Episode 14: ..........but seriously.........

I've been racking my gin-addled brain trying to think of a suitable topic for the last post of 2011 and I can't actually think of anything, so I'm going to do something else totally different instead. You know when you go to these poncy 'awaydays' or 'training seminars' or whatever your company is labelling the call to arms that says "we are going to listen intently to everything you say today, all the while nodding and appearing interested, but in reality, you will do it the way we have already decreed"?? Well they often do these things called a 'stream of consciousness'. It used to be called brainstorming, but apparently that's politically incorrect and could offend the terminally stupid amongst us, so they changed its name. Personally I've had better ideas when polishing off the last of a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream, but each to their own. The point to all this nonsensical rambling is that today, I've decided to go on a boat ride down my own consciousness stream. The problem I've got is that the motor on the boat has stopped working and I only have one oar, so I may go round and round in circles, but it will make for an unusual journey if nothing else.

Deirdre!
Still torturing me

A year ago, I was sitting in my little house in St. Leonards, getting it ready to put it on the market in order that I could move out to Spain with the lovely José. Christmas was spent in Lincoln with the family and New Year with a rather dodgy Abba tribute band in St. Leonards and some prawn vol-au-vents that you wouldn't touch with someone else's ten-foot bargepole. Twelve months on and I'm in a flat in a little town a couple of miles outside La Coruña in north-west Spain, sharing with a couple of stubborn octagenarians, surrounded by plastic flowers and Deirdre the squirrel. I have no regular income - in fact I've had no income since we arrived here in July - and I don't speak the language. Such fun!

Once had a threesome with
Jemima and Humpty from
Play School, allegedly

Sitting in my centrally heated house in the UK, the prospect of setting up our own business sounded like the grand adventure I had always dreamed of. Ever since I was last bounced on my grandad's knee, I've known I wanted to work for myself, but then I was 19 and a student nurse at the time. I think it's time to confess here about my nursing 'vocation'. All through my 28 year career in the NHS, I've been told time and time again that I must have been drawn into nursing as a vocation, because of the energy I threw into my work. The truth is considerably less sexy than that. I am the sort of person who gives my all to anything I choose to do, so if I'd gone in a different direction and been the person who was inside the Bungle suit on "Rainbow", I would have given it the same energy, albeit with more fur and sweat.


I was working in a restaurant and training as a chef/restaurant manager, but my old boss preferred posh foreign holidays and beautiful men - as it turned out did her (now) ex-husband. They spent all the profits from the place and when it was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, it was sold for a song to one of the most vile men you could ever wish to meet. I worked for him for a while as I had no choice, but I hated it, so I went to my old Careers Officer and talked to her. I completed what felt like a 68 page form that was then fed through a computer, which in those days was the size of Basildon. A week later - yes young people, it took that long to process - I got a list of the things I was qualified for. Always with my eye on the long game, I was swayed by the superann scheme and the ability to retire at 55, so I opted for Mental Health Nursing. One interview with the sublime Gordon Rutley (Senior Tutor) later and on 25th April 1983 I was on my way. The rest, as they say, is history.

Where it all began back in April 1983, when you learned how to be a nurse and not a number cruncher

At the age of 18, I could have bought that restaurant off my old boss. It was thriving and took in loads of money, but I didn't have the means to do so. Ever since then, I've had the desire to work for myself. Gosh, this is  getting serious..........! So, the lovely José and I decided we would come to Spain. For me, the NHS is going swiftly down the toilet and the way we were meant to work as mental health professionals sucked all the enjoyment out of my work. The only time I enjoyed going to work was when there was a storm. Our office looked over the English Channel and apart from the sea looking spectacular, the place leaked like a sieve, so the fun was laying odds on where the water would come through on that particular day. Then that was taken from me and they moved us to another unit where I had a spectacular view of the car park. Days full of juggling a team with loads of staff sickness and stress, as we were expected to do more and more with less and less, took their toll and the decision was effectively made for me. Three large catering tins of magnolia paint and some crossed fingers later and the house was on the market.

Bad luck!!

Since we sold the house and moved out here, things have gone downhill rapidly and have continued to carry on hurtling in that general direction. I've mentioned most of these before, but there are a couple of new bits to maintain your interest, so I'll précis them for you:
6th July: Moved to Spain. Hoorah! Very excited!
20th July: Informed that my sister was in hospital after a near fatal car accident and could possibly die. Cancelled planned holiday to USA and rushed to the UK where she thankfully survived.
22nd July: Informed by our holiday insurance company that they wouldn't pay out as my cover was for flights from the UK. As we had moved to Spain, our initial flight to the US was from Spain which meant we weren't covered. Who knew?!?! Lost nearly £2.5k on that one, but had other things on my mind; my sister was far more important.
11th August: Came back to Spain and found mobile phone bill for €174 for the two phones, instead of the €58 we'd been expecting. Been arguing about that one ever since.
September: Had kitchen refitted which cost us about €2000 more than we had planned as the way things are done over here is so very different to the UK and we weren't used to that. 
16th October: Had pointless argument with family, who are now no longer talking to me (and no, I'm not going into details on that one, but needless to say, I was right!!!)
November: Parcels that my mother had sent over were lost in the post, including a special Christmas gift for the lovely José that I can't replace.
Mid-November: Dealing with terrible homesickness as well as the fallout from the family argument. 
22nd November: IKEA finally deliver the new stone worktop, but the guy in the store piddled about with the numbers when he got them and it doesn't fit. They offered to let us keep it as compensation!
1st December: We take our mobile phone company to court through the local 'Consumo' organisation - we're still waiting to hear.
9th December Father-in-law goes base over apex and fractures his neck of femur. He ends up in hospital and isn't operated on for 10 long days.
20th December: I come down with a terrible cold and feel rough as a badger's bum for 2 days.
23rd December: The New School of English closes for Christmas with barely enough students in it to pay the rent each month.


Why have I told you all this? Why am I not on the carpet, sobbing uncontrollably at the awfulness of it all? Well, I'm a glass half full kind of guy and right now, my glass is half full of neat gin. Then once breakfast is over, I'm going to take my Prozac and go back to bed!!

Good Luck...........and how!!!

There is light at the end of the tunnel, as there always is. Despite trying my best to be a miserable sod, I always see the positive side of things, which is so bloody annoying at times.

• my sister is out of hospital and making slow, but steady progress at home
• I have started talking tentatively by email to the family again, although some huge bridges will need to be built next year
• my Spanish speaking skills are improving, slowly but surely
• my father-in-law is coming out of hospital in a couple of days and will be home for Christmas 
• the new worktop from IKEA will come eventually, even if they are crap as a store
• the cold is getting better and I feel a little more lively today
• Christmas will be Christmas with or without José's special gift - I've told him so!!
• there's a new series of "Mrs. Brown's Boys" starting on Boxing Day and some new "Ab Fab" episodes to look forward to
• Me and the lovely José are returning to the UK to see our lovely, wonderful, loyal friends on 29th December until 5th January and I personally can't wait. (If I'm not coming to see you then don't take it personally. I have every moment of every day filled until our flight home, so I'll get round to you next time)

As for The New School of English, we are gearing up for a massive January. The recent online promotion we had secured us 51 new students and we have another promotion coming up in a few weeks for holiday English. We are now so busy that it's taken us all by surprise, but our dreams for the business are coming true at last. Not bad after only 2 months trading. Thank goodness I give things my all, as I'm going to need it!

Would I go back? Nope! I miss the UK and I miss the people I left behind, but the opportunities for me and the lovely José are here in Spain. Life throws crap at me, but like one sad little demented old lady I nursed on night duty in 1987, I make little balls out of it and just throw it back!!!

January - the month I always decide to go on a diet
January 6th is my birthday - the day the diet always fails!

Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to one and all!! Thank you for continuing to read this meandering drivel. I will be back in the middle of January 2012 and if you know of anyone you think would like this blog, let them know. I've decided next year to go global. What could possibly go wrong with that??

Episode 13: Unnatural Disasters

Goodbye NHS!!!

The eagle-eyed among you will have noticed that there hasn't been a blog for the past couple of weeks. I imagine that some of you are not surprised by the lack of output from this particular rotund, avuncular northern gent, as you're probably thinking that I'm sitting in a corner eating something and too busy to type. I also imagine that some of you are wondering if I'm okay; whether or not something terrible has happened to me and if I will ever put digit to keyboard ever again. If you were thinking this, why haven't you written to ask? You have my email address?!? And I imagine that some of you are sitting there, pitying your sad little lives, looking round at the list of family members you have and wondering if you can get away with telling your miserable, ancient great aunt that you have worms and don't want to come round on December 25th for fear of infecting her thirty six remaining cats.

Only 35 cats remaining now!

There is a reason for the lack of blogs over the past two weeks and that's because, quite frankly, life has been crap and I couldn't be bothered. Now I'm not going to spend the next 1925 or so words bemoaning my life here, because crap Spanish style is still 100% better than crap NHS style, so I have to be grateful for small mercies. I am, however, going to bore you all to death with tales of misery and woe. Well this is (unlucky) episode 13, so what the hell do you want? Downton Abbey? Instead, we will be taking a shared journey back over some of the previous blogs, enjoying some updates and revelling in the sheer ludicrousness (ludicrosity??) of it. 


Going back to the very first blog, I was talking about the hassle José and I went through in order to get mobile phones here in Spain. Quite frankly, it would have been cheaper to have paid to use a NASA satellite directly for all the calls I made, for when we got the first bill, it was a few centimos short of €175 for the two phones. We thought we were paying €58 a month for both! Needless to say we called the online helpdesk, although why they use the word 'help' in their title is beyond me. Quite simply, the story here in Spain is this............you bought the product, so tough titty! That's it really. Every helpdesk in every shop in this land works in the same way.


HELPDESK: Can I help you sir/madam/troglodyte?
CUSTOMER: Yes, I bought this thingumabob and it doesn't do what it says on the label
HELPDESK: Oh dear, that's terrible isn't it?
CUSTOMER: Yes it is, so what are you going to do about it?
HELPDESK: I'm afraid there's nothing we can do
CUSTOMER: But I bought this product from you and it's faulty
HELPDESK: Ah well, that was your mistake. You bought it in the first place, which you shouldn't have done as it obviously doesn't do what it says on the label!


And so it goes on. The phone company are blaming the shop (they are two separate companies here) and the shop are blaming the phone company and they are so busy arguing with one another, they've forgotten that we are in the middle of this debacle. In the end, after several useless trips to the shop (which I didn't mind as there's a sweetie shop nearby) we have had to go to the local 'Consumo' place, which is a sort of Spanish Anne Robinson 'Watchdog' set-up, although more local and with a terrible bubble perm. Our claim has gone in and we're waiting to hear. Naturally fair readers, you will be the first to hear of any success or failure in this and should we win, there's a bulls testicle in it for each of you! (Episode 12).


Moving on to Episode 5, I was talking about the kitchen and how everyone here knows what's best for us other than us, the poor consumer. Well, I'd like to report that IKEA took this onto a whole new level, which is well worth a few lines. Here in Spain, there is no such thing as fitting a reasonably priced kitchen. It's either IKEA or selling *a kidney/*an elderly relative (*delete as appropriate) in order to buy something from a fancy schmancy shop in the town centre. Naturally, we went with the former, as it seems are most of Galicia, because it's nose to nipple in that kitchen department most days. Anyway, a rather nice and very thin young man called José (everyone is called José or María here - it's the law!) came to fit the kitchen for us from the company that works alongside IKEA. He did a sterling job and then completed a complicated looking document with all the worktop measurements. As we're having a stone worktop, we've had to have a temporary one (for that read cheap and nasty!) put in until the correct one can be cut to size; namely the size that José wrote. Armed with his measurements, we went and ordered the worktop, but the guy who took the order started making changes to it. We protested, but we're only the consumer and he insisted that we had a little 'wiggle-room', whatever the hell that is in Spanish. 


Six weeks later we got a call to say the worktop was being delivered and fitted. Well, they got the first bit right! They delivered it, but they didn't fit it and you know why......? Yes of course you do. IT DIDN'T BLOODY WELL FIT! Several heated exchanges with the shop staff later, we asked the helpdesk (!!!) for the name of the manager in order that we could make a complaint. After a telephone call to "upstairs", they reluctantly gave us the name of Fred Bloggs - it seems that he manages everything these days! Anyway, we wrote, complained and asked for some form of recompense for the inconvenience, as we're not likely to have the new worktop installed for Christmas. We later found out that the name of the person they gave us was not the manager of the store, but someone of no significance at all, probably the man who runs the hotdog stall. This is something that apparently often happens here and was just to appease us in order that we had a name and would leave the store. Arrogant or what? And here's the best bit, guess what they offered us by way of compensation........?? The @*!%-ing stone worktop that didn't fit!!! They told us we could take it away. We told them they could stick it where the midnight sun doesn't shine.

We've had a response to our letter today and in it, IKEA say they can't give us any recompense because they will be footing the extra transport costs, which will serve as compensation. Yep, you got it............."Dear Mr. Fell. You shouldn't have shopped here because we're shite, so tough luck. I do hope that this won't spoil your relationship with the store and you will continue to spend money hand over fist!" I hope their meatballs go soggy.


And so we fast forward to Episodes 9 and 10 and the schools. I went to get my ID badge from the EOI (I'm still not writing it out in full. If you want to know what it means, you will have to look back!) and walked into the secretariat. There are no more queues of students so the number dispensing machine is no longer used and looked rather sad and lonely on the wall, dreaming of a past life, hanging around the sticky doughnut counter of a well known supermarket chain. I took one anyway, just for old times sake. When I walked into the office, there were two ladies in there and one guy. The two ladies in front of me were talking to one another across the desk and just totally ignored me. The guy was on the internet looking up "penis envy", or at least I think that's what the page translated as. He certainly had his head in his hands and looked like someone had just peed on his Cornflakes (other breakfast cereals are available). It took a fourth person to come in from outside the room and ask me what I needed and he served me. That place is like the Twilight Zone, I swear to you.

This seemed like an appropriate picture to put here, but was actually a Currywurst
sausage served to us in Cologne last year. It made me rather jealous!

My language skills are also improving day by day, although we're still only doing the simple present tense, which is fine if I want to tell someone what I'm doing now, but a bit of a bugger if I want to tell someone what I did 10 minutes ago.


Then there's our school; our wonderful little school with its tiny number of students and an easy life in front of Facebook and Bubble games in the afternoon, whilst telling José I'm hard at work, developing databases and suchlike. I do occasionally think of you all, slaving over a hot patient or whatever it is you do with your lives these days.........but that's all about to change. 


Last week, we worked with a company called Let's Bonus, which is a sort of posh online shopping experience for cheapskates. We've offered one of our courses at a heavily discounted amount in order to get punters in and then once they're hooked and armed with only just enough words to ask where the toilets are, we charge them the full amount for extra months once they've spent their bonus. We thought we may get around 20 or 30 bonuses bought, but we didn't. We sold 78! I'm now working like a roadrunner on acid in order to get through everything! I can't complain as we needed to start paying some bills and couldn't keep relying on the sexual favours of the water board man and the guy who comes to read the electricity meter. Mind you I'm not complaining as his flippers had started to smell a little by the end of last week.


The constant dripping of water appears to have dried up through the ceiling, although as I write this, we're in for a severe storm tomorrow, so let's see how it holds out against that. I may not have a shower that day and just take my Imperial Leather to the office instead.


You see, it's not all bad news today, although I have saved the pièce de résistance until last: the piece of bad news to end all. 


We had a posh wardrobe fitted soon after coming here, por supuesto (of course) and chose some fancy sliding doors to go on them. After about a month, the doors started to bow and by the end of month two, they were so bowed that one had to push hard on them in order to get them to go straight so that they could be opened. (Insert your own crude joke here!) The shop on this occasion knew of this problem and agreed to refit new ones at no cost and last Friday, they came over to do so. Whilst the guys were in the bedroom doing this, my father-in-law decided to saunter down the corridor. Unbeknownst to him, they had left their toolbox in the corridor, he didn't see it (well, you wouldn't think to look for a toolbox, would you? ) and promptly went arse over tit - or culo over teta! The result of this is that he has fractured his neck of femur and is in the local hospital awaiting surgery, which will not be until early next week. We're looking at the possibility of spending Christmas Day on Ward 7. Hoo-bloody-rah! I'd like to say that it never rains but it pours in my life, but there's been enough of that coming through the ceiling that I don't want to chance making it worse.


I do feel the need to finish off on a lighter note and so, harking back to Episode 11 and the language problems I've had in this country, I'd like to mention one thing someone told me a couple of weeks ago that made me laugh out loud. He's a young Jewish guy and may read this, so if you're there - and you know who you are - thanks for this great story. 


He studied Spanish at school and on coming to Spain, was introducing himself to some new people and talking to them a little about himself at their request. He wanted to say "Soy Judio" (I am a Jew) but instead said "Soy jodido", which means "I'm fucked". I couldn't think of a better way of summing up this last few weeks in my Galician life!

Get Well Soon Pepe xx

Episode 12: Food glorious food

FACT: All Spanish meter
readers are grossly obese,
due to the extra portions
they get throughout the day

I have a theory that my mother-in-law is trying to kill me with kindness. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being paranoid here - well maybe a little, but they are my voices and I'm entitled to listen to them if I want to. I'm actually talking food. Everything in this country appears to be food related and nowhere more so than here in Galicia. The raison d'ê'tre (yes, I know that's French, but the Spanish lesson for this week is coming up later in the show) for Galician women is to feed everyone who walks through their front door. It's fine if you actually live in the house, but when you're just popping in to read the gas meter, it can prove to be a little too much by about 11.30am and your fifth call of the day. No wonder this country's utility companies are in such a state.


The very first time I came here, we landed around 10.30pm on a Saturday night and were met by about a million family and friends, all of whom had come to have a gawp at the new man in José's life. Those who weren't put off were treated to a meal that really shouldn't be eaten at 1am in the morning, but should be served for Sunday lunch with the promise of a post-prandial 4 hours on the sofa in front of mind-numbing TV and regular dribbly-mouthed dozes. As the new boy on the block, I was offered the first choice of everything and it was a little disconcerting. I knew what I was eating, but I didn't want to get the code wrong. What if I took two pieces of empanada when there was only enough for one each? What if I served myself some chorizo, only to find that it was the accompaniment to something that was coming later? What if I took a load of manchego cheese and rubbed it over my naked body whilst reciting the names of every British Prime Minister since 1876........but then it wasn't my night to go to the Young Conservatives club, so my worry over the last one was reduced considerably. Still, I was a little panicked at the thought of what to do. Thankfully, no-one there spoke English, so I was able to talk to José without raising alarm.
"What's that funny looking red smelly thing?"
Actually that was his dipsomaniac Great Aunt Berta, but we'll gloss over that little chapter!

The alcoholic Great Aunt Berta, formerly known as The Alcoholic Great Uncle Bert until a drunken incident with a milk churn in 1987

Dinner passed and I have never been as full as that in my life before or since. I felt that I should eat to show my appreciation of the food that had been cooked and the effort that had been put into it, but in essence, a Kit-Kat and a coffee would have done me as I was knackered. Having eaten, it was time to go out and at 2am, we headed into town. 2am!!!! This is a time I am unfamiliar with outside of a mental hospital (working night duty if you're wondering!) so I had to keep checking that it was still night and I hadn't missed 12 hours somewhere. 

GIN! Or as I
call it, breakfast!!

My new friends drove us to a pub in the centre of town where we proceeded to get as tiddly as possible in as short a time as possible. For me this wasn't easy. The size of Spanish drinks means that one G&T usually does for me, but I had so much food sloshing about inside me, it soaked up every bit of alcohol I threw at it.......and boy did I throw some at it that night! The thing is, it gained me such respect from my new friends because they thought I could really hold my liquor, so each time I see them now, they buy about 3 bottles of gin in order to ply me with as much as I had that night. I now have the reputation of being a hopeless drunk. Well, it's rude to refuse!


We got to bed around 5.30am and at midday, there was a knock on the door of the bedroom to tell us that lunch was ready. I'm not sure why, as María and Pepé don't normally eat Sunday lunch until around 2.30pm. I can only surmise that they had been up all night preparing food in order to welcome me once more. They wanted to make a good impression. They certainly made one that lunchtime! Hungover and feeling as rough as a badger's bum, I splashed some water on my face, hastily dressed and half asleep, sat at the dining table. We started with an apéritif (I don't know why we're more French today?!) and some cheese and chorizo. Then the main course came through. I took one small piece of meat from the side of the plate and was alarmed to see a little face looking back at me............here comes the Spanish for this week.........the meat was conejo (rabbit) and isn't something I'm used to eating. The thing is, here in Spain they are not as squeamish as we are in the UK and they cook everything. I mean everything. For there, staring back at me from behind the piece of meat I had taken, was a roasted rabbit head. All I could hear in my head was Arthur Askey singing "Run rabbit run", which was a rather surreal moment. I picked at the meat on my plate, but kept looking at this thing, which stared defiantly back at me. I kept worrying he was going to make a lunge for me and when María offered me more meat, I had to politely decline. When I looked at the serving plate, the head had gone and I swiftly looked around the room, half expecting it to be on the dresser behind me, ready to pounce. Finally, I realised his dad was tucking into it and I looked at the view out of the dining room window until it was all over. Still, it served the bloody thing right for staring me out.

♪ ♪ ♫ Run rabbit run rabbit, ♫♫ run, run run.......♫♪

Since that initial visit, I've learned to say "Estoy lleno, gracias" ('I am full, thank you' - you see, the lessons are coming thick and fast now!). The only thing is, there is a little dance that goes with that statement and it goes like this..............I'll do it in English as it's easier, but you'd be so impressed with my Spanish skills.......


María: Would you like some more?
Me: No, I've had an adequate sufficiency, thank you
María: Don't you like it?
Me: Yes, it's delicious, thank you
Maria: Then if you like it, have some more


The subtext of this little exchange is 'I've been slaving away for hours to feed you, you fat northern English bastard, so eat the damn food'. Again, I've learned to play the game and now I take less than I normally would the first time round. When it comes to this verbal tango, I cave in and 'reluctantly' have a second helping, even though I'm very full. I'm then totally entitled on the next round of the dance - yes, it will keep going on and on - to tell María that I've had two portions already and I don't want any more, please and thank you, but it was delicious and we'll fricasée the rest later. It pleases my mother-in-law and it pleases me, now I've learned the rules of the game.

Enough food left for a party
of 10 anorexics

There is one more little thing I've failed to mention about the eating here and it's something called 'La Cortesía del Gallego', or 'The Courtesy of the Galician'. Basically, the first time I was in Spain, I was encouraged to eat every bit of food placed in front of me. Now being a gentleman and someone who is eager to please, I did as I was told, but the silence when I ate the last piece of cheese or the last slice of chorizo from the communal plate in the middle of the table was deafening. The Courtesy of the Galician (from hereon in known as 'the courtesy') is when guests leave one last piece of food on communal plates to show the host that there was sufficient food and that everyone there had enough. José loves to toy with me and chose not to share this little gobbit of information, so lardarse here scoffed the lot, thinking it was what I had to do. Well, they kept insisting I eat more and I wanted to show my approval of their food. Apparently, I could have let out a fart at the dinner table that registered 6.2 on the Richter Scale and it would have been less rude than eating 'the courtesy'. Another game I've learned to play the hard way!


Finally, it's worth pointing out that Galicians - and Spanish in general - eat everything. I've already mentioned the rabbit head and it's well documented that bulls testicles (criadillas), lamb tonsils (mollejas) and other such delights can be found on menu's up and down the country, with each area providing it's own culinary loveliness. They look at me strangely when I ask for boneless chicken breast, as if I've asked for a scabby donkey. No-one here eats boneless chicken breasts. They're all men in this country, even the women. You get a chicken you've raised, kill it, pluck it, wipe it's arse and hack it into 4 or 6 pieces with a knife then bung it in the oven with some herbs and garlic to roast. You want breast??? Then hack the ribs off it first and butch up you wimp!!


The manky bits from the winemaking grapes, once the wine is made, go into a particularly lethal fire water, known as aguardiente which I've grown quite fond of. The family watched me with sheer delight when I first tasted it and were so disappointed when I liked it. They thought that this chicken-breast-loving Brit would loathe it, but not so - if there's one thing I can take it's my drink; even this stuff, which incidentally brought out the colours on cousin Assumpta's soft furnishings a treat!


We brought some wine back the village the other weekend when we went visiting family there. Was it daintily put in bottles and corked up? No, it was in a bloody great bucket thing and tasted rank. I think the lady of the house had used the bucket for soaking her feet in some time before as there was a definite whiff of corn plaster in the vintage.

1. Remove foot salve and fish out corn plasters
2. Pour in wine
3. Give to unsuspecting relative
4. Pour wine down loo and fill with fruit from another relative

The other night, I was sat sitting at the kitchen table minding my own business whilst fiddling with a couple of meatballs (albóndigas), when I casually looked over at the jar of red stuff that we'd also brought back from the village. I thought it was strawberry jam and was about to take the lid off to smell it when José warned me not to. It was blood! Well, I told you they ate everything! Why would they want blood you may ask - well, it's a good question and one I didn't dare ask at the time as Pepé was sharpening the carving knife by running it backwards and forwards over his steel toe-capped slippers. Apparently, they add blood to crêpes (French, again??) and they are delicious. Whoever it was that once made a crêpe and decided it was missing that certain something, needs to be sectioned under the Spanish Mental Health Act. I've decided not to try that particular Galician delicacy, although should I ever decide to re-enact The Texas Chainsaw Massacre here, I know where I can get some bloody authentic props. We're off back to the village sometime soon as the lady of the house has some particularly sore bunions and while my Spanish isn't that brilliant yet, I'm sure I heard her mention something about needing her bucket back!

Episode 11: Minding my language

This blog has several naughty words in it. If you're of a nervous disposition, please switch off and do something a little less exciting instead. Why not repot those plants you've been meaning to do for several months, or perhaps try having a shower. There's a reason you've not had sex since 1983 and everyone knows it but you!


Still here? Good, then on with the show.............Having lived with a Spaniard for 20 of my 47 years (not the same Spaniard I hasten to add for those of you attempting to count the years the lovely José and I have been together), I certainly don't take language for granted. For nearly half my lifetime, I've struggled to make myself understood by those dearest to me and I have to tell you, I'm bloody knackered!! It's hard work, all this having to listen closely to what other people say. So now I'm living in Spain and regular readers of this little online almanac will know that I'm learning the language. I will soon be fluent in Spinach. 

My mother-in-law likes to ask me each and every day what I've learned in college and takes great pride in hearing all the verbs I conjugated and the diphthongs I strangled. She then talks to me in the local dialect (Gallego). When I look at her quizzically, she does her best 'I don't understand this strange lumpy English person' look before saying to José, "you see, he still doesn't understand me". He has to explain that I'm learning Castillian Spanish, which is effectively the same language equivalent as BBC English. She then talks to me in Castillian to which my response is usually "despacio por favor" (slowly please) as she spits it out like machine gun fire. One more quizzical look to José, which conveys the 'why couldn't you have found yourself a nice Spanish boy that understands me' emotion and then she repeats it to me s-l-o-w-l-y, like I'm in the backwards class at school. There's no guarantee I'll understand even that, but when I do, she smiles at me and then gets on with what she's doing. Presumably rinsing out her girdles is far more exciting than talking to her son-in-law, but bless her, she is 82 years old. Poor love needs a rest; she's got better things to do than teach me the rudiments of Spanish. There's a pile of ironing that won't do itself for a start!

Because I couldn't find a
picture of octopus testicles

The Spanish do like to rattle their sentences off at a great rate of knots and for those of us learning the language, it's no picnic. I sometimes watch the news with the subtitles on to see how many words I can pick out. I'm getting a little better; the other night I managed to do half of the main news item about the general election, but that was only because the newsreader was using words like votar (to vote) and elección (!!). Normally, I've only just managed to translate "Good evening and here is the news in a foreign language" when the weather forecast comes on. The trouble with rattling words off so quickly is that everything sounds like that Pepsi advert in the 1970´s. You remember the one........ lipsmackin'thirstquenching'acetastin'motivatin'goodbuzzin'cooltalkin'highwalkin'fastlivin'evergivin'coolfizzin'PEPSIIIIIIIIII!! Well that's what I have to deal with on a daily basis. To me, it sounds like the equivalent of that noise people make to newborn babies - the one where they stick out both lips and run their finger up and down whilst going blurblurblurblurblurblurblur. So sure was I that this is what the language sounded like, I tried that out once in our local supermarket and ended up ordering a box of tampons and two octopus testicles.

Apparently, when translated into Spanish, it means "excuse me, can you tell me where I can buy some Pepsi"

The other problem with language is that it can get you into all sorts of trouble. I went into a shop a couple of years ago where the assistant was talking to me about some shoes I was buying. Instead of saying that I really liked them, I told him I loved him a lot. He still writes at Christmas, although he's moved on from Harrods and now runs a little tea-room in Ashton-Under-Lyme.

NOT the one I had
in the freezer!

Here in Spain, there are so many words in Spanish that if said wrong, can get you into hot water. The one I first learned about several years ago has been the one that has haunted me ever since. I still can't say the word without first checking myself to make sure that the correct vowel will come out. I was asked by my ex-mother-in-law if I would like chicken for dinner that night. Trying out my newly gained Spanish (I was going to night school at the time) and with every intention of impressing her, I replied "Sí, me gusta mucho. Tengo un polla enormé en el congelador". Those of you that speak Spanish will be laughing yourselves stupid now. What I meant to say was "Yes, I love chicken. I have a huge chicken in the freezer", but I actually told her I had a huge cock in the freezer.
Pollo = chicken
Polla = cock
Still it did the trick. I think she was certainly impressed!!!


There´s more!


One of my favourite words in Spanish is the word for cough........"tos". I quite like having a cough here so that I can ask everyone to excuse my tossing. Childish maybe. Wearing?? Never!


José recounts the tale of an ex-student of his who came to England on holiday and caught a stinking cold. The Spanish for being totally bunged up nasally is "constipado", so when his host asked him how he was feeling, he just translated it into English and told her he was constipated. She bought him some 'opening medicine' as it's known in the nursing profession and he spent the next few days being unbunged, but from the wrong end. It cured his blocked nose though, he was too scared to sneeze for about 5 days!

Flauber's father, apparently!!

While we're talking about students, I need to mention something that happened in class the other day. It's more to do with not hearing something correctly, but it still makes me laugh. I sit with two lovely ladies, Sanna (Scottish) and Belinda (Australian). We have a Brazilian guy in the class called Flauber (pronounced like flower but with a 'b' instead of a 'w'). We were talking about our families and had to go round the class telling the others the names of family members and introducing them. When it got to Flauber, he told us his father's name was Clauber. Flauber and Clauber! Well, Sanna and I could see the funny side of this and started to giggle like little schoolkids. Belinda hadn't completely heard and whispered in her fab Australian accent, "What did he say? Cowbell???" By this time, Sanna and I were wiping tears from our eyes while Belinda looked on in blissful ignorance, which made us laugh even more. How we didn't get thrown out that day is still a mystery to me.


Incidentally, I have the auto-translator on when I look at Spanish websites and there are some chairs in IKEA called Sarna, which translates as Scabies in English. Nice!


One other time in the class, we had to translate "un par de veces al año". I didn't know at the time how to put the ñ into my iPhone, so I wrote "un par de veces al ano" and asked my auto-translator what that meant. It´s "a pair of times to the anus" if you want to know. Jeez, nothing gets easier in this country. Thank goodness the wine is so damn cheap!


And so onto the grand finale of embarrassing mistakes what I have made here in Spain. One of my issues  here is that I try to speak in Spanish where I can but people hear an English accent and reply to me in English, trying hard to test out their language skills. This spreads to the most unlikely of sources when, last weekend we went to a garden store in the local town. In a large cage was a parrot, so I took the opportunity to say "Hola" to it. I repeated me hello's several times in an attempt to coax this bird to reply to me. My patience was rewarded when it said in a loud voice......"Hello". Can you believe that? Not even the bloody parrot will answer me in Spanish!

Wanker!

So, the day after, we were having Sunday lunch and were listening to the bird in the flat opposite that was chirping rather vociferously. José told his parents about the parrot the day before and they went on to recount the story of another bird in Argentina they'd once looked after for a friend. Bird in Spanish is 'pajaro'. Unfortunately, I have another word in my head. One of my bestest friends has a Pajero 4 x 4 in the UK and I have that word in my head, so I proudly told my in-laws, "mis abuelos tenían un pajero", which means, "my grandparents had a wanker". Straight up! My grandparents had a wanker! I thought I was going to have to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on my father-in-law who was laughing so much, I think he ruptured something. The thing is, When Gail bought her car, José laughed, but none of us knew why. He told us the translation of Pajero and ever since, the joke has been that Gail was coming to pick us up in the wanker. It was so automatic to use that word at the dinner table that I never gave it another thought. It now ranks as highly as the pollo/polla issue and is something I am petrified of repeating. I can never go to the neighbours and comment on their bird now for fear of being beaten forcibly.


What I don't get is why the mistakes in this country are all dirty/rude words, where the mistakes in English are nowhere near as bad. As an example, Spaniards get kitchen and chicken mixed up. Well I'd rather be laughed at for saying I had an enormous kitchen in my freezer; it's nowhere near as embarrassing. 


I'm sure that there are lots more scatalogical mistakes to be made with my language skills and you can be sure that you lovely people out there in the dark will be the first to hear them. In the meanwhile, mine's a gin and tonic served with a very large slice of memory loss!


Incidentally, although I've lived with a person of Spanish origin for over 20 years, José takes great delight in telling everyone that he has lasted longer than the other one, coming in at 10 years and 6 months......as well as the fact that our union is 'legal'. And why shouldn't he. Knowing what he does about my grandparents makes me just that little bit more special.

Episode 10: Back to (the other) school

As you may have guessed, I did make it to the language school after all that and the result is that I no longer have any problems when speaking to Spanish people. I just ignore them as I find life is much easier that way. 


Following on from the tales of derring-do in the last blog, José and I went back to the Escuela Oficiál de Idiomas (EOI.........I´m still not writing it out in full time after time!) the following week and registered for my Spanish course and this time we were successful. The thing is, we weren´t actually allowed to register until the Monday morning after the last visit I previously mentioned, but that was the day the course started. Consequently, we were there at 10am for the registration just as the very first class was starting upstairs. Only in Spain!! Unbeaten, we took another ticket from the ex-patisserie machine, but this time we had it totally sussed. We took books, iPads and a sleeping bag - well you can never be too sure - and settled down in the cafeteria. That said, I think the secretariat had finally got the hang of this registration lark, because they were much quicker and we were seen within the hour. I was a little disappointed as I only got 10 rows into knitting a fairisle cardigan for the winter months when I had to move, but so be it. I may freeze to death in the unforgiving cold weather here, but at least I'll be able to repent in Spanish to the local Catholic priest on my deathbed......although he may have to take a couple of days out to get through it all!

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. A lot. Possibly even more than you!!!

The next day I went to the lesson and met my fellow classmates. They seemed nice enough and were a real mixed bag of nationalities. With the monumental cock-up on the registration front, it meant that people were straggling into the lesson every 10 minutes or so as more and more people were processed. Still, I learned everyone's names, because each time someone new came in, we went around the room and introduced ourselves in Spanish. By the tenth time it was becoming a little wearing, but I didn't think that "Oh for f**ks sake my name is Bernard" was quite appropriate from the (now departed) French guy in the room. I think the teacher was impressed he could say all that in Spanish and moved him up to the Intermediate group.

Sparks flew when I met Graciela

On the first day of the class, I was informed that there were only 4 people in the lesson. By the end of play on the second day there were about 10 of us. The third day saw more, then more on the fourth and by the end of week 2, we were up to 27 people in the class. Something tells me that this school needs to get its act together. Most of you know my OCD traits and won´t be surprised to know that I tried to break into the secretariat´s office one night in order to sort out their filing system and web registration system, but was thwarted by a guard. Well I say guard, she was a rather fierce looking welder from Barcelona who was brought in to look after the place out of hours, as they suspected someone would try this. There was a small scuffle and she gave me a nasty bite, but was immediately sorry about it and is coming to fix the iron railings on the outside of the flat for free as compensation.

Ángel, as I believe he
would have looked in 1971, if
he were related to the
Yorkshire Ripper

Our teacher is called Ángel and appears to be an old hippy from the 70´s. He has long shoulder length wavy hair, which makes it difficult for me to concentrate. At times, I find myself drifting off into a L'Oreál daydream, wondering if he's worth it and what it must be like to wash that much hair. When we talked hobbies and he shared that he went swimming most afternoons, I worried for days about how he would keep it conditioned.


There is one Commonwealth corner of the classroom (or Aula - nearly forgot this weeks lesson!!) with English, Scottish and Australian members. We have planted a small flag and naturally believe ourselves to be the most important members of the room. We once had an Empire, what-ho! We don't let Ángel ask us questions unless he submits them to us first in writing several days before the lesson.


We´ve lost one person in the class though and, as they've now gone, I feel able to share a little something with you, dear listeners. I don´t want to be rude about them, so let´s just call them dum-dum. The phrase "thicker than Katie Price's breast implants" comes to mind. I don't want to talk badly of someone, I really don't, but you know me; I'm going to. To give you an example, the questions would be like this.........

Ángel: ¿Person 1, De dónde eres? (Where are you from?) ..........By way of explanation, Spaniards  put these upside down question marks in front of a question and then a proper one at the end. I don´t know whether I will ever truly respect these people for that!! Anyway, on with the answer to the question.....
Person 1: Soy de Irlanda (I am from Ireland)
Ángel: ¿Person 2, De dónde eres? 
Person 2: Soy de Brasil (I am from Brazil)
Ángel: ¿Person 3, De dónde eres? 
Person 3: Soy de Portugal (I am from, well, you get it!)
Ángel: ¿Dum-Dum, De dónde eres? 
DumDum: (turning to the person next to them) What's he asking???


Sometimes he would go all round the room and ask 15 - 20 other people before them, but the response would always be the same...........(turning to the person next to them) What's he asking??? Last week, they came to a lesson and said they didn´t think they would be coming back as they were learning more at home. You couldn´t make this stuff up!!


Classes always thin out and we´re down to about 24, although this number fluctuates day by day. I can´t get over how free and easy it is, being an adult learner. My last experience of a classroom was when I did my degree in 1995/6 and it was very similar to being at high school. Ask permission for this. Request time out for that. Shut up, sit down and listen at all times. Here, as an adult learner, things are much more relaxed. The Germans talk all the bloody time, the Chinese swap recipes for crispy fried octopus and the eastern europeans have started a card school. I sit with four lovely girls though, Beckie, Alice, Belinda and Sanna, although Sanna is leaving in December to continue her travels and I´m going to miss her. (Now there was a tender moment you weren´t expecting). Despite myself though, I am learning.


And then there´s the other school. Our school. The New School of English. Catchy title huh?? We couldn´t think of what to call it and considered several options:

• The English School
• English the easy way
• The Mark Fell Academy for speaking English Proper

In the end, I think we made the right choice!

Posh, huh??

We took a little time to find the right premises but in the end we struck lucky with a place on Juan Flórez, which is a rather posh street in town and is surrounded by people with money. I like being surrounded by people with money, although I would rather they give it to me outright without me actually having to work for it. There's a considerable flaw in that process somewhere. Before we found this place, we saw some dives and I was going to attach a picture of the bathroom in one of the places we saw which was filthy, but it still makes me dry heave. It had also been a language school before we looked at it, but I think several of the students held a dirty process just before it closed. I was so appalled, that I took one of the hundreds of school books they had lying around by way of compensation. Shocked???!?! You shouldn't be. I was having severe withdrawals from the NHS stationery cupboard, so I needed to fulfil my thieving desires somewhere.

Here in Spain, the meatballs come with something
called patatas fritas, but they taste the
same as chips, so that's okay

We needed to put some furniture in the school and try as we might, we attempted to avoid Ikea, but it was impossible. Don't get me wrong, I like Ikea, but so much stuff these days is self assembly and I wanted something a little more elaborate. The problem with elaborate is that it costs loads of money, so Ikea it was. I've never eaten so many bloody meatballs in my life! Just for the uninitiated amongst you, it is the law that when one goes to Ikea, one has the meatballs. I once made the statement to someone here that if I went to Ikea any more times that week, I would soon look like a meatball! The response? What do you mean soon?

So, the school got kitted out, our own stationery was ordered and we opened for business on 24th October. The first day was a little quiet and so on the second day, we decided to advertise it as an English language school with paddling pool. It had rained heavily during the night and the newly painted ceiling had leaked an entire bucket of water through the light fitting. It's still leaking and as I sit in reception, the soundtrack to my day is the constant dripping of water into a plastic Ikea waste paper basket.

Hands up, who sniggered when I said I was on reception? The school consists of two members of staff. The lovely José and me. Seeing as I barely speak English correctly, he does the teaching and I sit on reception. I've had to learn so many new skills, but now I can confidently say that I can now file my nails and read emails at the same time; I've taken to going out for coffee on the hour, every hour and I've learned how to say "bugger off I'm busy" in Spanish. It's no fun nicking out of my own stationery cupboard though; the frisson has gone.