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MAY
COME SHE MAY … WITH MOLE GRIPS
May arrived and winter had still not departed. This was not why I moved to Valencia – this was why I left England. Everyone was grumbling – the Spanish talk about the weather far more than the Brits and the daily news on television had been wall-to-wall weather reports. By mid May nothing had changed. Then there was the matter of boots. Whenever I see the word 'rebajas' my pulse rate quickens and I start running through the list of essential items that I cannot live without. I don't, of course, need anything. I have a cupboard full of shoes that a person with only two feet cannot possibly need. And yet … boots reduced from 260€ to 30€ have to be a bargain – don’t they? I mean, even if they don’t fit? Nothing if not resourceful, I get them home and immediately call a board meeting – in this case, me and H. When I have a problem H rarely fails me and so it is with the boots. Left boot, good. Right boot, not good. I can get my foot so far and then, just as my ankle should slide easily into place it sticks – and nothing will persuade it otherwise – EXCEPT a pair of mole grips and a tin of talcum powder. It is this gritty determination that won us two world wars. We did not give up. It is a two-handed operation, of course, so I sprinkle the talc and H attaches the mole grips. With his head held firmly between my knees, my fingers digging into his strong, muscular shoulders, H pulls with all his might until my foot finally agrees to slide forward. Then, of course, summer arrived.
LOST IN SPACE
… is the same as being lost in Valencia city. Every time I venture into a different barrio I feel as though I’m about to attempt Everest. First, I call Mimi who tells me exactly how to get where I want to go. ‘Come with me’ I whine and she tells me not to be a baby, that I’ll be fine, that if I follow her instructions all will be well. I’m not and it never is. Even though sometimes I get half way something always happens to thwart me; road works, an accident, the road I need is closed or the priority has changed and I find myself driving against the traffic – not that the Spanish mind, they do it all the time. However, when I do manage to blackmail someone into coming with me I do expect at least some co-operation. It’s a well-known fact that I cannot talk and drive at the same time. I begin to go slower and slower and my attention wanders. So, with my editor alongside me, who has agreed to give me directions to where I want to go in return for dropping him off at a meeting along the way and this month’s column, he, of all people, knows he must not absorb me in conversation. Engaged in an interesting discussion on crime in the city I thought he said: ‘….it’s rife here’ and began to ask questions. ‘Actually’, he interrupted, ‘I said: “It’s right here” and now we’ve missed the turn and I don’t know where we are’. He only has himself to blame.
SCRUMMY MUMMY? I DON’T THINK SO!
My niece Jess (chilling in London) who has two beautiful children aged 3 and 20 months, discovered, after a busy day at the office, that the cupboard was bare. Not even a slice of bread, a smudge of Marmite, an egg or a tin of something that could be made into an interesting, tasty and nutritious dish. A plate containing a cube of raw jelly covered with sprinkles is, in my opinion, a grave dereliction of parenthood. I have warned her that she will rue the day. Children have a nasty habit of bringing up such things in the hearing of authority: ‘Mummy, are we having jelly and sprinkles again tonight because I was hungry when I went to bed?’ Or, worse, they will now demand such things every evening. Jess is sanguine. Brought up without the ‘no’ word and never punished these children are extraordinarily reasonable. I, on the other hand, learned the word ‘no’ at a very early age and its dark usage peppered almost every sentence uttered by my beleaguered mother – there were three of us. Surprisingly, I was a difficult child so words like ‘no, don’t do that’, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you’, ‘no, don’t even think about it’, ‘if you do that you will be punished’ and ‘I said NO!’ were routine in our house but usually aimed at me. The thing is can I now, with Jess’s example, confidently blame my mother for any faults I may have? The alternative doesn’t bear reflection.
STUDENT CHRONICLES
Although it’s against my teaching principles to speak Spanish to my students there are times when a little ‘intercambio’ can be useful for both sides. ‘Every other day’ caused a puzzling translation problem and then I discovered why. In Spanish it seems to be ‘un dia si y otro no’ (a day, yes and another, no’). No puede ser! I give up.
APRIL
I ONLY ASKED …
Some people have an aptitude for numbers. I, on the other hand, whilst able to recall my very first telephone number and my ex-boss’s address and postcode from 20 years ago – which he says is anal, I never quite got the hang of them. It was, then, a mistake to ask H about the difference between ml and cl. Quite how we got onto cylindrical capacity remains a mystery and interruptions of ‘Look, I’m just trying to calculate pudding measures’, was completely ignored. ‘Take the first Mini …’ he began and my heart went into basement mode. We then got involved in 848-850cc as being the first Mini, followed by pistons going up and down - with diagrams …’following me so far?’ I always say ‘yes’ it’s easier …and.. blah blah ….distance it travels blah blah …. and this measures the distance of 4 cylinders…. actually … and then came the 1000cc Mini Cooper .. blah blah … and then the 1275cc Mini Cooper S … Headache! Headache! Need to lie down now! The pain, I believe, is due to swollen frontal lobes ….women are just not equipped to calculate these things … and don’t get me started on spatial awareness …
BLACK HAIR DAY
On the 25th I wrote in my diary: ‘Colour hair’. My hairdresser, who has told me time and again not to try different colours on a whim, now has the satisfaction of telling me that she told me so. My natural colour is a sort of auburny-dark blondey-mouse. Now it’s black. Quite how this happened remains an alchemic mystery. if only it’d turned gold then I might have been on to something. The packet said ‘dark blonde’. How then, you may well ask, can my hair be black? And why did I do it in the first place? Well, truth be told, the colour from an earlier mistake, after too much sun, turned my hair an unappealing shade of squirrel. In direct sunlight I looked like a carrot. It had to go. My subsequent scream of ‘do something!’ produced only censure and a lecture on the perils of do-it-yourself-hairdressing. Professional that she is, my hairdresser has now turned my hair into something less black and more brown with peroxidey highlights. I have learned my lesson. Really, I have.
ANOTHER FINE MESS
As you know, I love to entertain. I get enthusiastic imagining myself as a cross between Nigella and Sophie. The best intentions start with good ingredients, of course. Nevertheless, on the day, having completely forgotten I’ve asked six for dinner, I stare into the pantry. Would it be possible to make a Thai curry? I peer into the fridge, into those dark recesses of the cool drawer where all manner of botulinum toxins lurk. The remains of the ginger root is reminiscent of something from Pompeii and the spring onions seem to be growing a joint beard … even with a little judicious scraping I can see that they just won’t do. On the other hand, I have a can of coconut milk and a tub of green curry paste, even though it’s 3 months out-of-date. Sensibly, I tell myself it won’t work. So, a fall back position onto the tried and tested and, surely, I can make an interesting pudding? I love to make puddings and always follow the recipe assiduously but time and again I am met with disaster followed by distaste. This, sadly, does not deter me. Prue Leith suggests a crumbly, buttery shortcrust pastry with orange zest, topped with a creamy mixture made from greek yoghurt and mascarpone. It looked delicious – Tom broke one of his crowns on the pastry and Mimi, ferociously attacking it with a fork, managed to upend it on her new silk skirt – mascarpone’s a bugger to get out …. leaving me obliged to offer to pay the cleaning bill. Personally, I lay the blame for this catastrophe elsewhere. On reading quantities and measures (with increasing despair and a lecture on cylindrical capacity) I discovered that cl and ml are exactly the same, so no wonder I became confused. Therefore, why make a distinction when one’s culinary reputation depends upon it? And who decides these things anyway, that’s what I’d like to know.
STUDENT CHRONICLES: quote of the week
English prepositions often defeat even the most attentive students so some light conversation is always welcome. An open forum with the question: ‘What most annoys you about where you live now?’ Mari-Carmen said: ‘I hate it when people throw their condoms through my open window when I’m trying to watch a movie on TV’. Several questions occur to me before I realize I really don’t want to know the answers.
MARCH
CHICKEN ELBOWS, TROTTERS AND TRIPE
With the economic crisis in full tilt thrift is uppermost in all our minds. What can we do without? I’ve made a list that I think may be helpful.
1. Gin. Surely, this cannot be the last bottle?
2. Groceries. Definitely room for economy here
3. Wine …
4. Frocks and shoes ….
5. Presents ….
6. Books ….
7. Lunches and dinners …
8. Frocks and shoes … oh, that’s number 4
9. Chocolate …
10. Books …. oh, that’s number 6
Gin. Without it I would be grumpy and difficult and H would suffer and, as you know, I am nothing if not thoughtful. Anyway, I’m sure I read somewhere that it’s a staple.
Groceries. Economy is a challenge best tackled after a stiff gin and a hearty meal served with wine. This way temptation is avoided and, with the cupboard bared of essentials, the thrifty housewife can roll up her sleeves and get down to the basics. So, forget roasted animal carcass – you see, if we use the proper descriptive words we are less likely to err - instead, what can we have that’s tasty, nutritional and cheap? A healthy, cheering stew, that’s what. My neighbour Carmen makes her own stock. This is surely a good thing – apart from the smell. The stench of bones and bits of viscera boiling in a confined space (Carmen’s kitchen) must surely induce nausea in even the stoutest scavenging dog. The processing of chickens’ feet, elbows, knees and ankles is not to everyone’s taste and I refuse, point blank, to eat cattle snout. And, the question has to be asked, do these body parts actually contain any nutrition? And even if they do …
Wine. Ha ha ha ha … no
Frocks and shoes. I cannot conceive of any savings here as I hardly buy a thing that isn’t strictly necessary and, needless to say, one can hardly go naked and barefoot …
Presents. I think a huge saving may be made here as long as the explanation is convincing enough.
Chocolate. No, no and no …
Books. No, no and no ….
Lunches and dinners. We live in Valencia where restaurants abound. What can I tell you?
STUDENT CHRONICLES: quote of the week
Whilst prepping some of my Military students for their exams, I gave them a composition exercise. They could choose from three subjects: Reading, Humanitarian Aid or Practising Sports. Juan Carlos chose to tell me how, in vivid detail, how sport enhanced his sexual prowess, and never was this more apparent during a night of passion with his Swedish girlfriend, Frieda. Juan Carlos is twenty-five and as we marked is paper together, he with chin resting on one hand looking meaningfully into my eyes as I explained his grammatical errors, it was difficult not to laugh. It has been suggested to me that the Spanish (in general) believe that we English are sexually repressed and can only perform in the dark under a blanket, preferably a scratchy one. I tell them it’s true and, to my delight, they (generally) believe me. Is it true? Answers on a postcard, please.
LUNCH IN ARAGÓN
During a wander along Juan de Austria, thinking about lunch, we passed the gloomy portal of La Casa de Cultura de Aragón. We have a soft spot for this restaurant and decided to walk no further. The rickety and ancient lift creaked slowly to the second floor and we emerged into a dining room that has probably remained unchanged since 1959. The clientele are often displaced Aragonés who, incidentally, speak a rather interesting language. Colloquially known as fabla ("speech") it’s the only remaining speech form that has its roots in medieval Navarro-Aragonese dialects. So now you know.
The lunchtime crowd is usually workmen, shop assistants, jubilados (pensioners) and stray tourists. Today they were all busy chattering and scoffing their ‘menú del dias’; although, of course, as of last December, this wonderful institution is now no longer law. Franco brought it in during his 30-year-reign to ensure that factory workers would get a good meal each day close to their workplace. General opinion has it that the custom will continue (Valencians can be surprisingly pragmatic) and the menu here is indeed simple and basic; the puddings usually flan or fruit. The house wine can be a little rough so it’s best to order from the wine list and Aragón produces some very nice wines indeed. Often the grape used is Granacha or Grenache or even Garnatxa but don’t be fooled by its light colour. Some of these wines come with a high-alcohol content – you have been warned.
ANGLO SAXONS, CELTS AND THE SPANISH
Everyone knows the Brits can't hold their drink. So why DO we drink to excess? The Spanish are appalled by our behaviour and yet there is a strong relationship here. Celts were around in central Europe at the beginning of the first millennium B.C. and by the end of it had swelled its ranks along the Danube and Rhine, taking in Gaul and the British Isles, across central Europe and on into northern Italy and northern Spain. There are all sorts of hypotheses about our alcohol consumption from the weather (long hours of darkness in winter) and a historical inclination because alcohol in any form wasn't always readily available. England has always had some sort of relationship with Spain, of course, and Philip II was actually King of England and Ireland for a short time when he married ‘Bloody Mary’ (for political reasons) in 1554. She, sadly, was besotted with him and, probably, out of misery and frustration, created the drink so well-beloved by the English today. Whatever the reason I think we really should try harder at sobriety. I’m going to start us off by only drinking on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays we can ... oh no wait a minute, though, on Tuesdays I always have lunch with the girls and on Thursday I often lunch out as a restaurant critic where wine, as you will agree, is essential and on Friday, well, now we’re into the weekend, of course. OK, what about this? No drinking between the hours of three and six in the morning. And then, once we’ve got into it we can extend it by an hour each day. I think this could work.
STUDENT CHRONICLES: quote of the week
Edu is one of a group of six young engineers I teach every Monday morning. Sometimes, I give them a break with a question.
‘Edu, I’m sending you to a deserted island for six months. You can take 5 things with you. Tell me what they will be and why.’
‘First, a knife so that I can shoot wild animals and eat them. Second, I’d take a beautiful woman, so that we can make love. Third, I’d take a football, just in case someone turned up. Fourth, I’d take a book of poetry because I like it very much and fifth I’d take my mother because she knows how to look after me’.
This could be a very important insight into the Spanish psyche. Or not.
JANUARY 2010
REMEMBER ME??
Cleansed of guilt I enter 2010 full of resolve. No longer filled with remorse for past misdemeanours I begin the New Year with …. the knowledge that guilt is insidious. My editor is deeply disappointed with me. BUT it seems only yesterday I was on the beach and now it´s suddenly 2010 and I´ve got a pile of scribbled notes from which to make a column that make no sense at all. Some of these notes are illegible. Why do I scribble overheard conversations, ideas and quotes from my students onto scraps of paper found in a pocket, in the kitchen or in the car? What can I possibly make of these supposed aide memoires?
Choclit ….. (ah well, I need no reminder)
Defoe, defight …. eh?
Four mad animals in a car …
Loose cannon …..
Chickens don´t care …. (actually, I think some do)
Chair covers …. (this sounds riveting)
Railings …. (likewise, as above)
So, take chocolate.
Yes, please. That’s dealt with, then. I long ago removed this vital substance from my list of ´give-it-ups´. There’s simply no point.
Defoe, defight
– this is anyone’s guess …
The animal reference has suddenly risen to the surface. Whilst returning from the airport after dropping off a friend, I entered the slip road to join the main carriageway. The purpose of slip roads is to keep traffic flowing, let one car pass and then slip seamlessly in behind. It’s also good manners. Ignored by the first three cars I reach the point of no return and nudge my way in. Perfectly reasonable, unless you pull in front of a psychopath. This driver and his three passengers have gone so ‘ape’ my mouth falls open. They scream abuse from the windows, they shake furious fists and generally lose control. The driver tries to overtake but oncoming traffic won’t permit it so he decides to see if he can make me panic. What madness is this? When oncoming traffic allows he moves out to try and force me onto the barrier and into the ditch that runs before it, horn blaring. There’s something about bullying that brings out the worst in me. I cannot, in honesty, defend tactics that could be considered dangerous driving but, suffice it to say, that by the time we came to the Manises slip road I had managed not only to hold him off from overtaking in dangerous circumstances but forced him into Manises when he really didn’t want to go. Did I feel good? No. Did they learn a lesson? No. In fact, they’re probably still looking for me. A sobering thought. Would I do it again? I’d like to think not …..
CHICKENS DON’T CARE
This, I recall, is to do with a conversation I had with our builder, Hector, about putting an extractor fan in the bathroom. Hector always tells me I can’t have what I want solely because, I strongly suspect, I’m a woman. Every job completed in our apartment has ‘contention’ written all over it.
‘Can you please put an extractor fan here in this wall, please?’
‘No, not there’
'Why not?’
‘Because ….’
Because ….?’
‘Because people can walk past the outlet and if you make a smell it will embarrass you.’
‘No it won’t’, I say, followed by, ‘What people, there’s only me and my husband?’ and, finally, ‘English people don’t make smells.’
Figuring I’ve covered all bases, we glare at each other for several moments until he says: ‘The chickens’.
My neighbour keeps chickens. Our bathroom, separated by a footpath and dividing wall, backs onto his hen house. The outlet, naturally, will extract air straight at them.
‘They don’t care’, I say.
‘Chickens are sensitive, they might stop laying and then your neighbour will denounce you and then you’ll have to defend the denouncement and that means a lawyer and-‘
‘STOP! I’ve interviewed the chickens and they say they don’t mind, OK? They like to know someone’s next door. They also like to hear me sing in the shower, particularly songs from the 80’s, although they’re quite happy if I hum something classical. They particularly like-‘
‘OK! I’ll do it!’
‘Thank you’.
‘You’re welcome’.
STUDENT CHRONICLES.
In which, as a profesora de inglés, I report my favourite quotes of the week.
WHERE TO DRAW THE LINE
The other day, whilst engaged in conversation with some officers at The Base Militar, I introduced the subject of British Naval expressions still in common use today. Take ´loose cannon’, I said. ‘We use this term to mean someone who is unpredictable and, often, dangerous - as in the character of John McCain in the film ‘Die Hard’. It´s a literal term from when the cannons on old sailing ships could, during violent weather or when recoiling, break free of their runners and roll around the gun deck, causing damage or even death to those in their path.’ Whilst speaking I drew a quick study on my portable whiteboard of a cannon on runners, embellishing it with a couple of cannonballs. As I held it up I noticed a change in my students; raised eyebrows followed swiftly by a desperate attempt not to laugh. What? I replaced the board beside me and, on giving it a second glance, realized I had inadvertently drawn what appeared to be a penis and testicles. Instead of casually erasing it and moving on I stared at it in horrified fascination, my cheeks burning as I considered the best course of action. ‘Another naval expression still used today´, I said firmly, ‘is “to bear up”. This means to keep in good spirits, despite difficulties’. They let me get away with it, gentlemen that they are, pretending not to notice as I carelessly rubbed my sleeve across the board.
WHAT DID YOU SAY YOUR NAME WAS .... ?
The other day, whilst out watering my 'garden' most of which, it has to be said, seems to have developed a) exhaustion from either over or under-watering, b) earwig infestation, c) ant attack or d) what IS eating my geraniums? I heard a shriek of alarm from over the wall. My neighbour, Carmen, who works at The Arnau, leaves her mother, who has Alzheimer's, alone at home. I do my best to pass the time of day. Our exchanges, however, are limited. I say: 'Hello, Maria, how are you today?' 'Who are you?' 'I'm Barbara, I live next door'. 'Oh yes, I'm well, how are you?' 'Very well, thank you. Your garden is looking lovely'. 'Yes, I like to be out in the garden.' 'It's another beautiful day.' And here is where it usually goes to rats because Maria invariably comes back with. 'Who are you?' and I say: 'I'm Barbara .... etc'. BUT back to the shriek of alarm. Over the wall I see Maria has fallen into the shrubbery. Is she hurt? Shall I call Carmen? 'Are you all right?' I ask. 'Who are you?'. 'It's Barbara, I live next door ....'. Oh good grief .... I decide I must call Carmen. I don't feel confident speaking Spanish over the telephone. Person-to-person one can pull faces and make gestures when at a loss, the phone, however, is something I have learned to fear. I dial the number, hastily reviewing what I will say. I don't want to cause unnecessary alarm but worry that something might be broken ... I know perfectly well how to say what I want but suddenly the words leave me and when Carmen answers, knowing that the Spanish are extremely well-versed grammatically, I hear myself speaking in tenses. ' .... come, er, conditional ... fall ... preterite ... no puedo ... um what the hell's 'climb' el pared, er, broken something, er is that subjunctive, no, it can''t be, no, it's conditional, or is it? The Spanish, of course, are nothing if not pragmatic. 'Give the phone to mama', Carmen says calmly. I comply. I can hear Carmen yelling from two metres away. Maria gets up, brushes down her skirt and smiles at me. Relieved, I ask for my phone. 'Who are you?', she says, slipping my phone into her pocket .....
WHAT WOULD ANGELA DO ....?
Teaching English is sometimes very rewarding and sometimes ... not. Many of my students are military men - tough, young, handsome, masculine, fit, vital ... and... oh, um, I digress .... but some are not sure they care for being told how to speak English by a woman. They sometimes stare at me intransigently, which is not helpful. At times like these I think: 'What would Angela do?' On Friday, while waxing lyrical about phrasal verbs which are, by the way, almost totally incomprehensible to the Spanish, I found myself banging on (phrasal verb) with ' We can fall over, we can fall down, we can fall about laughing, we can fall in love, we can fall at the last fence we can fall up.' Pardon me? 'Yes, yes,' I say blithely, 'we can say: 'I fell up the stairs'. Six pairs of eyes focus sternly on my mine. I feel my temperature rising. What would Angela do? 'Right, we're now going to do some conversation. If you were given the choice of a) a life with money but no love or b) love but no money, what would you choose? The Spanish love these philosophical questions and think deeply and seriously about them. It's amazing how quickly they get me off the hook. But the question remains: can we really fall up the stairs? If we're going up the stairs and we fall forwards, surely ........ Angela will know. Although, Angela, it has to be said, wouldn't have got herself into such a muddle in the first place.
AND WHO IS ANGELA, WHAT IS SHE?
Angela, I should explain, is a very gifted university lecturer. Angela teaches marketing and communication. Angela is clever, beautiful and talented. I sometimes wonder why Angela tolerates me .... Mother always told me to choose my friends carefully. 'Your dearest friend should be unattractive but not ugly, clever but not intelligent (men don't like clever women), smart but not stylish and malleable, as in ... 'We've been invited out in a foursome, remember, yours is the ugly one'. All my friends are more accomplished than me, more attractive and, in some cases, more intelligent. How could I have gone so badly wrong?
AND FINALLY ...
This week I learned something so utterly charming about the Spanish army that I thought I'd share it with you. As I was walking back to my car through The Base the other day I was passed by a line of soldiers marching with the curious trotting gait so beloved of the Americans, the one where they repeat a chant shouted by the leader. In this case, the leader was a woman and her chant was more of a song. The next day I asked one of my students about it. This style of marching is called 'pasa lijera' (to pass lightly). He said that permission to sing must be requested from the Commander and that the songs were all love songs. Not so tough, then ......?
AND FINALLY, FINALLY ... BELLINIS
The Nisperos are in season and, Tim Birch tells me, they make fantastic Bellinis. Harry's Bar in Venice would probably sneer at the substitute for peach juice but as long as you remember to pour the champagne in after the juice, you will have a drink that is very nice indeed. Cheers Tim!
ANOTHER CULINARY DISASTER
Never mix kiwi, orange and banana in a smoothie. It is disgusting – and the colour has to be seen to be believed. Particularly, do not produce said concoction (with a proud flourish) at the breakfast table, to horrified guests, before you have properly regained control of your faculties (eyesight in particular) after a very late night involving champagne and rich food. Worse, do not make them drink it on the promise that, whilst it may look nauseating, it tastes heavenly. It doesn't.
CAN YOU REPEAT THE QUESTION, PLEASE?
The other day, whilst perusing one of my investment accounts, I noticed some particularly nasty charges. As most of my investments have been in the lavatory for some time I was incensed with righteous indignation. I picked up the phone and called the customer service line.
'Good morning, my name is Brian, how may I help you today?' Brian sounds 12 years old, further proof of my approaching middle-age.
'Good morning-'
'Before we begin, madam, may I first ask for your details?'
I gave them.
'Thank you very much and now I'll just ask you a couple of security questions. What is your password on this account?'
I hate these questions. What have I said? Did I make a note of it, etc? 'I have no idea. Can you ask me something else?'
'There are two passwords, what is the second one?'
'If I can't remember the first what hope have I of the second? Can you give me a clue?'
'It's an animal.'
'Horse' I said. I always say horse to the question 'animal'.
'And the second one?'
Oh for pity's sake! 'Surely one's enough?'
'I'm afraid I must have them both, madam'. Brian has clearly memorised the company credo, part of which is the art of not letting the customer get the upper hand.
'Can I have another clue?'
'Very well, it's a genre' (pronounced jen-rer). Very pleased with himself here.
'Science fiction'
'No'
'Romance'
'No'
'Comedy'
'No'
'Thriller'
'No'
'Murder mystery' Now I'm scraping the barrel.
'No'
'OK, I need help here. Are you allowed to give me another clue?
'I'll ask my supervisor'
Thirty seconds elapsed. 'Very well' he whispered, as though we might be overheard 'you were very clever here, it relates to 'horse'.
A genre that relates to 'horse'? 'Western?' I said uncertainly.
Correct, madam. Now, how can I help you today?'
My first password was 'weston' my mother-in-law's maiden name. I despair. But now, of course, I've had to change all my passwords again ... and remember where I've written them down, which we are told not to do. Life was simpler back then ... before technology ... whenever that was.
BIN HERE .. BIN THERE ...
I'm talking about contenadores: those ubiquitous green bins where we deposit our household waste. Ours is at the end of the street. Yesterday, I heard a rumbling, trundling noise and, on glancing out of the window, saw my neighbour to the right park said bin outside the window of my neighbour to the left. An hour later my doorbell rings. My neighbour to the left did not, understandably, want a smelly, fly-ridden contenador outside her window. Did I know who had perpetrated this act? Absolutely not, I said stoutly. So back up the street she pushed it. Later in the day, the first neighbour, on discovering the perfidy of the second neighbour (Spanish women have extraordinary radar in this area and know everything) wheeled it back into position. The bin has now moved a total of eight times. Part of me wants to mediate in what is, essentially, a move of convenience. However, I feel quite strongly that my neighbour to the right should have placed the bin outside her own window, which complicates matters and would, I am sure, only contribute to the argument, culminating in both parties turning on me and somehow making the whole thing my fault. So, I'm keeping quiet, waiting to see who breaks first.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN 'Oooh!' and 'Oh!'
This happens when someone makes the rash decision to prepare cheese straws and homous (someone forgot the shops were closed for 'La Crema' ) and takes them to a party. 'Ooooh!' occurs when someone says 'I've made some cheese straws and homous'. 'Oh!' comes when they are placed on the table. Spanish electric ovens, as everyone knows, are not reliable. One has to be vigilant or the worst happens – as with said cheese straws, which were slightly darker than good taste demands. There was also the problem with the 'barleytwist' effect. Someone has never made cheese straws and actually achieving this professional finish was clearly beyond them. The result were twenty-five dark brown sticks bearing indentations that looked remarkably like someone had clamped bare gums from one end to the other. The only good thing was that no-one could accuse the cook of passing-off shop-bought ones as their own. The homous, on the other hand, was a rather strange colour with the consistency of wet cement. So that was all right.
A PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS – OR LOBSTERS
Spring is here and what better way to celebrate than to upgrade the courtyard garden. My idea is this – a modest lawn to set off the Jacaranda. H kindly removed the requisite number of paving stones and I carefully prepared the soil beneath. Last time I tried to grow things from seed the ants removed them all one-by-one overnight so I asked the advice of a friend's gardener. A simple solution: add ant deterrent to the grass seed; the aptly named 'Malefin', in fact. Not that I've got anything against ants but a product called 'bad end' is somehow appealing. I read the instructions. Nowhere could I find a mention of ants BUT, if I was inundated with locusts, this product was for me. Or lobsters. Eh? NB: If anyone knows someone with a plague of lobsters could you please email me. Question: how does one attract a 'pestilence' of lobsters to one's garden? And is it reasonable to expect them to bring their own mayonnaise?
THAT REALLY ISN'T WHAT I MEANT AT ALL ...
In my other role as a teacher of English, I most fortunately picked-up a rather important business executive called Perfecto. He is a charming man and once a week we do 'conversation'. Last week he introduced the topic of 'young men in today's society'. As the father of a 17 year-old he was concerned about his education, his own role as a parent and the influence of modern technology on relationships. We were getting along rather well when I asked if he thought young men had become emasculated by their female counterparts? He looked at me thoughtfully and promptly moved the conversation on. Thinking I had not made myself clear I deftly brought the conversation back to this important issue. Did he think, I asked, that men were confused by the increasing power young women had over their own lives, thereby blurring the traditional role of men in a close relationship? Did they perhaps feel emasculated by this? Was this a good thing? Again, that thoughtful look, followed by a sudden change of subject. It was only when I got home and looked up the word 'emasculate' that I realised it's the same as for 'castrate'. I'm now worried that he thinks I'm in favour of castrating all young males so that women can get on with the business of running everything. Only time will tell.
LA CRISIS
Why, when everyone knows it is men who have created this economic nightmare, have the Spanish given it feminine stature? I most strongly object.
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