My palabra

I have been tagged to choose my favourite word for International Literacy Day.

I am late. It was yesterday.

And as I am writing from Spain, I am going to choose Spanish words. Y tambien, voy a escribir un poco en español.

Bueno. Me encanta la lengua español, y hay muchos palabras que me gustan.

Guapa, precioso, estupenda, jazmín (con su olor de las noches de verano), chiquitito, calentito, y fuera.

¿Por qué fuera?

Well, when I first came here, one of the ways I started to learn Spanish was by watching TV. Mainly the news, and a few films. And I had to use sub-titles because everything was just too fast.

Later I started watching Spanish and Latin American soaps, still with sub-titles but the dialogue was pretty simple.

When you have heard Luis Mario say fifteen times in one episode of Gata Salvaje

"A mí no me interesa. No me interesa nada. Absolutamente nada."

you figure that he is not interested. At all. And soon I could watch without sub-titles.

And I watched Charmed - Embrujadas, Buffy - La Cazavampira, and Rex.

One day I was watching Charmed and Prue was waving her hands around as usual, and at the same time told someone to go away. "Fuera!" "Fuera de aquí!"

I though that would come in useful, particularly walking the dog when strays came up to aggravate him, or small children started being a pain.

I was talking to my neighbour about Charmed. "Embrujadas," I said. But as Adelina can't read anything she can't read the title when it comes up on the television. She describes the programmes as a film, or a telenovela, and then talks about the content.

She finally worked out I was talking about Charmed because she then did a beautiful impersonation of Prue waving her hands to move something, and said "Ella con los manos." Her with the hands.

So because fuera is a very useful word, especially when snarled correctly, I am choosing that one. More importantly, it will always remind me of my illiterate - and very sharp - Spanish neighbour. I still find it strange that here is a woman of my mother's generation who can't read and write, when my grandparents and their parents could all read and write.

In fact there are people younger than her in our village who have never learned. Mostly their families help them when necessary, and when they go to the bank they sign with their thumb.

So fuera is my word. For my neighbour and all the other Andalucians whose families work in the fields and haven't had the opportunity of education.

City life - déjà vu

We met in Sydney. In a youth hostel to be specific. A private one where you shared a room with anyone regardless of gender. If there weren't any beds and the staff liked the look of you, you got the offer of sleeping on the floor in the TV room to wait for a bed to come up.

Anyway we moved on from there. We rented a small studio flat, and he cheerfully went to work on the dockyard. Early start and reasonably early finish too. I didn't do a lot.

This was more than 20 years ago.

When I was packed off back to Spain a few weekends ago I didn't realise it was so he could go looking for work.

Even worse he found it. And rang me up to tell me about it and that I had to be back on Sunday.

So come Monday morning, we both slipped back in time the odd 20 years. Got up together, had coffee and toast, I made his sandwiches and he set off for work with his tools and his overalls.

And then I had the rest of the day to myself. Just like Sydney. So when I had done a quick mop-out, I sat around thinking about the similarities - and the differences.

He's working on a big site again. He worked on a dockyard in Sydney on an island. The place he's working at strangely enough is also called locally "the island" probably because it is on reclaimed land.

Gibraltar reminds us of Sydney. It has a similar climate, a spectacular setting, beautiful harbours and maritime views, and a British colonial heritage.



People seem easy going and happy - a bit like Aus when we were there in the late 80s. Maybe those are some of the reasons we feel at home here.

We're in a flat again, but this time it is slightly bigger. It has a bedroom, and it also happens to be ours, not rented. All we had in Sydney were a couple of rucksacks and what we had crammed in them to travel - in my case round the world, in his case to Australia for the third time.

Everywhere is within easy reach of our flat. And if we don't feel like walking, there is a good bus service.

We have a dog too. The large furry monster rescued in Spain. And we have not just one, but two Land Rovers, an English one and a Spanish Santana. Add to that a few bikes, although only one was bought, all the others were rescued and repaired. And we have the house in Spain (complete with chickens). So now we have a bit more than two rucksacks. After more than 20 years together and 15 years non-stop busting a gut in the UK I think we should have something to show for it.

We aren't rich, we aren't poor. We'll never be rich - hopefully we will never be poor either. It's a matter of opinion and it depends on what you use as a comparison. Rich to me is being able to afford one of the nearly £3m houses that poor Grafting Partner is working on. I wouldn't want one. If I was rich enough to afford a house here, it would be an old colonial one in the town, not some modern statement house on the waterfront.

But flat life suits - at least there aren't too many floors to mop out - and that's a major advantage. And city life is such a change. Hay que cambiar - as a Spanish friend once said.

No more of this

Well after cleverly getting a job on The Island, there’s no more of this chilled-out relaxing in the evening over an idle sandwich for Adrian and Pippa. It’s early bedtime all round.

Life of a flat housewife

One has to support one’s partner and get up at the same time when he is going to work. Well almost the same time because there obviously isn’t much point in getting up when he takes the dog out as there is nothing for me to do.
So when he comes back I get up and helpfully butter the bread and make the odd sandwich. He does the toast and coffee, naturally, as that’s men’s work.
Then I have the rest of the day to decide when to go to Morrisons/Safeway, and when to mop out. Best to leave the mopping out as long as possible, I mean, until the afternoon because then the floors dry faster.
It’s too exhausting to think about going to Safeway straightaway, so it’s suitably mindless to wash up the breakfast pots, move the bedding off the floor, and settle down to a couple of hours messing around ie working on the computer. There we have it. A hard life, but we support our partner.

Life of a decorator/painter - at 50

Up between 6am and 6.30am. Walk dog. Try and avoid cats, especially bloody Marmalade, whose real name is Harvey. Failed miserably today and ended up on my arse.
Make and drink coffee. Only one cup as there are no toilets on the job. Cut bread and make toast, let woman do her one contribution of the morning ie buttering and making the sanis.
Decide to walk to work. Got bollocked yesterday when I took the bike across the sand that the masons had laid for some paving. Bloody tools were on the path and the day before I had fallen over them carrying the bike.

Postscript to "Paul"

Dog Walking Partner was out at the weekend. He stopped at the local pub to talk to a few guys who were inside.

I say he stopped at the pub, he actually stood outside chatting through the open window. So did the dog with his paws on the windowsill because he likes Brian.

Millions - well 20 or 30 - of RAF were standing around in uniform outside.

One of them said to Partner:

"Do I know you?"

"I don't think so," and then he twigged. "Unless you met my woman on the bus last week and didn't turn up when we had arranged to meet."

Much laughter from his mates. "He always does that," said one of them. "Even with us. You can't rely on him to turn up, he just changes his mind or finds something else to do.

"If he's not there within two minutes, we just walk off."

Guess I was lucky he sent me a text for the first cancelled meeting.

Oh and how did he spot the Partner? Well, I think the dog was a bit of a give-away, I'd described him as a cross GSD/Husky. And big. The pub is also just round the corner from our flat which I'd also mentioned, and he had been in there the previous Saturday.

Strange guy eh?

But no stranger than the one this Sunday. "Hello, do you speak English?" he said as he got on the bus in Málaga. Well, sometimes I look English, and sometimes I look indeterminate. This was obviously an English-looking day.

Plus, he looked English, so I was obviously looking at him too closely. It turned out he was Scottish. I really struggle with the accent, I have to say.

We discussed where the bus stopped. He was off to Manilva which is south of Estepona. Sometimes the bus stops there and sometimes it doesn't. I didn't think this one did. I offered to ask the driver.

No, he would get off at Estepona and get a taxi and go to Carrefour. (He had just flown in that day). I didn't think Carrefour would be open at 7pm on a Sunday evening.

As you do, when you have the odd two or three hours to kill, we started chatting. Well, when I could understand the Scottish accent we did.

He wasn't quite as nosey as Paul. Or perhaps he was differently nosey.

He was in computers and worked for a multinational company. He was here for a year. His wife was in Scotland. He had spent a lot of time working in the Far East.

He could speak Korean and Chinese. Which apparently he had learned horizontally. His words not mine. He thought he would learn Spanish the same way. I said encouragingly that he would probably get lots of opportunity.

We got on to how long we had been married. Twenty eight years him, and twenty two me.

"And have ya been a good girl all that time?" (said with Scottish accent).

"Yes," I said, puzzled, thinking what's it got to do with you?

"I don't believe that, you're kidding," he said.

"No," I said, wondering when he was going to change the subject.

"You don't know what you are missing. Life's very short you know."

I knew exactly what I would be missing. One husband, half the property and cash, and the only thing I would acquire would be a piece of paper telling me I was divorced.

I added that I was a bit too old for playing silly games and that sleazy affairs held absolutely no interest for me.

At which point he seemed to lose interest in me. Especially when I didn't scribble down my email address and give it to him.

I was thinking about getting a different bus this week. But hey it passes the time.

Paul

I've always liked travelling independently.

When I was in my early teens I went off happily youth-hostelling with a map and a rucksack and thought it was a great adventure.

Later I started taking holidays in Europe - usually based round work, or an activity or a course.

Then in my early 20s I went on my world trip - one of the best things I've ever done.

And now here I am travelling up and down the Costa del Sol every weekend.

The trouble is, it's not really travelling at all. It's a weekend commute. It happens to be in a pretty nice location, with a permanent view of the Med from the bus, but it is still a commute.

And after a few weeks, the three-hour journey between Málaga and Gib starts to drag a bit. Even if you do manage to get the back seat to yourself.

It's even worse if the bus is full of jabbering tourists (of whatever nationality), screaming kids, or as happened yesterday, a vomiting woman sitting next to me on the back seat (with her two kids who at least weren't screaming).

"Tiene una bolsa?" she said so I fished out a Morrisons bag. And gave it to her saying I hoped there weren't any holes in it. It didn't matter as she missed anyway. Don't drink water and sit at the back of the bus, is my advice.

So last Sunday was nice and quiet. I had the back seat and the bus was fairly empty. I sat right in the middle, with my feet on the armrests and started to read the paper, settling in for a reasonable journey.

And then at Torremolinos, a few people got on. One of them marched assertively down the bus, looked me right in the eyes and said (in beautiful southern English)

"Can I get past you to sit in there?"

I suppose I could have said there are plenty of other seats mate, but it seemed a bit rude. So I moved my legs for him to get in and promptly put them back. His mate decided to sit in front of us. Quite right too. Two people on the back seat was already one too many in my opinion.

"You're going to Gib," he said. It was more of a statement than a question but I answered politely anyway. "Yes."

"What do you do there?" he asked nosily. "Nothing," I answered truthfully (in at least I don't have any paid employment there - I assumed that was what he meant).

The cogs whirred round a bit. Who is this woman that lives in (expensive) Gib and doesn't work? There was a pause, so I leaped in.

"What do you do?" Tit for tat. "Forces."

"Oh," I replied chattily. Then he said "I'm a musician."

Is he having a joke at my expense? Either he's in the forces or he's a musician. My lateral thinking is obviously faltering though.

"I play the trumpet for the RAF." I thought he was having me on, but no. So we eventually called a truce to the hostilities and relaxed a bit. Turned out his professional training was as a musician, and 16 years ago he was accepted into one of the RAF bands - the Central Band.

It sounded like a cool job. You get to play at lots of concerts round the world, and you get to visit British bases too. He'd been to Ascension Island, the Falklands, and Cyprus among others. As for concerts they were in America last year, and they were off to Japan next year.

They even got a daily foreign allowance on top of salary of around twenty plus pounds a day. In America they also got a $400 salary from their sponsor, but they were doing 19 concerts in 21 days from one side of the country to the other so I guess they earned that.

It didn't sound totally glamorous though. There were the bus journeys from London to Scotland, or the three-day bus journey to Budapest. Don't think that was one for my vomiting companion from yesterday who couldn't manage two hours from Estepona to Benalmádena.

They also got to go to conflict zones. Not to play, I might add. He'd volunteered to go to Kosovo but by the time he'd finished training, the post had gone so he ended up in Basra. Rather him than me.

The band was in Gib for a concert tonight and they were due to play two concerts in Spain, but apparently there were some bureaucratic problems so he had a week's holiday, and the Spanish concerts weren't happening. He had time on his hands.

When we got off the bus he bought me and the other guy a drink, and then I headed off for home and tea, thoughtfully prepared by Domesticated Partner, and repeated two and a half hours of bus conversation over tea.

We'd fixed to meet up on Tuesday evening, but he sent a text saying he couldn't make it, was Wed OK? Fine by us.

On Wed, I thought about checking with him, (save Exhausted Partner getting changed after work!) but figured he would have let me know if he wasn't coming. I stubbed my toe. I avoided the dog and kicked the chair. (It's a small flat). The front half of my foot rapidly turned shades of blue, purple and black. Not a good omen.

We limped down to the assigned meeting place. After half an hour I sent him a text. Like, this is a guy whose watch is set ten minutes ahead of time so he is never late?

Chilled-out Partner had another drink and we wandered back home. Somewhat later on I received a text. Good marks for inventiveness. They had been frantically trying to get their instruments across the border (came by truck) and on top of that he decided to indulge in a bout of food poisoning. One of those would have been a sufficient excuse, although preferably sent before we were meant to meet. Did we want to meet the next day?

Why don't people just say they have found better things to do and can't be bothered to meet up? The bus journey went really fast, he was good company and I enjoyed talking to him. It would have been good to meet again, but I'm a grown-up these days and I'm not going to lose sleep when people change their mind.

Alternatively you could say third time lucky. I didn't. And I didn't reply either. I hope your concert goes well tonight Paul. And thanks for brightening my regular commuting journey. Safe journey back to the UK. But don't agree to meet people in quite such a hurry again.

Chickens

Who would have chickens?

I went in to change the two water drinkers, add some corn to the feeder, and chuck some greens down.

Of course, it's not helped by having to negotiate past a Land Rover, a Land Rover roof on its side, and a bucket of sand strategically placed between the two.

Anyway on the last trip I was busy pouring water from a watering can into the difficult drinker when I suddenly realised I had forgotten to put on - Wellingtons.

I was standing there in flip flops. In chicken shit and straw, and then water when the drinker slowly fell over.

And now the gas won't work for a hot shower. My shoes, feet, trousers and hands are covered in chicken shit.

Still it's hot enough anyway here so a tepid one is no bad thing.

Must go.

Feria

We missed the local village fair this year. It happens around the end of June.

Sometimes it coincides with our birthdays, this year it didn't - fortunately, and we cleared off to Gib for the weekend of the feria to avoid the noise.

Spanish fairs are quite a novelty to start with. But after a few nights with music (always the sort you don't like) blaring out until 3 or 4am, the attraction soon fades.

And to be honest - there is nothing to do. I used to like fairs when I was a kid, I would happily wander round and go on the rides with my dad while my mum stood there with a long-suffering face. (There were usually quite a few nice lads hanging around too...)

Regarding fairs, I married someone like my mum. So going to the fair is not the prime choice for an evening out for this couple. Maybe I've also realised that cocks and horses aren't really for 40-somethings without a child in tow.

As for the Málaga feria, we have only ever been to the daytime one. Nothing seemed to happen there either. And being early-to-bed and early-to-rise types we have never been to the mega night-time event. But here are pix from the bus window of the night-time fairground, the closest either of us has got. It is meant to be spectacular. Who knows?





Málaga feria is in August and is pretty big. It has finished now. But why lots of people congregate to do nothing much in the middle of the night is beyond me.

Sadly it's also feria in Gib at the moment. The music is not as loud as it is in our village so it doesn't stop you sleeping. So I've no idea how long it goes on for every night.

To all those of you who like ferias - great - and enjoy them while you can. Either I'm far too old now, or I've spent too many years living with someone who doesn't like them.

Picante picante

We like olives. We have tried lots of types and I have even done my own. Didn't put enough salt in if I have to be honest. Not for the flavour - but the preservation - so they weren't firm enough.

Adelina unhelpfully told me this after the event when I moaned saying mine had gone soft whereas hers were still very firm and juicy.

When we buy them - which is most of the time now, after the above failure - we like the ones marinated (aliñada) in herbs, preferably with a couple of chillies thrown in too.

I went to the nice Moroccan man down the street where I buy my veg and sometimes Moroccan bread.

"I'll have some aceitunas," I said mixing my languages like everyone else.

"Yes madam. What sort madam?"

"Tiene picante?"

"Yes madam. These are picante madam.

"That will be 50 pence madam."

Very good they are too. When we buy them in Spain, we get the marinade. But these were just dry in a dinky little plastic bag, with more of a paste.

Yummy. I managed to make the bag last two days, but I was back the day after for more.

Embarrassing photos

Being a considerate sort of woman, I always try and stop and take photos of Land Rovers for Land Rover Obsessed Partner to see.

Naturally there are lots in Gibraltar. Usually with an MOD reg.

So I took a couple of snaps as I was walking towards the frontier.

"WOULD PEDESTRIANS KEEP WALKING AND NOT STOP ON THE RUNWAY," bellowed the loudspeaker.

I looked round. I couldn't see anyone else not walking. Perhaps they meant me. I tried to look nonchalant. Bit difficult in the circumstances.

A guy waiting at the gate grinned and said "You're OK now." Maybe they were talking to me. It was only a brief pause to zoom in on the Landy. And I was hardly straggling at the back.

I stayed and took photos of the plane that was due to take off (hence the rush to get rid of the pedestrians....). Thought I might as well make the most of the embarrassing incident.

Neighbours ........ Gibstyle

The great thing about having two places is that I have two lots of neighbours to gossip about.

And in a block of flats there are lots of them. Like the guy upstairs who decided to start partying at 6am one Sunday morning with some fairly grotty music. It's not always the loudness of the music that matters, it's also whether it is to your personal taste. This wasn't to mine.

Anyway Early Rising Partner didn't give two hoots. He was thinking of getting up anyway, not for him an nice idle lie-in on Sunday. Not for anyone on this particular Sunday.

Our neighbour opposite shouted down to us about it. We shouted back up. We discussed very loudly and unsubtly how noisy it was. It had no impact.

Next she collared one of the other residents in our building, who does a bit of co-ordination in the block, and a few jobs. He clearly didn't want to know and walked off.

It got to about lunchtime, and although we'd had a brief respite, the row started up again. Suddenly, Calm Relaxed Partner who was not remotely bothered at 6am, suddenly decided He Had Heard Enough.

So off he went upstairs and pointed out that this was a quiet block, the noise was too loud, and it would be really good if said tenant could turn it down.

"After all, you are only renting, aren't you?" he said just before he came back down.

There was no more noise that day. We went back to Spain for a few weeks. On our return to Gib, our neighbour opposite beamed and said there had been no more noise.

A few days later Responsible Partner met the guy who owns the lease for the block. "Oh, I heard about you. You are the guy who asked the tenant upstairs to turn down the music." I should imagine most of Gibraltar knew about it.

While they were chatting they spoke about the charges for the block. There is a list in the hall and it shows who hasn't paid and by how much. Not us, I might add.

The guy who does some of the jobs, and the cleaning ("You will be lucky if it gets done once a month," added the leaseholder) owes money. He owes far less money than he has had in payments. These charges are not huge. They are a few hundred pounds a year.

I think it is grossly inconsiderate and disrespectful to your neighbours not to pay your share of the charges. Apart from anything else, it means there are delays to any other maintenance work - and delays just mean the cost will end up being more. Selfish toerags.

Gibraltar - or Alcatraz?

Here is another Gibpic. I mean Alcatraz.

I am slightly racked off. A friend of many years sent me a postcard. She had been to Alcatraz and said it reminded her of Gibraltar.

"Rocks, military buildings, guns etc," she wrote.

I haven't been to Alcatraz. As far as I am aware it is an island. Gibraltar is not an island. Alcatraz was discovered in the eighteenth century. Gibraltar's heritage is far older than that. It has been British for more than 300 years. Before that it was Spanish and Moorish. It is truly multi-cultural.

They are both called The Rock. That is a fair point. They both have military buildings and guns - as do a lot of other places. Gibraltar was a garrison, but not a military prison. It has certainly never been a high-security prison - for which Alcatraz is best known.

I write and tell her I have bought a small flat in - to me, a nice location - and the next thing I get is a snotty comment telling me it is like the best-known high-security prison in the world.

Friends. Huh.

Oh, it was cloudy in Gib today - although sunny on the other side of the frontier in Spain.

Postcard from Gib

On hols. Back later. Weather nice.

Summer paella - with asparagus

When we first arrived here, Adelina next-door would regularly give us tasty samplings of the local food.

She is not a brilliant international chef, but she is a great local cook and wherever possible cooks using seasonal produce and as cheaply as possible. I've learned a lot from her.

So one Sunday, after we had been here a while, she gave us two huge plates of paella.

The rice was great. The peas were frozen (out of season at the time), and we don't eat prawns. The dogs liked them though.

Paella is not one of the things I have learned to cook from her. But I have learned to cook paella while I have been here. How can you live in Spain and not cook paella?

Tip 1
A good pan.

Mine is cast iron and cost a fortune when I indulged myself buying pans for our Rayburn in the UK (to be the subject of another post in itself...).

Tip 2
Find the right rice.

I use a Spanish rice from the Ebro delta. It's organic and it is redondo (round). It works well but other cheaper rices are just as good. But they need to be for paella.



I made paella a few times in the UK with all manner of things in it. Chicken, rabbit, prawns, fish.... far too many conflicting ingredients. Like a lot of things in Spanish cooking the simpler the better.

So today we had a summer paella. I was lacking imagination and the good thing about it is that it is one-pan cooking so Washing-Up Partner doesn't moan.

I cheated on the local ingredients. The asparagus is imported. There is a bit of a hungry gap here in summer (hot and dry), so inspiration flags a bit and the asparagus is a nice change.

The fresh onions are local, the garlic is from Málaga, as is the saffron, the tomatoes (not in pic) were from a neighbour, and the basil and parsley are out of the garden.



This is enough for two people for a meal, or four as a side dish/starter/intermediary course. With a bit left over for the dog's breakfast because he likes rice and veggies.

Fry garlic, onion, (I used leek too), and basil briefly on a low heat.

Then add the asparagus, chopped into small pieces, obviously leaving the tips intact. If the heat is too high add a drop of water.

Otherwise add the rice and fry briefly before adding more water. I use bottled. I also boiled the trimmings of the stalks in bottled water and used that as a vegetable stock. The chickens then get the remaining cooked stalks.

You can use any sort of stock, but because this is based on asparagus I wouldn't recommend anything too strong or it will detract from the flavour. A very light chicken stock would be the most I would suggest.

I use a mix of a risotto/paella method. That's partly because the bottled gas here has a fierce heat, so adding cold water occasionally stops the rice burning or sticking. If I put all boiling water in straightaway it would be a disaster. Different fuels need different methods. I don't use a sofrito ie frying the tomato with the onion. I add it later after the rice and water as I think it gives a cleaner taste.

Saffron. Azafran.
I discovered after a while that Adelina used food colouring which was why her rice was violently yellow. I have no idea whether I can really tell the difference but I snobbily stick to saffron.

I am not very economical with it either. But I can say after trying various methods of trying to impregnate a golden colour into the rice that adding 3 strands to boiling water in a jug does not work for me.

Far better to put a sprinkling into the pan at an early stage of the frying and later on the rice just suddenly turns a sunkissed colour. I don't really want it to look like I have put in three tablespoons of turmeric, but I want some colour.



Finally - on the risotto line - I think this is equally good without tomato, but with a sprinkling of Parmesan or a similar hard cheese of choice. Again not too much to drown the asparagus.

I've still got a fridge full of berenjenas - but I really don't think they go with asparagus. Berenjenas recipes to follow.

Queues..and keys

Whenever you enter somewhere in Spain - shop, bank, water office, even the local bus stop - there is always a queue.

It's not obvious of course. Oh no. It's not one of those British taily things (Spanish for queue is una cola - a tail), it's an imperceptible thing.

After all, why would you stand in a line when you want to catch up on the local gossip with Maria or Reme, Paco or Juan, who are just a bit further away from you.

So, when you enter - somewhere, you politely ask "¿Quien es el último?"

Remember to notice who this person is. You are always stuffed though if they clear off because they can't be bothered to wait and you don't know who they were behind. That's a minor point - it doesn't happen too often.

When you find out who the last person is, you go to chat to your mates while you are waiting. This works well for paying bills.

The local supermarket is slightly different. The main one in town just has your average boring queue. So that doesn't count.

Here in the village people live in the past. They go in, grab a basket, put a couple of things in and then plonk it in front of the counter to book a place. Then they go round the shop for more things. I joke not. Sometimes there is a melee of people and baskets, none of whom are actually queuing, just chatting.

But when you are standing there dutifully queuing, with for example, a bottle of olive oil and a bottle of water, some old dear will cheerfully walk up to the empty basket in front of you with an arm full of goodies to take up the place that she has booked. In front of you and six other people. And no-one says anything. Apart from "¿Quien es el último?" and it obviously isn't the old dear.

The times must be a-changing somewhat though. Shopping Partner went down the other week and a woman in front of him had quite a few items. No pre-booked place, it was a proper queue, but she decided she wanted some other things. So she told the cashier she was just going to get them.

"NO way," said the cashier. And unkeyed every single item from the till and put everything to one side. "Go to the back of the queue." Then she beamed at Shopping Partner, who after all is A Man, and therefore Worth Something - in economic terms, and rolled her eyes and muttered some obscenity about the previous punter.

Fast forward a few days, and he's down there again. One of the other optional customs is to let someone go in front of you if they have one or two items and you have more. Of course, you only ever get to go in front if you are A Man.

You can be a woman with a bottle of water and the person in front (usually another woman) has shopping piled up on the check-out for the next week, catering for her distant family who has just descended on her, but you will have to wait for every single 175 items to be keyed in.

Anyway, Shopping Partner spotted the neighbour with the proverbial bottle of water.

"Pasa, Jose, pasa." It was Shopping Partner's turn next so he thought he would let Jose in front. SP only had two or three items as well. But this was a total conspiracy. Behind was Skinny Legs. She lives down the street - in the biggest plot of the whole street - and is vaguely related to Jose through various marriages. She is a miserable old cow. Normally lives in Seville but turns up from time to time to take up residence in the shared family plot which has four houses. Possibly five now. One loses track.

She was not pleased. Jose and Shopping Partner were sniggering away like naughty schoolboys. Jose beamed. "Gracias, amigo." Off he went.

It came back on Jose though. The next day he arrived home after his walk. His woman was not home. She had gone to the shop (it's a daily ritual here). He didn't have his keys, after all when he left, she was at home. He stomped up and down his terrace.

Eventually she came back with the eldest daughter. Adelina (like many round here) can't read and write so she needs one of the daughters to go with her. Much shouting ensued.

"¡Coño!" each called the other. "Why didn't you take your keys?" each asked the other. "I didn't need them, you had them," they both said simultaneously.

When the daughter could finally stop laughing she managed to produce her set of house keys (fortunately). After all, every member of the extended family always has a key to the house. Whether they always have it with them is another matter. Luckily she did.

The starter motor - Motor de arranque

Our vehicle problem this time. Not someone else's.

Idle partner decided to drive down to the beach - rather than walking. I suppose because it was late morning and hot.

So he got in - and discovered the starter motor was jammed. He did the usual stuff, whacked it kindly with a hammer, and put it into gear and rocked it backwards and forwards. No joy.

He took it out. Pretty quickly. And then had a beer. It was Sunday so he couldn't do any more.





Yesterday morning he put it on the back of the bike and cycled the 8 or 10k to the local town to get prices for a new one.

He went to the truck motor factor on the industrial estate that he had discovered when he was helping Bedford Truck Man. Cost 665€ plus IVA at 16%.

He cycled round the town. It's one of those spread-out sort-of towns with a few hills to add variety.

He managed to get a few more prices. One went up to 776€ plus IVA and transport. But the same shop had another dealer and got a price of 540€ all included.

Poor old Worn-Out Cycling Partner decided it wasn't a good idea to come home and tell me this. So he stopped at the auto-electrician on the way home. It happens to be opposite a good bar too.

The auto-electrician is a good old boy. When we first came we had problems with the alternator. He checked to see if it was beyond all repair and sadly it was, so we had to stump up for a new one. We've used him ever since and he's always seemed ok.

Anyway the jefe said he would take it apart and have a look - it would take half an hour or so. Best to wait at the bar opposite, thought Thirsty Partner.

What a poppet (the old boy). Turned out the starter motor was ok, might need new bushes in a while, but he would clean it up for us. The solenoid was stuffed though. But 55€ for a new solenoid is a lot better than 540€ for a new starter motor.

Very Fit Cycling Partner came happily back to pick up some money and went back to pick up the starter motor. The old boy wasn't there. Critical Partner went to the work bench and took a look at the insides of the starter motor. He stuck his finger on the suspicious-looking stuff. Oil.

"¿Qué pasa aquí?" One of the young urchins came to attention. We think it's the grandson working in his school holidays.

"I've cleaned it," he said, helpfully.

"Not with oil, you haven't. It will just chupa the polvo."

One of the not-so-young ones roared at him.

The jefe came back. He roared at the grandson even more. "It will chupa the polvo."

"That's what the foreigner said," (the young one was catching on fast).

"That's because the foreigner isn't an idiot. You are though."

Old jefe rolled his eyes, and said, "These young ones. They just don't understand. I'll clean it up properly for you. Sorry about that."

Another beer called for. It's pretty hot at the moment and cycling around with a heavy starter motor isn't really that much fun.

When he went back to pick it up, the jefe had left it apart so that Critical Partner could see it was cleaned up.

"I've used four litres of solvent to get rid of the oil. That would cost 40€." Sad Spanish face - this job had become not very cost-effective, even allowing for the exaggeration. Then he connected it to the power. And it worked.

Happy Partner handed over his money - no extra charge, obviously - and cycled back. New solenoid, cleaned-out starter motor, and a couple of beers and some chat.



And put it in this morning. Using a variety of props to support the motor while he screwed on the nuts. It worked when he turned the ignition too. Vrrrrm. In fact it starts up much better than before.






That's probably why he had problems with the starter motor last year when he drove back to the UK. The solenoid had been slowly dying. A good result though. Another electrical fix - but the cost is always in the mechanical work for taking out and putting back. Today - Smug Partner.

But the bad news was that he had to throw away his 21-year-old T-shirt from Laura Ashley. When he took it off it ripped. And it was his best mechanicking one too. Gutted.

Any queries about what to do though - please ask in comments.

Si tengas preguntas - escriba abajo en los "comments".

Berenjenas

Dogwalking Partner went out with Pippa.

And one of our sophisticated multi-house neighbours called to him.

"Pasa por aquí."

She wanted to give him a massive bag of aubergines, and then another massive bag of tomatoes.

Berenjenas fritters, or aubergine curries are on the menu.....More later (recipes, not berenjenas hopefully).

The Bedford Story - the end as we know it

They picked up the radiator. And dropped it off down the beach.



They also went to check out the camp sites in town to see if there was space so Bedford Truck Man could avoid getting towed off the beach by the police.

En route they picked up the water pump to bring back here, and Helpful Partner welded a bolt on the front of it to prevent the fan flying off the water pump and going through the radiator again.



BTM walked down to the 'phone box to find out about the second-hand rad he was supposed to be getting from the UK.

He came back. We gave him another beer. And his water pump.



The rad from England seemed to have vanished into the aire.

Next day, Helpful Partner wandered down to the beach to see how things were going.

BTM had fitted the water pump and put back the broken radiator.

After all, he had driven from Tarifa to here without a functioning water pump. Good truck.

When the police turned up again, he showed them his booking for the camp site in town, so they knew he would be gone from the beach as soon as he was sorted. No jail. No court. No homeless woman and daughter.

BTM and his woman enjoyed the tomatoes we had given them. They liked the photos that we had printed off too.

He didn't seem bothered about the radiator any more. Although he had asked if he could use our address to get a radiator delivered from the UK, he seemed to have changed his mind. He could use the camp site address.

Next day, Helpful Partner went down the beach. They were gone. He went to the camp site. The snotty staff person wouldn't let him in (and he was on his very best expensive disc-braked bike!).

Partner peered through the fencing but couldn't see their truck.

We guess they got it going and just cleared off. They hadn't exactly had a lot of luck here, so in their place we wouldn't have stayed either.

Helpful Partner drove him round and tried to help. BTM offered 20€ - for diesel or welding or whatever help - but Partner refused. We've been helped in the past.

We hope they are ok - wherever they are.

Ten good things..........

............about having a sprained wrist.

Either you can describe this as reframing the issue if you are into management-speak - or you can call me Little Ms Sunshine. I have to say I prefer the MBA-speak.

This incidentally is about a right-handed person who has sprained her right wrist. It would apply equally to a left-handed person. But not someone who is ambidextrous like Irritating Partner.

• You can't do the cleaning. (Not that you do much anyway)



• You can't do the ironing. (That was OK, didn't mind doing that, suitably mindless task without too much effort)



• You can't do the washing up. (You don't do that either normally)



• Or the drying up.



• Your finger nails grow very long and elegant because you aren't doing anything....



• You don't walk the dog. (It was his fault anyway...when he went for the cat)



• Your partner suddenly remembers how to cook. In fact he starts to do some things better than you can. Great roast pimientos.





• At more than 40 years of age you suddenly learn how to use your left hand.



• You can idle endlessly in a bath full of essential oils on the grounds that it is good for helping the swelling to go down, easing the bruising, relieving the stress, well, you get the idea...



• You have an excuse for not doing what you don't want to do, and indulging in whatever you do want to do.

And the counter-side....

• The house is dirtier than ever. (He doesn't like doing the cleaning either)



• There are no wrinkle-free clothes, and you can't even find half of them because the pile on the ironing board is so huge.



• You can't do the gardening with one hand.



• You have a scruffy-looking bandage on your arm, and sometimes your arm hurts. More initially. Less now - but this is two months later.



• You can't walk the dog - well the walking was nice - even if the cat-lusting dog was a bit of a nuisance. Walking too far (even without the dog) also makes your arm hurt.



• You can't type fast. Or accurately. This is very irritating but it finally seems to be getting better.



• And the biggie - you can't get on the bike. You can't grip the handlebar or use the right (rear-wheel) brake. Why is this a biggie?

Vanity. The calf muscles still look ok. The arms don't. And as for the sudden re-appearance of the cellulite that I thought had gone for ever....I'll buy an exercise bike if I can't get on a real bike any more after this incident.

So on balance there are more pros than cons. Idle life of leisure and brill cooking by Cocinero Partner. But this doesn't assign values to the points.

The downside is I'm less fit, I've no suntan ('cos I'm not out much), and the dreaded cellulite has reappeared. I'm counting the days to getting back on the bike.

So's the Cycling Partner 'cos he has no companion. And he's certainly sick of two months of cooking.

The Bedford Story - Part 2

So anyway, there's Helpful Partner traipsing round the local county town looking for tubo (hose) for this 50-year-old Bedford truck.

The local recambios place (spare parts, winch cables, hydraulic hoses among others) is pretty versatile, but it didn't have the right diameter hose. They are always helpful guys though - and they gave directions to a competing motor factor - even though they were risking losing some trade.

This was on the industrial estate, and full of mechanics buying parts on trade accounts. It was basically aimed at trucks. Small ones, large ones, but all trucks. And they had the tubo.

So Helpful Partner dropped Bedford Truck Man (BTM) off at the beach so he could replace the pipe between the air intake and the oil bath.

The next day, he went down the beach to see if BTM had sorted it and could get off on his travels.

Apparently he couldn't.

He had fired up the engine, it sounded good and the fan promptly flew off the end of the water pump and straight through the radiator.

This was not good. Helpful Partner had taken down a couple of beers so they had a drink and a chat.



Then BTM offered Helpful Partner some wine (neither of them had any beer left). Not being much of a wine-drinker he said no.

So then he offered him Tequila. The bottle was nearly empty so when they finished that they moved onto a bottle of Mezcal. Tequila-type stuff with a worm in the bottom. But Helpful Partner didn't know that until they had polished off that bottle too and BTM offered him the "worm". To eat.

Well, right-on vegetarians don't eat worms or any sort of similar grubs. They aren't too keen on polishing off nearly half a bottle of spirit and find it has been fermenting with some dead grub inside it. Drowned. Pickled. Whatever.

He politely refused and was secretly pleased he had started to pour some of his Mezcal into BTM's glass. Hence he was slightly less the worse for wear than he could have been. And he managed to walk home.

Somewhere in the midst of this grubby Mezcal story, they decided the next day they (ie Helpful Partner) would go and look for a rad at the local scrapyards.

That was worse than useless so then they asked about recoring the rad. And they were given directions to a workshop in the local market town again.

So when they eventually found it, the guys at the workshop promised to ring back later that day. This is Spain. When I rang, it turned out they were waiting for someone else to get back to them. The next day they rang. SEVEN HUNDRED EUROS.

BTM nearly died. Actually we all nearly died and it wasn't even our rad. They agreed to pick up the rad the next day. Unrepaired. BTM thought it would be cheaper to source one from the UK, including carriage. They both forgot the next day was Saturday.

Fast forward to Monday. BTM turned up at our house. The police were getting increasingly difficult about the fact that the truck was still parked at the beach. (Technically illegal although done all the time - especially at Spanish fiestas). The police told them to move on which is difficult with a broken-down truck. BTM wanted to collect his damaged-beyond-economic-repair rad from the market town. Immediately.

Helpful Partner was out on his bike though. I didn't know when he was coming back, and if he had stopped for a beer on his bike he wouldn't be driving when he returned. So I told BTM this and said he might want to think about getting on the bus. Less than a euro and five/ten mins walk from the bus station to the rad workshop.

Meanwhile, unknown to me, Helpful Partner had called down the beach to see what was going on. He spoke to Bedford Truck Woman, and then managed to catch up with BTM who was by now making a fruitless journey to what he thought was a scrapyard but is actually a builders' merchants that happens to use old trucks.

"Why don't you get the bus?" said the Helpful Partner, repeating my words telepathically like a parrot. He had stopped for a beer in town. BTM was not impressed, he did not want to get the bus, but he wanted his rad. He didn't want the police towing him off either. And taking him to court, leaving his 18-month-old daughter and his woman without a roof over their head.

More books... nine down one to go

I have thought of another fave book.

Actually it's a cheat. It's not a book, it's an author. In fact it's a big cheat. It's three, or at least two authors. Now, coming from Yorkshire, how could I not include the Brontes? Or at least the ones who wrote Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Wuthering Heights. Not too keen on Jane Eyre I have to say.

I have just re-read Blue's tag challenge and it said five books. But Blue posted ten originally.

So I am going to go for ten too. The tenth one comes later.

Oh and the pix are the only Bronte book I have. Sadly, that martyrish Jane Eyre one. What a horrible pic to have at the front of the book. It would probably be banned these days. Miserable book anyway in my opinion. Although the other two I have mentioned are hardly the cheeriest books under the sun. I might read it again though. It cost 2/6, it says so at the front. I think my mum bought it.