Episode 18: I once met a girl named María

Oooh my dander is up! Well, I think it's up. I'm not actually quite sure where my dander is, but I've not been able to cross my legs all day, so something's happening. It all started last Wednesday, but before I enlighten you, I feel the need to bring you up to speed with the happenings in my drab little life before we have all the really big news.

Despite being chased by a large busted
woman, I was able to see that at
€499, this was vastly overpriced

You may recall at the end of the last blog, I was due to sit Spanish exams on the following Monday & Tuesday after the christening party. Incidentally, about three nights after the christening, I dreamt that I was being chased through Ikea by a large lady with her bosoms out. (You will need to read the last episode to fully appreciate the relevance of this reference) These loose mammaries had little hands attached to them and I just knew that if she caught me, they would have strangled me. I ran for all I was worth and lost her somewhere in the soft furnishings, only for her to surface behind a rather overpriced chaise longue (€499) and begin the chase again. I woke up with a start and was so glad to see the lovely José half a mile away on the other side of the bed. I phoned him to let him know I was okay!

It means "tonight, I have not slept
well". Note the use of the verb HABER
in the first person singular, which
tells you it's the Pretérito Perfecto

So, back to the exams. We turned up on the Monday morning and were told that we would be doing both exams in one that morning. Deep joy! Some of us had spent the night before watching back to back episodes of "Mad Dogs" and the joys of the pretérito perfecto (it's a tense, love) were totally lost on us. You see, I don't do grammar. My grammar was the lovely lady I adored, married to my grandad and who passed away at the age of 83 in 1992. As far as I'm concerned, language has only one tense: normal! The normal tense is what I speak and that's the end of it. I've never worried about diphthongs or split infinitives or contractions or any of that malarky. I just speak the language and make myself understood. End of! Now, in this foreign land I'm surrounded by hundreds of new words like, adverb, pronoun, adjective and onomatopoeia. (I just chucked that last one in to see if you were still awake!)


Anyway, Ángel told us that's what we were doing and the exam got underway. I won't bore you with the questions, but when we went back the next day we got our marks and I passed with flying colours, in the high 80 per cents. I surprised even myself if it's any consolation, although now my mother-in-law knows that I have a certain degree of the language in my head, she talks to me even more. She delights in watching me squirm when I understand barely two words of her latest statement to me. I'm sure there's a streak of sadism in her. In fact, looking at the delightful crab plate she has on the table in the small lounge alongside the plastic flowers, I'd revise that and say it's more a hint of masochism, but once again I digress, as is my wont. 

Black and White

Glorious Technicolour,
but mainly Orange

Duly pleased with my marks, we had a week off school as this marked the end of our Basic 1 course, but it was an odd week. We finished on the Tuesday and weren't back to start Basic 2 until this Wednesday; eight days off in all. Why not Monday to Tuesday? Well, we're in Spain, so go figure! Ángel had told us that we would have a new teacher for our new course, but what he failed to mention was that she made Eva Braun look like Judith Chalmers. 

She turned up on that first Wednesday wearing the dogs blanket. It was a terrible knitted skirt affair and had loads of patchwork and detailing on it and looked just like it had come from Rover's bed (la cama de Rover!!). Coupled with this she was wearing some patent leather purple clompy boots. They looked like plastic and, well you know me, I'm not one to criticise others, but she looked like scrag end, pretending to be mutton dressed as lamb. 

By the end of the photoshoot, Gloria the sheep was begging to be put
out of her misery, having lost all her street cred.

She is called María, but then so are all the other women in Spain, so that was no surprise. When she first opened her mouth, the words just spilled out. And what words they were. Long words. Short words. But worst of all, Spanish words. Spanish words I didn't understand. After the end of each sentence she asked, "do you understand?". We all just sat in stunned silence, like we'd been slapped about with a wet haddock by a nineteen stone fisherman. She took this silence as agreement and carried on. Quite frankly, she could have told us that we were all going to hell in a handcart and we wouldn't have flinched. In fact, she wouldn't have been far wrong as the lessons have been anything but Heavenly.


On that first morning, she went through an exercise in which we revised the work we'd done with Ángel. We disagreed with her on one question, but she insisted she was right. We disagreed again, but she again insisted she was right. We soon learned that resistance is futile. She retreated to her worksheet to check the answer once more and we started talking to one another about how the answer should be and why. She got proper angry and started shouting at us to speak only in Spanish whilst we were in that classroom. The mini lecture that followed was akin to being spoken to like we were 5 years old and her sentence terminated with the line, "if you want to speak in your own language, then you can leave the class to go and do it". This was followed by a Death Ray stare that Superman would have been proud to own, but scared of should an enemy use it upon him. 

We shut up! Whilst resistance remained futile, several of us broke nervous wind. She reiterated; if we must speak in the class, it should only be in Spanish. I looked at Belinda next to me and whispered "zorra" (Bitch!). She giggled, but in Spanish so she was safe.


The rest of the lesson passed and Thursday's lesson improved a little. The dog had got his blanket back and this time she popped in to work in her pyjama bottoms, but oh boy, does this woman like the sound of her own voice. She would ask questions and when one person started with the answer, she would talk over them and say it herself. She got one answer wrong again (as clarified by the lovely José later - it's so handy living with a Spanish/English teacher!!) and I didn't feel that I was learning anything, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Then came Friday.

I'm not, for one moment, suggesting
that my friend looks like this when
she yawns. I'm too attached to my
cojones to do that!!

We went over the rest of the worksheet we'd not had time to complete the previous day and all was going sort of well, until one girl in the class yawned. Okay, it was not a quiet yawn but one that made a reasonably loud yawning noise, although to be fair to her, I don't think she realised she was doing it. María did. The Death Ray stare fixated on this poor girl. She was unaware and so was I; I hadn't even heard her yawn. I thought she was Death Raying the people in the row behind us as they were talking in their own language, but I was wrong. After about 20 seconds of the aforementioned 'Ray', she started on this girl. First she told her it was rude to yawn in class as she had done and then she mocked her and made this big loud yawning noise with her mouth wide open. Then she told her that here in Spain, not putting her hand in front of her mouth when she yawned was considered very bad manners. I suppose the constant spitting in the street and leaving dog crap all over the pavements isn't?? And I do mean ALL over the pavements!! My friend, suitably chastised, mumbled an apology and I packed my books away and left the class, mid-lesson. 


Who is this woman to treat adults in this way?? I know this issue isn't about me and didn't directly affect me, but it's bullying and intimidation and if she can do it to my lovely friend, she can do it to any of the group. I'm not putting up with it. Who on earth does she think she is and what gives her the right to do this? If José had mocked anyone in his lessons at school, he would have soon been in front of the Principal, and for anyone who is having dirty thoughts at that statement, wash your cerebral cortex out right now!! Plus, I've not really had a hissy fit since I came to Spain and I thought it was about time I refreshed my memory.


As I write this, the class is split. I do think that she is pushing us more than Ángel did and maybe that's no bad thing, although I personally felt I learned a lot with him. I'd certainly like to push her. Shame I moved from Beachy Head! There are people in the class who are going home at the end of lessons and reading the textbook in advance of the next lesson. In fairness to the friend who does this, she finds this helpful, so good for her. Personally, I'm aware that it's María's intimidation of the group that makes her want to do this..........just in case! Good grief, I've even started doing it myself; that's how desperate things are. 


I am going back to class on Monday and I'm not going to say anything about my exit unless she asks me, in which case I will tell her the truth, although I'm not quite sure how to say "you get on my tits" in Spanish and José won't tell me as he knows I will use it. As it stands, I've wiped the slate clean because I'm aware that once someone gets on the wrong side of me, it takes a lot to change my mind, so I have to do my best. I've got to try as I'm stuck in a country whose language I don't speak, so I'm kind of reliant on these lessons, but if she starts again, I'll tell her where to stick her verbal conjugations. 


There is a potential upside to this. While we may own a School of English, the Head Teacher is a Spaniard who can also teach Spanish. With so many people in my group telling me they don't like our new classroom dictator, I'm sure we can offer a discount to students who come in bulk to us. Find us at Calle de Juan Flórez or on several easy bus routes with the stop right outside our door as seen on our website, www.thenewschoolofenglish.com. Book early!

I don't believe I've mentioned the fact that we own a School of English in La Coruña.
Or have I???

Episode 17: One out, one in

So, it's 4.35am and I'm sitting in the kitchen of Jose's cousin and contemplating the events of yesterday. We are currently back in 'The Village' and for regular readers of this blog, that means yes, we are back with The Village People. Don't worry though, I had the necessary jabs before I came here - typhoid, beri-beri, anti-boredom!

These people need no introduction to regular readers of this blog
If you do need to know more, see Episode 3:

Why am I sitting in the kitchen at 4.35am you may ask. Well it's a damn good question and one that only my heartburn can answer. We're here because Jose's cousin Placido and his wife Eva gave birth back in November last year (well she gave birth whilst he watched from a safe distance behind a plastic sheet) and it was little Alicia's christening yesterday. They appear to work a 'one out, one in' policy here in this part of Spain as the christening service was joined together with a mass to remember Placido's parents, both of whom are since deceased. The Catholic church like to give value for money and apparently it wasn't worth the priest just turning out for one thing on a Saturday afternoon when he could have been watching the football or pretending to be celibate whilst upending the verger's wife over the vestry table; so he wouldn't do it unless it was going to be worth his while. No-one died last week, so a memorial mass it was to be.

So, I tried!!! Who are you to judge?!?!

We arrived here at 5pm, to find Eva in the kitchen feeding Alicia 'from the pump', as it were. Now I am a nurse and I've done my general training too, so I'm used to seeing ladies feeding children from their lady lumps, which is one of the most natural things in the whole wide world, but here in Spain, you might know that things are done slightly differently. Don't get me wrong; I don't mean Alicia was one side of the kitchen and Eva was taking aim from the other - although that would have been a damn good trick if they could have perfected it. I mean that Eva was sat there with her rather large bosom out and had not a care in the world. In the UK, we're used to ladies being a little more discreet when they breast feed, but Eva had hold of hers like she was plunging the outside drain and baby Alicia was happily gulping down her late lunch/early tea. One side finished, said bosom was displayed for all to see whilst Alicia was swapped over. I wasn't embarrassed by this, just a little gobsmacked at the brazenness of it. This was made all the more gobsmacking when, after the christening and back at the house again, Alicia was fed once more with about 15 people crowded round Eva as she fought to free a mammary. Apparently it's the done thing here and no-one bats an eyelid. Apparently!

Anyway, first feed over, we made our way to the little village church. Everyone was waiting outside as the priest hadn't arrived, which meant there was more time to smoke. EVERYONE smokes here, including the livestock. Eventually a rather flustered looking short, bald man in tatty jeans rushed into the church carrying a Gadis (supermarket) carrier bag. Some minutes later he emerged from the vestry in his vestements and the service began. It was a service by numbers, with him reading from his order of service book in a rather bored and rushed fashion. Whilst by the font at the back of the church, José was told off by some very distant family member for taking too many photo's, so while he wasn't looking I kicked his flat cap (that had fallen on the floor), behind the very long curtains at the back of the font. He was still looking for it when we left the church! 

Can I supersize your Hail Mary's
for you Sir?

The christening was over in about 5 minutes and then we moved to the front of the church for the memorial service. Yes, it really was that fast, the Catholic equivalent of drive thru' Chicken McNugget ("Would you like canticles with your liturgy sir?"). The service by numbers continued with this priest reading fast enough to make sure he would be back in front of the TV in time to check his pools coupon. I'm not a religious man and when I was made to go to church on a Sunday as a child, we were boring old Methodists,  so this fancy-schmancy Catholic church stuff passed me by. As the priest wittered on in Spanish, we were in and out of our seats; up and down like a whore's drawers. All we needed was to do the hokey cokey and turn around and we'd have had the making of a good party.

I became fascinated with the whole ceremony and the surroundings, as I understood nothing of what the guy was saying. Above his head at the back was a large virgin. No, not the choir mistress, but a statue, and above her head she had a halo that was all lit up. I noticed it flash at one point but thought I must have been mistaken.....but I wasn't. It went again and throughout the service, this thing flashed on and off like a neon light in Times Square. All it needed was a big sign saying 'Two Performances Every Sunday' and it would have been perfect. I could see the ridiculousness of it and I started to giggle once again. The poor Blessed Virgin's halo, reliant on a switch and the supply cable from the local electricity company. Goodness knows how they cope in a power cut?

Then I noticed this young guy on the other side of the church whom I had met earlier for the first time and was the brother of the madrina (or Godmother - I really should get paid for these Spanish lessons!). He was standing next to two older men who were on their knees praying the whole time. It was only when the service ended that I realised they had in fact been standing at all and were only about four foot each. They don't breed them very tall out here. One of them came to the bunfight after the christening, but the table came right up to his chin and he couldn't reach the far end of it. Naturally I just sat there and watched as it was too funny, seeing him trying to reach across for a macaroon without dipping his sleeve in the guacamole.

There's nothing here that a little
butter & some nice slices of freshly carved ham couldn't improve

Anyway, back to the service. The priest was still wittering on and he started to do the whole communion thing with the Jesus crisp, although I think he was a little mean. The faithful went to take communion, but he only gave them the crisp. No drink! He himself had a right good swig from the chalice on the altar before he started and once they'd all had their crisps, he finished the vino off. Then he did the washing up and kept curtseying to the sink for some reason. I mean, those crisps are dry old things at the best of time and most of the people who took communion were about 80 if they were a day. They need something to wash it down or it just sticks to the plate of their false teeth and they could choke. I spent the rest of the service on medical 'standby', just in case.

Service over and photo's done, we went back to the house for the bunfight. Eva put on a magnificent spread, but as everything here is either deep fat fried or cooked in loads of oil, you get some idea of why it's now 5.15am and I'm sitting in the kitchen dealing with my heartburn. I could belch for England and Spain!!!

During the evening party, there was the sweetest looking old lady, who turned out to be Placido's aunt and the sister of the lady for whom we'd had the memorial service. I'd never met her before and as she tottered on her walking stick towards me and Jose, I was told that she was 93 years old. She kissed Jose and he introduced me. Her first words in my presence were directed at Jose and she said "Your boss is very fat isn't he?" If I have my way, she won't make 94!

Well, the drink flowed as did the conversation, although as I've said before, in this part of Spain they speak in the local language, Gallego. I don't understand a lot of Spanish when it is spoken at breakneck speed, but Gallego passes me by completely, so I drank a little more. The thing is, when I've had a few, I can chat in Spanish and don't give a tupenny toss. By the end of the night, I was talking away to anyone and everyone and while it may not have been perfectly correct, they all seemed to understand me. Thing is, I have exams on Monday and Tuesday and so I thought it might be a good idea to sneak the gin in with me and have a couple of bevvies before I start, as it appears to help me loosen up.

I didn't like the alternative to
getting up every hour. The rustling
would have kept me awake

Once again I digress...........We went to bed around midnight and I'm not partial to sleeping in other people's beds. The thing is, me and Jose have a bed which is the size of Rutland County. If I need to talk to him at night, I have to use the mobile phone or send a carrier pigeon, although I prefer the former as we're forever picking shite off the duvet! The bed here in the village is the size of a postage stamp and while it's actually very comfortable, it takes a little getting used to. The other thing is there's a brook that runs outside our window which has a rather unfortunate effect on me. It sounds like it's perpetually raining with the water rushing down the hill and each time I'm about to drop off to sleep, I have to get up and pee, on the hour, every hour.

Well, that's about it for now. I'm off back to bed to try and get a couple more hours in before we have to set off home for Coruna, but before I do, there's a cockerel outside who doesn't appear to know that it's still dark and early and whose bloody neck I'm going to wring.