Episode 20: Life is not a bleedin' rollercoaster

Anyone who says that running a business is easy should be shot. I would have absolutely no qualms about helping them onto the Paradise Express, First Class ticket and all; because it's not! Easy, that is. 

Don't get me wrong. I think I mentioned before that I was under no illusion running my own business would be 'un paseo por el parque' (that's 'a walk in the park' - I thought I would progress to a small idiom this week as you've all been doing so well!) I didn't think that King Juan Carlos and I (or JC as I call him, because it gives him religious delusions) would be sitting down to toast and tea every couple of weeks, whilst the school virtually ran itself. I was ready for the hard work, but the one thing I really wasn't ready for was the disappointment factor. That was possibly the most difficult thing to bear.

Meryl Streep is now in talks to
portray the comedy legend that
was Hylda Baker. 
Possibly

Many of you lovely people know that José and I did not decide to open a school of English because we love people. We don't. In fact, there are days when I can't stand the bloody sight of another one, but I stick to Margaret Thatcher's mantra for when she was meeting groups of world leaders; "teeth and tits dear, teeth and tits". And so, as another group of Conversation English people trudge up the stairs to our little learning Stalag, I pop my teeth in, puff my chest out and turn into the professional what I am. Come to think of it, it could have been Hylda Baker and not Maggie T. But you catch my drift!

Bob The Builder, with his hard
hat & waving his big tool about

In fact, we initially thought of doing up houses here. Despite a recession, small houses were selling, mainly to overseas buyers and so we thought this would be a good way forward. Cue thoughts of hard hats, big tools and enough sweaty, sinewy workmen in tight vests to staff an entire Gay Pride parade. Then we decided we would show ourselves up to be the couple of old leches we obviously are and thought better of it.


The other thought we had, which is far more us, was a small English tearoom. I rather fancied buttering some old Spanish matron's crumpets for her, whilst sharing the latest gossip about HRH Kate, courtesy of 'Hello' magazine. This was right up there as our main choice, until one fateful day, José met with the (now 'ex') Principal of the Sussex Coast College in Hastings (SCCH). He asked José to think about opening up a school of English. Like all men, he promised him the earth, but like most men, it was a two minute wonder. He suffered from Premature Eviction and was ousted from the college just before Christmas last year, having fallen on his sword over some Ofsted scandal.

When I play my Bay City Rollers CD,
my pussy goes mad

We fell for it though, hook, line and sink-plug. As you will see from our wonderful (ahem!) website, www.thenewschoolofenglish.com (does anyone know anyone who would like to write us a new Word Press website for about £20, let me know!), it clearly states that we are in collaboration with SCCH. We-e-e-e-e-e-ell, we are in contact with them by email. And very nice they are too. Georgina is being chatted up with Derek in IT and thinks she might like to go out with him, but won't let him get to second base on a first date because she's thinking of wearing a linen blouse and you know how badly they crease. Amy thinks her cat has mental health problems because it goes into a frenzy every time she plays her Bay City Rollers CD's and Ron has had his ingrowing toenail removed last week and is relying on mother to do everything for him at the moment. All very lovely, but it doesn't help us one little iota. Since July we have been asking for publicity materials in order that we can advertise the International Baccalaureate here in Spain, but as yet, we have received nothing. Nada! There are other issues, but I won't bother you with them. The point is, we are not able to fulfil our full earning potential at the moment and that is SO frustrating.


Then there are the Bonuses. Again, at the risk of repeating myself because I can't think of anything new to write, I have mentioned the Bonuses before, but because I can't think of anything new to write, I will mention them again. We work with a site called Let's Bonus, which is similar to Groupon in the UK, should anyone know anything of them. Basically, companies offer stuff at a very reduced price and the great Spanish public buy it online. We then spend the next xxx number of weeks and months fending them off, as they try to get something for nothing. When their Bonus is over (and it's up to us on the promotion how long it lasts), they have to pay the full price if they decide to stay. We've quickly learned that not as many decide to stay as we would like, which means that we slog our guts out for weeks on end for little reward and then they bugger off.


Naïvely, we thought that once we'd hooked them in, they would be so grateful to us for the hard work we put into our lessons, they would want to stay with us. How wrong we were. Some have stayed and to those people we say this. We love you. In fact, we love you long time!!! Anytime you want to come and use us sexually, you are most welcome. (I mean, there are a couple of right munters in there, but needs must). Mere words cannot convey our gratitude to these lovely people.

Our lowest point came about three weeks ago. We ran a Holiday English course through the Let's Bonus site and thought we had learned the lessons of our previous promotion. This course is for three months, so the first month was significantly reduced and the other two were at full price. It was very clear in the promotional ad that people buying the first cheap month needed to complete the whole course and we also made sure we repeated this to everyone when they started. They all nodded their understanding and agreement and the 14 people who came were all good to go. Three weeks ago, the end of the first month was up and one by one, nearly every single bloody one of them walked out and said they weren't coming back. Only two people stayed. The same week we lost several other people who were at the end of their Conversation Class Bonus and who also left. Our projections for who would stay were massively reduced and we were bereft.

Dear Ronan. Life is not a bloody
rollercoaster. you pillock. Mark x

Now, let me get one thing straight. This is not an emotional rollercoaster and NEVER will be. I loathe that expression. If I hear one more person on the TV mention that "it's been an emotional rollercoaster", I will not be responsible for my actions. Some things just get my goat, like Chico in "Dancing on Ice", my current Spanish teacher and having to clip my toenails every so often. This expression just happens to be on that list. 


No, what it is, is a bleedin' nightmare (and that's the clean version). Sitting there watching as next month's money walks out the door, never to come back is soul destroying; especially when we've put so much effort into working with them and their wallets in the first place.


Driving home this Monday night, José and I talked about a worst case scenario. Interestingly, we are still bringing in more money than last month and our client base is building, but it's slowed down and there is going to be a point where growth needs to speed up a little or we will have to rethink our whole operation here. In the car, we decided that we could continue, but we may have to rent somewhere a little less central in order to reduce overheads etc. It could be done. Feeling a little buoyed, we went home and cheered ourselves up by looking at common people on the TV via "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding".

Calling Gloriiiaaaaaaaaaaaa

What a difference a day makes! On Tuesday, after my Spanish class with the Oberleutnant María, I found several emails on my iPhone from people who wanted to come to the school, which surprised me. The thing is, last week, we sent another Let's Bonus promotion through. The woman we deal with from the company (Gloria) always tells us when a Bonus is about to run, but this time she didn't, so it came as quite a shock. My idea was that, as we have lots of classes with just one person in, José was already working hard so we may as well make more money from him by putting more people into each of these classes. And these are classes that people want to stay in. They are classes where people study for quite a long time, either for some certificate or other or because they want to learn the language and need the time to do so. In other words, classes that cost money; money that José and me are happy to take off them without having to rifle through their jacket pockets in the coat rack.

My Facebook update for the (Tues)day was "I'm speechless" and for once, I was. The day before, we were considering the possibilities for an exit strategy, should one be needed. Today, we are knee deep (or in José's case, waist deep as he's only 5'6½" tall!) in new students, with more on the way. We had hoped for about 8 or 10 students. We got 37! I'm not on a rollercoaster but Monday night was certainly the Ghost Train and today, I appear to have moved to the Fun House. Goodness knows what tomorrow will bring but right now, I'm off to butter my own crumpets.

Episode 19: Carnival time

When the Spanish do something, they like to do it well and for a long time. Why do you think I married one?! However in this instance, I'm talking about Carnival. In the UK, we orgnise some floats on a wet Saturday afternoon, maybe have a small travelling fair turn up and some sideshows, Mrs. Fazackerley makes her jam that no-one likes but it sells like hotcakes as no-one dare tell her and then it's all over. Everyone goes home until next year. Here, things couldn't be different. A couple of weeks ago, Spain had its carnival and, unlike the UK, where we couldn't organise the ubiquitous excessive alcohol consumption get-together in a hop brewing establishment, Spain has no such problems. Carnival goes on for no less than FIVE days and is an opportunity for every Spaniard to dress up, go out into the street and look ridiculous. Personally this is something I see most days and I wondered what carnival would actually bring to the party that was so different, but I wasn't to be disappointed, although I was a little perplexed when served at the local Gadis supermarket (known in my house as the Gladys supermarket) by a chicken. Imagine the health and safety concerns in the UK, but it appears that in Spain, no-one really minds a little feather in their steak or a felt turkey wattle in their ribs.

Three minutes after I took this picture, this chicken was seen waving a cleaver & hacking up meat joints. It was a little scary & somewhat surreal to watch. I left the supermarket straight after.

I need to tell you a little about carnival here. It is a national event. It starts on Friday night with the enthronement of King Momo and ends on the Wednesday when they bury a sardine. I know, I know, but stay with it............King Momo is considered to be the King of Carnivals. He's a large jolly man with a big belly. Sounds familiar??

I am SOOO dead when he reads this!!

Anyway, we went to the enthronement on the Friday night where there are groups of Comparsas. These are people who have nothing better to do of an evening and spend their year making matching costumes to wear for carnival. In the UK, we call them weirdo's. The carnival each year has a theme and these groups get together and make up new lyrics to well known songs about that theme. They then dress up in their matching costumes and perform them in front of judges who, judging by this years winning entry, were a couple of meths drinkers from the María Pita square here in the city centre. The winning group gets to perform on the night of King Momo's enthronement, whilst the other Comparsas all stand around watching and willing them to forget their words or fall off the stage.

I'm not sure which was which, but I'm guessing
the one on the left was wind, judging by the
look on his face

After the enthronement, we were shepherded across the road to a demonstration of more weirdness. A samba band stood across the zebra crossing, blocking the way for all the cars and played whilst we pedestrians wandered across. That was fun. I could have gone backwards and forwards across that crossing all night just to piss off the Spanish drivers, because I still have massive issues with their (non)-driving skills here (Blog episode number 8 if you're interested or need reminding) Well, going across the road was a big mistake. I was told that Earth Wind & Fire were over there, so I laced up my platform shoes wandered over to shake my groove thing to "Star", "Let's groove" & "Boogie Wonderland" to name but three of their million selling hits from the late 1970's/early 1980's. When I realised it was some blokes on stilts and a couple of birds waving silks around in order to represent the elements (and they didn't even have the decency to have a red scarf to represent fire), we left and went for dinner instead. Mind you, I was interested to see how they were going to represent wind, although after the falafel we had later that night.........................!!


Saturday was the parade. The Carrozas (or Floats, in case you thought I'd forgotten this weeks lesson) were all out in force along with loads of really fabulous costumes and papier maché figures. The Comparsas were also out again. I don't know what it is with them, but once they spot a party, they just don't stop. That said, by the end of the second consecutive night of constant walking and dancing, their costumes are getting a little whiffy and people start carrying air fresheners with them in case of emergency situations.


Nothing much happens on a Sunday, although I imagine that after two long days of boozing, boogying and banging (drums love, drums!), there are bunions to be soaked and costumes to be steeped in Ariel before Monday!

Never mind Angry Birds,
here's a couple of ugly ones!

Monday night sees the world and his wife dressing up and going out - again. It's a young person's thing, so if I were to do it at the tender age of 48, I would get some funny looks as people stare in sympathy at my obvious lack of self esteem. However it's great fun to wander around the city centre and see the costumes people have. The one problem is that we have a plethora of Chinese Markets here in this country, all of which sell carnival costumes, so the age old problem of wondering if someone is going to be wearing the same as you at the party is increased significantly if you go down that route. To that end, we saw loads of Angry Birds (the video game, not distressed ladies!), superheroes, police, animals etc, but also some stupendous home-made costumes. It's also a night when traditionally, men also dress as women. There was some hilarious Cissie and Ada type drag wandering the streets, which I admit I loved. I think that next year, the taffeta has to come out. I shall go to the ball!


Due to their hard partying, Tuesday is a day of rest, hangovers and holiday. Here in Spain, there is a Bank Holiday once every three weeks by law, or so it seems. I'm not bothered as it means I don't have to go to school and see María, who is not improving I have to tell you! In fact, during carnival week, the language school was closed from Monday to Wednesday, which meant it was carnival for me too and I damn well enjoyed it without having to listen to her wittering on.

How very like my own dear mother, although
her moustache is more convincing!

Then on Wednesday night (Ash Wednesday), the Spanish like to get together and bury a sardine, as you do. It's no ordinary sardine though; it's a ma-hoosive one, which is made from papier maché and carried on a float, surrounded by funeral directors and grieving "widows" in black, some of whom are - shall we say - a little less ladylike than others!! As we watched the procession go past, some of these widows, wailing and clutching tissues, came up to us and thanked us for coming along to such a sad event. It's all part of the show, apparently. Then they go down to the beach where a "pastor" delivers a service to signify the death of the carnival season. King Momo is burned as is the sardine and it's ashes are buried on the beach, ready for some 5 year old child to find in the summer months during a hot summer's day sunbathing. Cue more wailing at the death of the carnival! I could hear all this clacking and thought that people actually had their castanets out until I realised it was the sound of 100 "widows" simultaneously gnashing their dentures in grief.


With this, the carnival season is over and the period of abstinence of Lent begins. This year, I'm giving up believing that I've seen it all, as I obviously haven't. Weeping over a 25 foot long papier maché sardine has taught me that valuable lesson. 

I was going to put something funny here, but I can't beat the reality that the Spanish make a sardine,
hold a funeral cortège and then bury it on the beach. You couldn't make it up!!

Before I go, there are two things I would like to mention totally unrelated to carnival, but which caught my eye this week:
The first is my mobile phone bill. You may remember I recounted the sad story and promised a bulls testicle to each of you, should this be sorted (Episode 13)? Well, I can't believe I'm telling you this, but.......it's been sorted. A little while ago we were contacted by the phone company who decided to offer us a reduction in our bills. The game of brinkmanship was nearly over, but not quite. They made us a good offer but those of you who know me well will know what happened next. The offer wasn't good enough, so I told José to reject it and ask for a little more. He was a little anxious about this as we'd never had even one offer from them, so to reject the one we had was possible madness. Being more than a little used to this state of mind, he went for it and they agreed to a further reduction. We settled there and then. I've now worked out that we are going to be paying less over the period of our contract than we would have done had we have paid full price, so that's a result. I do love a bargain (or a 'ganga' as they say in these 'ere parts!) As a man of my word, here's a bull's testicle for you. A word of warning though........................don't eat before watching this!!

And finally, Groupon. For those of you who don't know what Groupon is, it's similar to the agency we used here in Spain to sell our Conversation and Holiday English courses - expensive stuff but with a considerable discount. Last week, they sent out one daily email with a full Microsoft Course, down from around €800 to €99. They also advertised some masturbatory eggs, with a poor out-of-work actor/model looking extremely embarrassed that his life had reached this low point. (DIRECTOR: "Excuse me love, can you give us that 'Ho hum, I have no job, so I may as well knock one out´type look please?") 

Alas poor Yorrick........I once gave him a Happy Ending behind the bike sheds with one of these!

Can you believe that at the end of the day they'd sold only 14 Microsoft Courses and a whopping 387 packs of masturbatory eggs, which just goes to show that there are far more wankers here in Spain than intellectuals!

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.

Episode 16: I'm the boss

Sitting at home in my little house in St. Leonards-on-Sea, I had this romantic notion of how owning and running my own business would be. I would soon be working only 5 hours a week, be driving a swanky Renault Twingo and going to all the best clubs with oiled up muscle boys on my arm. Sadly, the only one of those that has come true is the last one, but one has to take whatever comfort one can in these time of crisis. The truth is, the reality is much harder than the notion.......and those boys don't come cheap!

Have you noticed that wherever you are in the room,
the nipples on the front row all seem to be looking at you?

We've had
to sell my father-in-law
in order to buy this

Of course, I knew that this would be the case when I was considering leaving the bosom of the NHS; that's the bit about the reality being harder, rather than muscle boys being expensive, just in case you were wondering! I knew that the hours would be VERY long and arduous and that I'd never get any knitting done as I'd be slaving over a hot class from dawn ´til dusk. I knew that money would be tight and I knew that I needed to change my underarm deodorant, as people had started passing out in my wake. Incidentally, the deodorant I like is SO expensive here that we bought loads of it when we came to the UK for the New Year. When friends asked us if we'd bought anything nice whilst at the sales, we pointed out the deal Boots had and presented them with a hundredweight of spray and stick deodorants. It pleased me though, so get over it!


Setting up the school was hilarious. Well, sort of hilarious. I mentioned a lot of that back in Episode10: 'Back to (the other) school', but what I didn't mention was what happened after the initial set-up and our many, MANY trips to Ikea. The answer.......? Nothing much! We started with a few clients and weren't making enough money to cover my chocolate habit, let alone the rent on the place. I went to my Spanish lessons in the morning, then would go out for coffee with the lovely girls in my class and afterwards, drive over to the school where José was waiting for me to make his lunch. Then I'd sit on the computer - not literally you understand - play on Farmville, read the newspapers, download stuff from iTunes, listen to music and generally lounge about doing very little until he had finished his last lesson of the day. Then we would go home. Apart from the fact we weren't earning very much, it was a reasonably idyllic lifestyle and I quite enjoyed this self-employment lark.


So, trust some nosey bugger to go and put a spanner in the works! They suggested an online company called 'Let's Bonus', which is a sort of perpetual sale (or REBAJAS - you've not had a Spanish lesson for a while) for posh people. It sells things that the common-or-garden pleb wouldn't really need or couldn't afford, at a very reduced price. Anyone fancy a two-week welding and cupcake decorating holiday in Uzbekistan in November? Sure, the price is significantly reduced, but these holidays pile the extras on once you've bought them. The holiday costs about €2,50 on the website instead of the "regular price" of €1500, but that's only for the accommodation. With flights, airport taxes, hotel transfers and the hire of your own welding kit and icing bag, it comes in at - you've guessed it - €1500 per person. A bargain!!! But that's what they do; they hook the unsuspecting punter in and once they've taken the bait, slap 'em with a load more costs. We looked at it and decided that was a business plan we could adopt and so we decided to advertise our Conversation Classes on there. 

Belén Esteban 
TV presenter; Mother;
Jeremy Kyle wannabe; Media Whore

Oh! My! Goodness! We sold 78 of the damn things and I've been working like a Victorian child up a factory chimney ever since. So much for the 'fun' element of self-employment! I set to work designing databases, spreadsheets and all manner of things that we would need in the school. José needed training in the way I do things (the correct way!) and he soon learned that there is only one way to do things.......There are people reading this now, friends I used to work with, who are smiling and nodding, remembering my obsessional traits and possibly shedding a little tear at how much they miss my spreadsheets. The one joy is I can do whatever I want with them. I've got no-one asking for how long a person has been on the caseload or whether or not the staff member had one, two or three pees during the day, I can put on what I like! Inside leg measurement, whether or not they like Belén Esteban, or if they've ever used their Auntie Sylvie's wig as a table centrepiece......well, the lights were low and everyone thought it was a new exotic breed of Venus fly trap, owing to the fact that it moved of its own accord!


The lack of money is an interesting thing. I'm very partial to money and rather liked being paid each month from the NHS. I have to say that is the one thing I do miss about it. If I could persuade my old Trust to keep paying me as a nod to the 21 years of loyal service I gave it whilst not actually doing anything there, that would be a happy medium. The NHS are renowned for wasting money and I was rather hoping that they would waste some in my direction, but it wasn't to be. So, I've learned to be frugal, which is a word I was so unfamiliar with that I had to look it up in the dictionary. We've taken to buying the 'Basic' brand of some things in a well known supermarket as some things taste just as nice and cost half the price. Mind you, I won't let José take it out of the shop in a see through bag. It has to be at least double-bagged so that no-one knows I'm actually poor. We've also stopped buying some things that we never really used such as gulls eggs, kohlrabi, and Tena Lady. 

Kohlrabi - lovely with faggots and chips, but now a luxury

Since we did the first Bonus and it was so successful, we decided to do another one for a Holiday English course we're running, which was also very successful and which created even more work for me. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but this 'all-or-nothing' culture is a little too much and I threatened revolt, so José bought me a lovely nasal hair trimmer to cheer me up.


Some days I leave home at 8.10am and don't get home until nearly 10pm. I'm not used to it. My poor frail body can't cope and I have to eat a Kit-Kat at regular intervals throughout the day to sustain me. Plus I'm no longer sitting on reception just doing my nails. Guess who is taking most of the conversation classes? Mind you, they're easy-peasy. I mean, hands up who would like to get paid for sitting around and talking all day?? I give them a few phrases they've never heard of ("eeh, bah 'eck Ma it's a bit parky in 'ere!"), explain what it means and they go away happy as Larry (or Luis, as they would say here). The best thing of all is..........and are you reading this carefully, my lovely nurse friends.......? There are no bloody notes to write up afterwards!!! No care plans! No eCPA. Nothing! I just kick 'em out of the front door and bugger off home myself. Sometimes I have to pinch myself because I think I'm dreaming.

Even the bloody dog
won more than I did!

That said, sitting on reception can be very interesting. We're on the second floor of this building and on the first floor is a hairdressers. The smell of the various solutions has seeped into my little grey cells, turning them into little blue-rinsed cells, basically buggering them up. I think it's making me paranoid. Upstairs is a dog and his bed is obviously right over where I sit. All day I can hear this beast scratching the floor and at first I thought it was really sweet, if a little annoying. I'm now convinced that he's doing something approaching a thousand lottery scratchcards a day. How do I know?? Well, every so often he lets out a little yelp, which obviously means he's won something.  You see, I'm not that mad after all, no matter what José says. 


I know it's been a little longer than usual between blogs this time and it may be that way for a little time to come, as we're so busy these days. I've managed to write this one as we still have the afternoon free on Wednesdays, although that luxury is also about to come to an end, but I really don't blame José at all for that. Not one jot!! No no no no no no!! I will keep writing them though as life here is still as strange as it ever was. I guess I just don't notice it as much these days, the impact of which is a little too scary to objectively contemplate.

..........and we'll sell
my mother-in-law in order to afford this!!

One final word: The only time I ever think of the NHS these days is when I write this thing or when I talk to my friends in Hastings. I did both recently and discovered that my old post has finally been filled, so huge congratulations to Rob who stepped into my slingbacks in a substantive post a couple of weeks ago. I'm sure that he'll buy a drink for anyone who asks him by way of celebration. Mine's a G&T. Large! And none of that cheap 'Basic' brand muck neither!

Episode 15: Back to Blighty

As I write this modest little Booker Prize winning effort, we are back in dear old Blighty and in the midst of seeing all our wonderful friends once again in order to ring in the New Year. Those of you that know me well will now be imagining me in some swanky hotel; all Egyptian cotton sheets, champagne cocktails and fawning staff. Instead, we're setting up our own business so every penny counts and as we've earned little money since we started our school, we plumped for the Travelodge; all sticky carpets, leaky showers and rickets. I was so very homesick before Christmas and looking forward to coming back to the UK, but I have now found a cure. After 5 days here in the Travelodge Hastings, I'm ready to go home. That's home Spain, people!

Not actually what our room was like,
but what it felt like!!

I wish to share so many of the fascinating facets of our stay here in the Hastings equivalent of the Bates Motel, so let's start by talking about the housekeepers for the moment, although I can assure you that the only thing they kept was a supply of rather rancid scent in their little storage room, for they certainly didn't keep house. And they smelled like they'd bathed in it, which I think was Chanel number 1, this being Chanel's first attempt before they finally got it right after 4 more tries with Number 5 and which never made it onto the market on account of the fact that it smelled like nun's sweat. Courtney - for that was the nomenclature by which the dear young lady went by - was your archetypal Hastings resident; ear-rings like a trapeze act and council estate facelift (hair pulled right back and up in a tight pony tail) and with a massive grimace on her face which made her look like she'd just trodden in a Greggs pasty. One morning when we'd managed a lie-in until around 11am, we'd showered and were getting ready to go out when we could hear her talking to the other lady she worked with (4 teeth and halitosis that could strip the varnish off a royal yacht). They were debating whether we had gone out and whether she could come into the room, despite the 'Do Not Disturb' sign being on the door. Thing is, I don't think the poor lass could read very well and she thought interpreted it as 'Stand outside the door of the people who have hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on their door, shouting like a harpie to your toothless workmate about said people'. Being kind and in need of some peace and quiet, I popped my head out to say that we would be out in about 10 minutes if she wanted to make the room up. Courtney was clutching the room towels in her mottled mitts as if her very life depended on it and I thought that she would go away and come back later, but she didn't. She hovered outside the room like an undescended testicle for the full 10 minutes until we left for the day. When we did emerge, she was still carrying the armful of towels I'd originally seen her with, none of which were sufficient to dry the sweat off the brow of a drunk surgeon doing a circumcision. It appears that when Courtney is told to do something, she damn well does it to the best of her ability. Well good for her!

The Council Estate Facelift,
captured beautifully on our
winning model, Ena

We left her to it and came back later in the day to what we expected would be a beautifully cleaned up room. Not one bit of it. She'd dumped the towels in the bathroom, left all the wet ones on our bed, but made up the bed around where the wet towels were left and gone. The floor hadn't been vacuumed, the bathroom hadn't been cleaned and the sides were left undusted. Now I don't know about you, but there are certain levels of cleanliness that one expects when staying in a room for which one has paid money and contracting some vomit-inducing bug that Kim and Aggie would avoid at all costs is certainly not high up on my list.


This routine carried on daily. The only thing she did each day was tuck the duvet in and put new towels in the bathroom if we asked for them. I say duvet, I swear it would have been warmer out in the street under a Financial Times. Never have I been covered with something so thin since 1986, when I went to a pyjama party in South Lincolnshire in a rather fetching diaphenous baby doll number, that was, in hindsight, possibly a (bilious) step too far. In fact, on our last morning there, I took to throwing things all over the room, just because I was incensed she'd done nothing for the previous 5 days and I thought she should start earning her minimum wage. I know, I'm not proud of it, but to be fair, it's the only time I've ever done a dirty protest in my 48 years on this earth - and they were asking for it in my opinion!

Possibly a mistake, in hindsight.

As for the shower, well that was something else. Sure the water came out quite fast and the bath was clean - well at least on the first day - but it leaked. And it didn't just leak a little. I was the first one to have a shower after checking in with the Kommandant on reception and as I emerged from the steaming tub, I noticed a small swimming pool had been installed in the bathroom whilst I'd had the shower curtain closed. It transpired that the shower head had a leak. It was a tiny break where the pressure was so great that it forced masses of water out at said pressure and over the top of the shower curtain. On future days, José and I were both able to shower together with me in the bath and him standing on top of the toilet cistern.


They didn't even replace our loo rolls. Can you believe that?? When we got there, we had only 1½ rolls in the loo and after a little while, well......one runs out. Given that our New Year celebration was an Indian Meal (home-cooked by my wonderful friends though and not some takeaway dripping in e-numbers........or as they're known up in Yorkshire, eeeeeh-bah-gum numbers!!), it's surprising it lasted as long as it did. Anyway, on our penultimate night, we were down to our last few squares and still they never gave us new ones when they made the room up (?) earlier in the day. Someone had to do the walk of shame and as José had already lost any street cred he may have had by being seen not only with me but in a Travelodge to boot, it had to be me. I had to walk to up reception and ask. How ignominious! Me?!?!?! A person who had bay windows and decking and who has flown British Airways Business Class on many occasions and I'm reduced to asking in a Travelodge reception for more toilet rolls!! Ooh, there's a letter of complaint brewing in me as I write this..............


And so it was up to Leicester to see two very dear friends, who I know read this blog and who we love above all others (please see the email I've sent you asking to borrow a couple of grand!) Good food, great company, good shopping; in fact nothing bizarre happened there at all that needs column inches here, so moving on....................


We drove through a Force 10 gale to Stansted Airport on the Thursday morning, with the rain howling down and José - on a comb and paper  - having a crack at 'Stairway to Heaven' that was playing through the car radiogram. I associate Stansted with wind and rain as it always seems to be that way whenever I go there; a portent of some doom-laden prophecy perhaps? We flew with Ryanair, so the prophecy was correct! I know that many Sunday tabloid newspapers are no longer in existence, but if they were, flying with Ryanair would be like flying with the Sunday Sport. Thankfully there was no-one with their booosoms out, but bingo and scratch cards are available, along with a hot menu (hamburgers and chicken nuggets) and a selection of alcopops. Classy!

Ryanair have recently introduced prostitutes on it's flights to the UK

Right until the end of boarding, the seat next to me was free. One good thing about being on the larger side is that fellow travellers eye up the little space next to me into which they have to squeeze and think better of it, so pass down the cabin. I could see this woman coming from a mile off. She was wearing a long fur coat and looked so out of place on this flight. God alone knows that this coat was made of, but it had been dead a long time, I can tell you. I'd rather breathe the air at Grimsby docks. Anyway, we were sitting in the over-wing aisle, as we had bought Speedy Boarding (there was nothing speedy about it, as we dragged along behind some man with his foot in plaster and a woman who had no feeling down her right side and who kept slipping down one step each time she went up two). Anyway, the old woman next to me took off her coat and sat with it cradled in her lap. I swear she was stroking it and I now think it was probably made up of every pussy she'd ever had in her life. Pussy number 1 made her a small bobble hat, then Pussy number 2 into a scarf, 3 = bed jacket, bomber jacket, a smart suit style jacket, a three quarter length coat and with the recent demise of poor Conchita Cat, turned into the long monstrosity she had on that day. Eventually the cabin crew noticed it and this guy wrestled it off her to put into the overhead locker. How I didn't laugh! The flight was full and all the lockers were jam-packed. Well, it was like trying to shove a grizzly bear into an ashtray. He pushed and pushed at it and each time he pushed it here, it popped out there. Eventually he'd had enough and with one big slam, the locker door came down and I swear I saw her wince. For there, hanging out of the locker, was a tiny wisp of kitty pubic hair. This little kitty minge mocked me all through taxi and take-off and even though I was reading my book, I kept looking at it. As did she. As soon as the seatbelt signs were off she was out of her seat where she promptly freed it from the locker's grip and wore it the rest of the journey. I can't be too sure it didn't pee on me at one point, although I did nod off for about 30 minutes so it could have been my drool.

Conchita Cat, before she was added to the hem of a three quarter length coat

So now, dear reader, we're back in Spain. I'm back at the language school and our own school restarted yesterday with 75 new students over the coming weeks. Busy times! 

Have I ever mentioned the name of our school on this blog???

The holiday seems like a dim and distant memory and since I started writing this particular episode, I've had another birthday. Lucky me, whatever my name is (well, I did drink a little, which I find is the only way to get through birthdays these days). Trouble is, the memory loss has also wiped out an entire term of Spanish verbs, so I spend my days looking vacantly at our teacher, Ángel. The sad thing is, I don't think he's noticed a difference from last term!