI are up the creek as the last time I went they looked like shops you might find in a communist country or maybe a fascist one. God knows where people buy their furniture here. It is either ultra moderno or from some shop I have yet to find myself in. You go to someone's house and if it is new they take great delight showing you round. This has happened to me so many times and is quite a bizarre feeling as you feel the only other time this happens is when you want to buy a place. If their flat or house is old they don't do this but you can glimpse weird brown and green furniture and everywhere seems dark. Sometimes I find myself in the hallway of a block of flats and I am not sure which country I am in and then usually the lights go out after a few seconds and I grope along as there is no other way to put it till I find the switch which is usually indicated by a little red light. I did this once and when the light came on again I was right at the top of the stairs teetering on the edge of what looked like an abyss from the fifth floor. This reminds me of a death Spanish style story. A couple got stuck in a lift between the fifth and sixth floor and instead of waiting for the fire brigade they prised the doors open and the man managed to jump onto the floor below. He coaxed the woman he was travelling with to jump and to not worry he would catch her. Well he did and they both went flying down the lift shaft as the gap was big enough for both of them. On hearing such awful news I mentioned it to a friend who said 'Si, un accidente impresionante'.
On a lighter note and to avoid nightmares I have come up with another programme. It will be called 'Who is taking the piss' and would be ideal if it could be hosted by David Frost and then he could say 'Let's go and see whoooooooooo is taking the piss' in the same way he used to present that other crap programme Let's Go Through the Keyhole.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Saturday, 29 November 2008
I DON'T FEEL LIKE CHICKEN TONIGHT
I don't know where to begin. It is all too much. Scenes from the Wicker Man were shown on tele this evening. When they are not being shown Henderson is watching True Crime Scenes of people being bludgeoned to death.I'm feeling autistic every time Facebook asks me what I am doing right now and Spanish friends are ringing me up saying 'I'm John' 'cos there is no 'It's John' in Spanish so they have to say the former which drives me mad as I feel compelled to say 'yes I know it's you, we've been friends for years'. When they are not telling me they are John they ask 'what are you doing?' as there is no 'what are you up to' as far as I know in their native tongue. On top of this I have old, gold friends getting in touch which has made my day and finally, Henderson has permitted me to read him one of my favourite books while he cooks, Three Men in a Boat which I said reminded me of the Three Men in a Car on that programme called Top Gear to which he, being a fan, agreed. Then I spoke with Stephanie and she tells me there is a website called Britsuperstore.com which means I can shop for things I can't get here which also means I don't have to ask anyone to send me stuff or bring it when they come, for if you want anything done do it/order it yourself. What else? I found a baker's that sells delicious brown bread. Thanks to Stephanie again. She also told me a wonderful tale concerning her granddaughter Sol during the school lunch hour where the children were told if they didn't pipe down and behave they wouldn't get any chocolate pudding but an apple instead and Sol was thinking 'please carry on misbehaving'. I am intrigued and inspired by her palate as most Spanish kids can only be appeased by something crap to eat despite the 'Mediterranean diet' being sold as something the Spanish couldn't live without.
On top of all this I have been fascinated and somewhat confused to the goings on back in Blighty concerning politicians, policia, Jackie Smith, Gordon Brown et al. I put on some Fela Kuti this afternoon and as always felt spiritually revived and compelled to 'do something' which is a phrase that can't help but make me think of Henderson when he has had a few and I am wearing my hair nice or a touch of make-up or the lights are low and he says 'you've done something'. Which then makes me think of all those phony women in the perfumeria here who, on seeing a woman, any woman, enter the premises feel compelled to lie and holler, 'hola guapa'. If you turn and have a look at these 'guapas' including yourself you will realise they are, the perfume girls, as insincere as the police and politicians mentioned earlier. So, what to do. Do something. Where are the likes of Fela Kuti who said if he were to become President of Nigeria he would enrol the entire population into the Police force and where is there anyone remotely like Bill Hicks the comedian who was surely the second coming but we missed him. Henderson thinks Britain should be kicked out of the Commonwealth if it doesn't pull its socks up. Talking of the Commonwealth, I got a text from a Spanish friend holidaying in the Canaries asking me if Lanzarote was in The Commonwealth. I haven't heard from her since so I don't know who she was up against or if she survived.
Closer to home I think I may have imagined it but Manuel Fraga came to town yesterday. Not as exciting as Big Bum Bertha but enough to raise a few goosebumps as he was responsible for the 'Spain is Different' excuse that Spaniards like to espouse whenever things go awry. Yes, and he said something on the lines of 'Franco wasn't a criminal that I know of '. Well I have heard it all now. All this to take in on a Saturday.
On top of all this I have been fascinated and somewhat confused to the goings on back in Blighty concerning politicians, policia, Jackie Smith, Gordon Brown et al. I put on some Fela Kuti this afternoon and as always felt spiritually revived and compelled to 'do something' which is a phrase that can't help but make me think of Henderson when he has had a few and I am wearing my hair nice or a touch of make-up or the lights are low and he says 'you've done something'. Which then makes me think of all those phony women in the perfumeria here who, on seeing a woman, any woman, enter the premises feel compelled to lie and holler, 'hola guapa'. If you turn and have a look at these 'guapas' including yourself you will realise they are, the perfume girls, as insincere as the police and politicians mentioned earlier. So, what to do. Do something. Where are the likes of Fela Kuti who said if he were to become President of Nigeria he would enrol the entire population into the Police force and where is there anyone remotely like Bill Hicks the comedian who was surely the second coming but we missed him. Henderson thinks Britain should be kicked out of the Commonwealth if it doesn't pull its socks up. Talking of the Commonwealth, I got a text from a Spanish friend holidaying in the Canaries asking me if Lanzarote was in The Commonwealth. I haven't heard from her since so I don't know who she was up against or if she survived.
Closer to home I think I may have imagined it but Manuel Fraga came to town yesterday. Not as exciting as Big Bum Bertha but enough to raise a few goosebumps as he was responsible for the 'Spain is Different' excuse that Spaniards like to espouse whenever things go awry. Yes, and he said something on the lines of 'Franco wasn't a criminal that I know of '. Well I have heard it all now. All this to take in on a Saturday.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
THE WICKER MAN
Even though he is dead Franco is still the adopted son and perpetual mayor of this town. It sounds a bit too much like our mayor who is becoming more like Lord Summerisle and The Caudillo's love child. To be fair he does have a passing resemblance to Don Quixote, our mayor, not Franco. So apparently the council has decided that Franco is not going to be any of the above and so have revoked all this. Seeing as the last time Franco visited the town was in 1953 and he has been a long time dead since 1975 I am sure he won't mind.
I talked about the Opus Dei recently and standing outside their church was not the first Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came moment I have had here. It was a lovely sunny Sunday in our first flat here and somebody upstairs was playing marbles or rather playing marbles Spanish style, for hours on end on a cold ceramic floor without any purpose except maybe drive the whole block insane. I have spoken of the acoustics of Spanish flats before but this one was the most surreal as you could even hear a workman making indentations on a wall with his thumb. Anyway, after listening to Henderson screaming his head off I went up to have a word. We didn't know anyone then and while I was waiting outside to have the word some other neighbours were peering round a door whispering to me in such a terrified way that anyone would have thought the Nazis were coming. 'Don't go in there' they were pleading but in I went and told them they were torturing my husband and would they kindly put a sock in it and shut the fuck up. When I came out the other neighbours bundled me into their flat and told me 'Don't ever go in there again, they are Opus Dei'. They then went on to tell me about the husband's shenanigans and the wife's depressing choice in underwear.
I guess The Opus Dei are the poor man's Masons or just another excuse for a bunch of losers who are bereft of some sort of class system. Being middle class is something new here and some people will go to weird lengths to prove they are not a peasant.
As a child I was surrounded by books and I was fascinated with two reference books, one on entomology and the other dermatology. I used to enjoy frightening myself by opening the page at random to see which insect or skin disease would shock me to my core. So it is now whenever I have the misfortune to hear the ITV news or pass the headlines of most British papers as they all seem to announce ' and there's worse to come.........' It makes me realise that most Brits wouldn't last long here if they think it is bad in Britain. Writing a complaint letter here just induces howls of laughter to the person you address it to.
I talked about the Opus Dei recently and standing outside their church was not the first Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came moment I have had here. It was a lovely sunny Sunday in our first flat here and somebody upstairs was playing marbles or rather playing marbles Spanish style, for hours on end on a cold ceramic floor without any purpose except maybe drive the whole block insane. I have spoken of the acoustics of Spanish flats before but this one was the most surreal as you could even hear a workman making indentations on a wall with his thumb. Anyway, after listening to Henderson screaming his head off I went up to have a word. We didn't know anyone then and while I was waiting outside to have the word some other neighbours were peering round a door whispering to me in such a terrified way that anyone would have thought the Nazis were coming. 'Don't go in there' they were pleading but in I went and told them they were torturing my husband and would they kindly put a sock in it and shut the fuck up. When I came out the other neighbours bundled me into their flat and told me 'Don't ever go in there again, they are Opus Dei'. They then went on to tell me about the husband's shenanigans and the wife's depressing choice in underwear.
I guess The Opus Dei are the poor man's Masons or just another excuse for a bunch of losers who are bereft of some sort of class system. Being middle class is something new here and some people will go to weird lengths to prove they are not a peasant.
As a child I was surrounded by books and I was fascinated with two reference books, one on entomology and the other dermatology. I used to enjoy frightening myself by opening the page at random to see which insect or skin disease would shock me to my core. So it is now whenever I have the misfortune to hear the ITV news or pass the headlines of most British papers as they all seem to announce ' and there's worse to come.........' It makes me realise that most Brits wouldn't last long here if they think it is bad in Britain. Writing a complaint letter here just induces howls of laughter to the person you address it to.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
GRAVITATE v. GRAVIATE
As somebody who is still getting used to this blog lark I have just discovered that today's blog as it was part of a draft I had saved last week has gone back in time to last Sunday. Anybody still interested in the ramblings of a mad woman will have to go back and have a butcher's if they can be bothered.
Never short of something to say I will carry on while I am in writing mode. I am surrounded by tons of Post It notes with instructions or reminders that vary from Tibetans v. Pensions and Feral Kids v. Impertinent Ones. There is also one that says 'Hypothesis....group of foreign delinquents.....' and I am now reminded of an article in the local periodical that after several burglaries in the Ramon Y Cajal area the police have come up with this excuse.
It has been awfully quiet on the neighbour front and I read today in the 'society' pages no less that 5,000 Ecuadorians descended on Torreciudad, the BIG Opus Dei church not far from here or the Temple of Doom as Henderson pointed out when we had the misfortune of ending up there on a day out that went very wrong. 'Like entering a huge coffin' were his words and I must admit I got the sense of 'Childe Roland to the dark tower came' as we stood outside tossing a coin. The pilgrimage was to celebrate The Virgin of Quinche and the blessing of vehicles (?), and I was relieved to hear they had taken their instruments with them including among many, the cow bell.
I am often invited to events in London which alas I am unable to attend and was fascinated with one called You Me Bum Bum Train. I am still not sure what it entails but it has been described as 'leaving you psychologically bedraggled, mesmerised or uplifted' which is how I feel on an average day here. Another invite is The Texas Chainsaw Mascara where 'Nightmare musical kitsch sits next to a blood curdling screamalong' which is why I don't go out anymore.
Never short of something to say I will carry on while I am in writing mode. I am surrounded by tons of Post It notes with instructions or reminders that vary from Tibetans v. Pensions and Feral Kids v. Impertinent Ones. There is also one that says 'Hypothesis....group of foreign delinquents.....' and I am now reminded of an article in the local periodical that after several burglaries in the Ramon Y Cajal area the police have come up with this excuse.
It has been awfully quiet on the neighbour front and I read today in the 'society' pages no less that 5,000 Ecuadorians descended on Torreciudad, the BIG Opus Dei church not far from here or the Temple of Doom as Henderson pointed out when we had the misfortune of ending up there on a day out that went very wrong. 'Like entering a huge coffin' were his words and I must admit I got the sense of 'Childe Roland to the dark tower came' as we stood outside tossing a coin. The pilgrimage was to celebrate The Virgin of Quinche and the blessing of vehicles (?), and I was relieved to hear they had taken their instruments with them including among many, the cow bell.
I am often invited to events in London which alas I am unable to attend and was fascinated with one called You Me Bum Bum Train. I am still not sure what it entails but it has been described as 'leaving you psychologically bedraggled, mesmerised or uplifted' which is how I feel on an average day here. Another invite is The Texas Chainsaw Mascara where 'Nightmare musical kitsch sits next to a blood curdling screamalong' which is why I don't go out anymore.
Saturday, 22 November 2008
'I think we are in for a long hard winter....'
I hear the council are finally going to splash out and change the Christmas lights they have hung up and been hanging onto for the past fifty years at least which were beginning to depress me after seven. The putting up of said lights always involves an over zealous police man with a whistle. The first time I saw this I thought something terrible had happened.
Strolling along the streets of this 'city' I found myself doing that thing again. You know, saying stuff that wouldn't look out of place if my dad were walking alongside. ' And they say there's no money about' would be the remark as the town spills out from every bar despite the cold and crisis. It's still tapas week or tapa depending on how much money you have, and it's not stopping everyone from spinning around in their Barbour jackets while stocking up at the local perfumeria and cooing over their well heeled children and debating which bar to go to next. It amazes me the fervour this festival attracts. The bar owners are beside themselves as they were expecting a low turn out with all the doom and gloom around. I got a text from Steffers and we are to meet in the Tomate Jamon early tomorrow to bag a table and hopefully have lunch with some mode of decorum. Strategies are needed when it comes to food and I still haven't quite mastered it.
In the last week I have been asked by three people for money which is quite common as Christmas looms. Henderson gave me a ticking off for giving a man he described as a junkie the euro from my shopping trolley which the man begged me to give him. I've never really known exactly how I feel about the argument that you are only encouraging people to drink more or take drugs but who knows what they have been through and I don't think we should be heartless to the penniless. Earlier I had seen a boy and girl sitting on the pavement smoking and trying to play the bongos and it reminded me of a time long ago when I would be found in a similar plight not minding the smoking bit or the boy bit even, but detesting the bongo part. I am convinced this bongo playing plague started not in the sixties or Africa but in a club in Soho in the nineties called Violets which was named after Ronnie and Reggie Kray's mum. A club that looked like a scene from Tony Hancock's The Rebel crossed with What's New Pussycat.It wasn't a club to be taken seriously and was a bit of a laugh really but it inadvertently spawned the desire to make noise for the sake of it by thousands of young men all over Europe.
I have a terrible affliction, well, many, among them Spoonersim ( dyslexia as well it seems ) but the latest development seems to be an inability to coordinate the names of the television programmes as Henderson whizzes through them to see what's on that particular night. This is how I came up with the Muslims Do The Funniest Things but today it was for a moment that I thought Gary Linekar was The Devil's Whore. This also happens when I am scanning the headlines of the newspapers via the Internet and today it was Gordon Brown and The Skull of Doom. In the supermarket I was sure I had seen a product called Porn Copper but it seems too obvious. It would be easy to blame the drink but I am afraid it has always been like this and shows no sign of getting better.
Strolling along the streets of this 'city' I found myself doing that thing again. You know, saying stuff that wouldn't look out of place if my dad were walking alongside. ' And they say there's no money about' would be the remark as the town spills out from every bar despite the cold and crisis. It's still tapas week or tapa depending on how much money you have, and it's not stopping everyone from spinning around in their Barbour jackets while stocking up at the local perfumeria and cooing over their well heeled children and debating which bar to go to next. It amazes me the fervour this festival attracts. The bar owners are beside themselves as they were expecting a low turn out with all the doom and gloom around. I got a text from Steffers and we are to meet in the Tomate Jamon early tomorrow to bag a table and hopefully have lunch with some mode of decorum. Strategies are needed when it comes to food and I still haven't quite mastered it.
In the last week I have been asked by three people for money which is quite common as Christmas looms. Henderson gave me a ticking off for giving a man he described as a junkie the euro from my shopping trolley which the man begged me to give him. I've never really known exactly how I feel about the argument that you are only encouraging people to drink more or take drugs but who knows what they have been through and I don't think we should be heartless to the penniless. Earlier I had seen a boy and girl sitting on the pavement smoking and trying to play the bongos and it reminded me of a time long ago when I would be found in a similar plight not minding the smoking bit or the boy bit even, but detesting the bongo part. I am convinced this bongo playing plague started not in the sixties or Africa but in a club in Soho in the nineties called Violets which was named after Ronnie and Reggie Kray's mum. A club that looked like a scene from Tony Hancock's The Rebel crossed with What's New Pussycat.It wasn't a club to be taken seriously and was a bit of a laugh really but it inadvertently spawned the desire to make noise for the sake of it by thousands of young men all over Europe.
I have a terrible affliction, well, many, among them Spoonersim ( dyslexia as well it seems ) but the latest development seems to be an inability to coordinate the names of the television programmes as Henderson whizzes through them to see what's on that particular night. This is how I came up with the Muslims Do The Funniest Things but today it was for a moment that I thought Gary Linekar was The Devil's Whore. This also happens when I am scanning the headlines of the newspapers via the Internet and today it was Gordon Brown and The Skull of Doom. In the supermarket I was sure I had seen a product called Porn Copper but it seems too obvious. It would be easy to blame the drink but I am afraid it has always been like this and shows no sign of getting better.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
AR SE HOLES
The Aragonese are as I have pointed out before, famous throughout Spain for their intractability and here is an example of a conversation I couldn't imagine having anywhere else. Note my ability to integrate and be intransigent.
Me on the subject of the never ending acts of 'gamberrismo' around town: It's a pity there's so much vandalism and graffiti here because it could be such a nice little town.
Student: It's a city.
Me: What is?
Student:It's a city.
Me thinking the town has grown by 2,000 in the last few weeks: Oh, it's not a town anymore?
Student: Ana, it's a city.
Me: So there are 50,ooo people living here now?
Student exasperated: It's a city.
Me: I wouldn't call it a city.
Student: Yes, it's a city.
Me: OK, it's a city with a village mentality.
Student: It's a city.
Me: Perhaps we should just leave it as a village.
Student: OK, you think what you like.
I'd like to point out that the student is very nice, we get on unless it involves the town in question and its position in the grand scheme of things and normally displays a wider vocabulary.
Talking of the town it seems that the whole place is just a chain gang of hole makers be it holes in the ground or those that involve paper punches and the never ending world of Spanish bureaucracy. Whilst dealing with another piece of paper today I was also spoilt for choice regarding noise. The pervading sound of the neighbour's cow bell not, as you might imagine, attached to a cow seeing as we live in the lovely Pyrenees, but the Ecuadorian equivalent of the triangle perhaps was all I could hear until I opened the window and could listen to the rest of the band. Earlier some workmen came round to put up scaffolding and when I returned three hours later they were taking it down. Wrong house perhaps? Outside I had to dodge various men up ladders, up machines used for fixing guttering and lorries on the go moving earth to make a huge hole next to the other new blocks of flats. There is always a man or sometimes men not connected but out for a stroll, standing staring at the hole regardless of its size with their hands behind their backs and mouths open.
A lot of women find as they get older the dreadful realisation that they are repeating sentences their mothers say and they vowed never to. I don't have this problem as I find myself repeating stuff my dad says like 'is it me or am I getting old? ' which he has been saying for about 40 years. I caught myself muttering 'artful as a wagon load of monkeys' as I chased two of the 'punkies' the other night after they decided to illustrate their thoughts on our communal front door with the threats of 'Marcos I will kill you' and 'Pijos del punk'. It didn't occur to me at the time when I confronted them that they might, as Henderson pointed out, have hit me or worse but I wasn't in the least bit scared and let's not forget they run away from me, a small, middle aged,rather elegant woman ( as I like to imagine that night ) waving her handbag shouting 'cobardes' or cowards. Chasing them as far as my eyes could see I wheezed back home to find two neighbours both male and in a state of excitement after seeing my valiant, admirable or stupid behaviour and both said 'if we had been here a few minutes earlier..........' What? that we could all have enjoyed stringing the 'punkies' from a lamppost? The most we could do was call the police who asked for my name and identification and went off to look for the scallywags. Nothing will come of it and the town has become such an eyesore that no one even notices the graffiti anymore. It will be a nice town once the council get round to cleaning it up and the holes get filled in.
Me on the subject of the never ending acts of 'gamberrismo' around town: It's a pity there's so much vandalism and graffiti here because it could be such a nice little town.
Student: It's a city.
Me: What is?
Student:It's a city.
Me thinking the town has grown by 2,000 in the last few weeks: Oh, it's not a town anymore?
Student: Ana, it's a city.
Me: So there are 50,ooo people living here now?
Student exasperated: It's a city.
Me: I wouldn't call it a city.
Student: Yes, it's a city.
Me: OK, it's a city with a village mentality.
Student: It's a city.
Me: Perhaps we should just leave it as a village.
Student: OK, you think what you like.
I'd like to point out that the student is very nice, we get on unless it involves the town in question and its position in the grand scheme of things and normally displays a wider vocabulary.
Talking of the town it seems that the whole place is just a chain gang of hole makers be it holes in the ground or those that involve paper punches and the never ending world of Spanish bureaucracy. Whilst dealing with another piece of paper today I was also spoilt for choice regarding noise. The pervading sound of the neighbour's cow bell not, as you might imagine, attached to a cow seeing as we live in the lovely Pyrenees, but the Ecuadorian equivalent of the triangle perhaps was all I could hear until I opened the window and could listen to the rest of the band. Earlier some workmen came round to put up scaffolding and when I returned three hours later they were taking it down. Wrong house perhaps? Outside I had to dodge various men up ladders, up machines used for fixing guttering and lorries on the go moving earth to make a huge hole next to the other new blocks of flats. There is always a man or sometimes men not connected but out for a stroll, standing staring at the hole regardless of its size with their hands behind their backs and mouths open.
A lot of women find as they get older the dreadful realisation that they are repeating sentences their mothers say and they vowed never to. I don't have this problem as I find myself repeating stuff my dad says like 'is it me or am I getting old? ' which he has been saying for about 40 years. I caught myself muttering 'artful as a wagon load of monkeys' as I chased two of the 'punkies' the other night after they decided to illustrate their thoughts on our communal front door with the threats of 'Marcos I will kill you' and 'Pijos del punk'. It didn't occur to me at the time when I confronted them that they might, as Henderson pointed out, have hit me or worse but I wasn't in the least bit scared and let's not forget they run away from me, a small, middle aged,rather elegant woman ( as I like to imagine that night ) waving her handbag shouting 'cobardes' or cowards. Chasing them as far as my eyes could see I wheezed back home to find two neighbours both male and in a state of excitement after seeing my valiant, admirable or stupid behaviour and both said 'if we had been here a few minutes earlier..........' What? that we could all have enjoyed stringing the 'punkies' from a lamppost? The most we could do was call the police who asked for my name and identification and went off to look for the scallywags. Nothing will come of it and the town has become such an eyesore that no one even notices the graffiti anymore. It will be a nice town once the council get round to cleaning it up and the holes get filled in.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
COMING ALONG TO ARAGON
As Sunday draws to a close I realise I haven't done any of the things I promised Henderson I would do, like sort out the 'trastero', the room where everything you might need one day lies among the bottles of wine waiting to be drunk. A pile of cardboard boxes wait to be taken to the Santa Rosa school for young ladies and gentlemen in order for them to appreciate what I learned from Blue Peter but God knows what their parents will make of it. Maybe now that they realise the boom is probably over here in Spain and their children stop asking me why I wear the same jumper two days in a row they will be able to start using their imagination. Having an imagination and being genuinely creative is still not something that goes on here in many schools. The art of conversation as opposed to shouting and learning to enjoy silence need to go on the curriculum too.
Had lunch with Stephanie and we have decided that between her 'dispensa' , my 'trastero' and Mercedes' 'storeroom' we should be OK if the proverbial hits the fan. I'm starting to feel the chronic obsession with death stops a lot of people from enjoying life. I came here to get away from the perpetual anxiety I had in London about what if something awful happens on The Tube and what have you. I remember this got so bad my doctor, one Doctor Cheese sent me to have cognitive behavioural therapy which did pay off but only after Doctor Twitchin told me that even when anxiety escalates nothing can really happen unless you have the misfortune to be sitting next to a holy warrior.
Today I was delighted to get an e-mail from an old friend who lives in Portugal and like me pines for the motherland. The yin and yang of where to set up, set roots and where to go when you've had enough. Where to have your ashes thrown. I feel I have one foot planted in each country. When I talk to people back in Britain they are aghast when I tell them I quite often want to come home. They seem to think crime only occurs in Britain and Spain is such a simpler place to live. In the seven years we have been here I've lost count of the amount of times we have gone to the police as a community or to report vandalism to the car. It can't be the same clever bastard who spends his or her spare time kicking the wing mirrors off every car parked on Calle Torre Mendoza.
I saw our president today and asked him politely if he could replace a light bulb in the hallway. He told me that if I didn't tell him these things then how was he supposed to know if the light bulb had blown. When I asked him what was going to happen with the words 'Marcos I will kill you' on the front door he seemed to have quite a defeatist air but I might have misinterpreted it as a 'can't be bothered' attitude. We shall see. I am sure I have got the wrong end of.
I came home to find Henderson in his pinny cooking tagine and he also had managed to knock up a beef and ale pie although he confessed to putting Guinness in it. What with his Toad in the Hole planned for next Wednesday that is us pretty much sorted food wise for the week. This often induces a frisson of the fear type when the subject comes up round Mercedes' house. Her husband is very disappointed in Henderson for displaying such effeminate qualities. Our other neighbours, the effing bleeders as they are communally and for all I know locally known caught sight of Henderson one hot summer's day resplendent in vest and sarong. "Now we know what you are', the female of the species cried and continued to scream 'maricon' for a good ten minutes.
Had lunch with Stephanie and we have decided that between her 'dispensa' , my 'trastero' and Mercedes' 'storeroom' we should be OK if the proverbial hits the fan. I'm starting to feel the chronic obsession with death stops a lot of people from enjoying life. I came here to get away from the perpetual anxiety I had in London about what if something awful happens on The Tube and what have you. I remember this got so bad my doctor, one Doctor Cheese sent me to have cognitive behavioural therapy which did pay off but only after Doctor Twitchin told me that even when anxiety escalates nothing can really happen unless you have the misfortune to be sitting next to a holy warrior.
Today I was delighted to get an e-mail from an old friend who lives in Portugal and like me pines for the motherland. The yin and yang of where to set up, set roots and where to go when you've had enough. Where to have your ashes thrown. I feel I have one foot planted in each country. When I talk to people back in Britain they are aghast when I tell them I quite often want to come home. They seem to think crime only occurs in Britain and Spain is such a simpler place to live. In the seven years we have been here I've lost count of the amount of times we have gone to the police as a community or to report vandalism to the car. It can't be the same clever bastard who spends his or her spare time kicking the wing mirrors off every car parked on Calle Torre Mendoza.
I saw our president today and asked him politely if he could replace a light bulb in the hallway. He told me that if I didn't tell him these things then how was he supposed to know if the light bulb had blown. When I asked him what was going to happen with the words 'Marcos I will kill you' on the front door he seemed to have quite a defeatist air but I might have misinterpreted it as a 'can't be bothered' attitude. We shall see. I am sure I have got the wrong end of.
I came home to find Henderson in his pinny cooking tagine and he also had managed to knock up a beef and ale pie although he confessed to putting Guinness in it. What with his Toad in the Hole planned for next Wednesday that is us pretty much sorted food wise for the week. This often induces a frisson of the fear type when the subject comes up round Mercedes' house. Her husband is very disappointed in Henderson for displaying such effeminate qualities. Our other neighbours, the effing bleeders as they are communally and for all I know locally known caught sight of Henderson one hot summer's day resplendent in vest and sarong. "Now we know what you are', the female of the species cried and continued to scream 'maricon' for a good ten minutes.
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