Happy Holiday

Well since the beginning of the year, I have done the rotational baby-sitting stint. Which for me means, going to the U.K to collect one child, taking said chosen child home to Spain, then returning to the U.K with aforementioned child and collecting another lucky smaller family member


Tiring, is not the word and I have definitely come to the conclusion that I am definitely getting too old for it all. It’s not just the air-travel, or wondering if the child will throw up all over someone on the plane, or attempt to knock the passenger in front out cold, with the ridiculous sized toblerone they insisted in buying in duty free


It’s the getting to the airport, usually via train, which is a mammoth task in itself, with a small child, two 10 kilo bags of hand luggage, sweets & sandwiches. Then the customary changes of trains and the krypton factor type task of finding the correct platform in Leeds station, not to mention finding the right train. I am worn out before I even start


 At the airport I am not usually too bad. Once I have got rid of the suitcase and paid the now seems compulsory excess baggage fee, after cursing Michael O’Leary, a couple of times, as if it’s his fault that my baggage was 1 kilo over, just because said child could not possibly be parted from Barbie & Ken, and had insisted squeezing them into the suitcase, together with the endless wardrobes, the plastic superstars needed for a couple of weeks away


I just want to get into departures and try figure out which the gate number will be, so I can get to the front of the queue, to be assured of a decent seat on the plane, not to mention the weight lifting exercise to squeeze the ‘hand luggage’ into the overhead cupboard.


At security its shoes off time, then try struggle with one hand to steer the said child in the right direction, whilst trying to squeeze the handbag into the already bulging case, without attracting too much attention, which is almost impossible as I am holding my jeans up at the same time. Bleep!! The child bleeps, coins in the pocket, always my downfall. Eventually we are through. I breathe almost there.


This time I have my two year old grandson with me, who everyone informs me, with a hidden spiteful glee, is a ‘handful’. My son says, ’watch him on the plane mum, he will throw things at the people in front, ‘He bloody well will not’, is my curt response.


‘He will scream informed my daughter his mother’, take plenty of nappies, he always has an accident. Great I thought happy holidays.


What really gets me is the fact that our children, seem to forget that hubby & I have spent the last 30 years bringing them up, which was not an easy task, and quite frankly a miracle my sanity survived, let alone them. Very short memories it seems


So why they should now  assume  ,that we would suffer some sort of amnesia whilst bringing a two year old from A to B is quite amusing, Perhaps they think we will  forget which end the nappy goes on? Or feed him Vindaloo? Or forget to ensure that he watches big cook little cook, and not let him loose on naughty Nigella, which in all honesty I am sure he would prefer, God forbid he will miss his bed time, or be in the same room, as half a can of San Miguel. I am sure they have memorised the child- line number for him to recite in case granny & Granddad have funny turns!


We had a good flight, he loved looking out of the window at the fluffy clouds, and seeing the houses out of the window, he ate his sandwich, was as good as gold, and the people in front were not decapitated, or abused in any shape or form.


This child came with a list of dos and don'ts,my hubby and I glanced at it, then threw it away, We were to busy watching Nigella, and drinking a much needed can of San Miguel, what’s next oh yes the Vindaloo, come on son try this.



Noooooooooo he cried, mummy said to ring this number




He He.

Car Booting.

Like many other people in Spain we are feeling the pinch. The ever decreasing exchange rate has had a tremendous impact on our finances,together with  the rise in petrol, food, utility bills etc,so we decided to do a car boot sale.

It will be fun I said,  hubby was not convinced. Still I  thought it would be good to get rid of some unwanted items, liberating I thought.When you start to look around your house, it is quite amazing,just how many things, you no longer use, or no longer wear. There was the  leather jacket, that my hubby's ex wife had given me, that was definitely going. The spare microwave, collecting dust in the garage. The clothes that no longer fit me;or for that matter hubby's clothes that he can no longer squeeze into. The endless books that were taking over the house, although I do love my books so much, still I thought , I could always buy them again, probably at a car boot sale.

We were pretty organised, hubby had made a table, we had a cloth, change,alarm set and sandwiches made. How exciting I thought.

We were awake at 6.45 and on our way to Albox , shortly after. Albox is an area of Almeria, not too far from where we live, popular with many British people, and very popular with lots of car boot fanatics. We arrived  at about 7.15, and it was already busy. As soon as we parked up, we were surrounded by other stall holders, 'what you got in there then', shining their torches in the car, 'any jewellery said one hardy car booter,' is this the first time you have done this', one asked trying her hardest to shine her torch into the back of the car. 'Have you got some good things’? By this time my patience was wearing thin. 'We think so’, I replied curtly.


By the time we  finally managed to sort the stall out,  a few other stall holders who were obviously regulars arrived. I was shocked at the behaviour of some of them, especially with the Moroccan people; one stall holder actually had a stick, especially to rap the knuckles of any of the Moroccan’s dared to get inside their car. 'Watch 'em Mary, one of 'em talks to you, whilst the other one robs you', I heard one chap say to his wife, 'watch the bloody money, you know what they're like', racist English people, never!

We were quite surprised just how tyring it was, my legs were aching, still we enjoyed it, made 125, 00 Euros, and more to the point, managed to get rid of some unwanted clutter, so all in all it was a good day, and definitely a good experience...

The Moonshine Diet

I still find it hard to believe that it is in fact me on the scales, I am weighing in like some middle weight boxer, I am kidding myself, convinced that one of the kids must have altered the scales, when weighing their suitcases, for their return journey’s home. It doesn’t seem all that long ago that my colleagues, and friends thought I was anorexic, I was that thin, I even used to buy that ‘weight on ‘powder, that I mixed with milk, in an effort to gain weight, Oh if only that was the case now. I do blame the weight increase, on the fact that I had a hysterectomy at the age of 32, which confused my body, and plunged me straight into the change at such an early age. Well that is my theory.

Now that we are both in our fifties, it really is time to do something about it, hubby agreed, so we decided we would buy a couple of bikes. I remembered when I was a girl, I loved my bike, and I was never off it, so it should not be that hard to get started again surely.

How wrong I was, It amazed me just how hard I found it, the gears were like kryptonite in my hands, I just could not get the hang of them, there were never all these gears on a bike when I was a kid, slipping everywhere they were, sounding like they had been set up for an episode of Robot Wars, the saddle felt very uncomfortable, I think normal walking, would be a problem for a while, let alone anything else.

The sun was shining, so we decided to take the plunge, and make a start, so off we went on our new bikes, on a four mile round trip, around the village, with no water, not a good idea. It was not intentional; I really did not think it would take very long; after all it only took fifteen minutes in the car.

My sense of direction has never been good, it had taken me a while to register, which side of the road to drive on in Spain. I started off quite well, I was pleased with myself, even coming to grips with the gears, I was a little scared of falling off into the road, in the path of oncoming traffic, I must admit I did keep venturing towards the centre of the road, and did get piped at a couple of times, still I managed to stay calm, and kept peddling.

I was doing really well and my confidence, well and truly boosted, until I started peddling up the last steep hill, I made the mistake, of getting off the bike, for a bit of a break, and that was it, I felt faint, one of the most horrible feelings in the world. I just wanted to leave the bike in the middle of the road, and lie down. Fortunately, we were not far from my Spanish friends house, and they were outside, ‘Oh thank goodness’ I thought, Aqua Aqua, I said limply, they laughed ushering us into their homely kitchen, where they calmly sat us down, after a couple of glasses of water, and two oranges , taken straight off their tree, I felt much better.

 Then my wonderful neighbours, in true Spanish tradition, brought out a homemade cake, and a bottle of homemade 40%Moonshine, which was so strong, it would have knocked the spots off a leopard, at that point the diet, and renewed fitness regime went totally out of the window, still the thought was there, I had made a start, and there’s always Manana.

 

Little Britain, Will the Dragon Slayer Be Revealed.

Whilst sitting in doctors waiting room, trying to figure out if I was in fact in the right queue, as one side are waiting to see the nurse, and the other side to see the doctor, only as in most things in Spain, there are no signs, so you really have to take pot luck. I usually try to see if anyone is wearing a sling or a bandage or an eye patch at least, then that’s usually a sign which queue I should join. Today I was lucky as an English nurse was on duty, highly unusual.

I got talking to a middle aged man, who had moved to Spain over 12 months ago, he asked if hubby and me fancied a game of darts in the tennis club, the following Thursday. He had bought one of the new houses, in the small village not too far from where I lived. ‘Little Britain’, me and hubby called it. Why not we thought, although we did stress, we would just call for a drink, as darts are definitely not my forte, unless someone was looking to be impaled, by a loose flying dart, as targets are just not me. Darts in my hands seem to turn into rubber and bounce. I don’t care how big the dart board is.

Little Britain, or Wisteria Lane, as I call it, was initially a small farm, it was granted permission, to change the original ‘Rustica’ land surrounding the farm, or ‘cortijo’, as they are called here, into an ‘urbanization’ and building soon began. Initially building was slow, with only three plots completed, and the rest of the land, left swampy, piles of bricks all over, but no building in progress. We soon discovered the original builders had gone bust, the recession, as with many other European countries had hit them hard. Unfortunately, one of our neighbors, a local kitchen contractor, who was responsible for installing some of the kitchens, prior to the slump, had not been paid, and he himself, is now facing financial hardship.

Building has now resumed, although I understand various different builders are involved. Also houses are only been built once a deposit has been received, and contracts signed. To be perfectly honest, I cannot understand why anyone, would want to come live their dream, in Spain, which offers, stunning scenery, beautiful views, lashings of fresh air and tranquility only to be surrounded by other British people ,why not move to Milton Keynes? The space between the houses, is minimal, you could shake hands with the man next door, and not leave your front door. There would be no point in trying to swing your cat; it would be slapped like a cartoon character against the neighbor’s front porch, no room to swing that even.

The first indication that another fellow countryman has joined the community, is the proverbial satellite dish, strategically pitched on the roof, god forbid anyone would miss Eastenders. Over here the dish is the size as a small island and quite impossible to hide. Then the St Georges flag is draped from the roof terrace, which fortunately are now not so abundant, after the disastrous show in the World cup.

My German neighbors just cannot understand it, ‘How do English people live’, they say, which I have no answer for, as I cannot understand it either. Anyway, Thursday came and off we went to the tennis club, we expected to see a couple of people, but were amazed to see the car park full of GB registered cars, the club was packed, all English , throwing darts. It made me wonder just how many times in the UK, these affluent, middle aged ex pats had ever been into the tap room, of their local Brewers Fare, let alone actually joined a darts team.

In fairness, they did all seem to be enjoying themselves, but it is in my opinion inevitable, that this new found comradely will break down, and the rifts appear and someone will offend someone else etc and then the dragon slayer will surface. People will complain that the English papers, are too expensive, and why don’t you get the Sunday supplements, despite the paper been printed in Spain, or why do people talk Spanish and not English , why does everywhere close at 2pm, or the classic, ‘It’s too hot’, we will see .

I will be keeping a close eye on this one, watch this space.

Mum's Passing.

It has been a while since I have had a chance to write anything on here, as I have been back in the U.K, sorting out the funeral arrangements for my mum.

Sadly my mum passed away on 10th July. She was 84, and very independent. She was found by my brother, sat in her favorite chair, in the conservatory, and had suffered a heart attack, just after finishing her breakfast

The police came, and asked if she had been planning to go abroad recently, and if she held a fire arms certificate, I did not realize that these are the types of questions asked when someone passes, but I suppose they are necessary. I think mum would have found them funny as well.

I was quite overwhelmed, by a feeling of loss, and I admit relief as well, I had always been worried, that mum may have a fall, or suffer a stroke, and be in pain until someone found her, I would have hated that. I was concerned for her welfare, as almost two years ago she had a serious fire, whilst lighting an aromatherapy oil candle, the oil spilt from the holder, and dripped onto an electric radio that was on, sparks followed , and the blinds caught fire, quickly spreading to the rest of the house. She was seen by a neighbor, trying to rescue some cushions, but her feet had caught fire, to say she was lucky not to have tripped and burned to death then, was an understatement.

Hubby & I spent four months, following the fire in the U.K, clearing through the debris, and sorting out the Insurance Company, who was excellent, the house was virtually rebuilt, and the contents replaced. We did not let mum go in the house until it was finished, and when she did, she said it was like winning the lottery, or appearing on one of those makeover programs. She was especially pleased with her new bed, as at 82 was the only new bed she ever had, she had spent many years trying to dodge a spring, that kept sticking in her back on the old one. She also loved her 42 inch plasma TV, as she could now see the picture, as before she had bought some glasses from an ad in one of the Sunday papers, she resembled Cosmo Smallpiece in them, but she assured me they helped.

The worst thing at the moment, is not been able to talk to mum, she was politics mad, which used to drive me insane, especially as she would not listen to anyone else’s opinion, or point of view.

I miss not been able to ask her what she thought of the latest series of big brother, which she, unlike me, loved. ‘I like to see the way the people connect with each other’ she used to say, ‘why don’t you watch The Apprentice’, I would say, ‘Oh no it’s far too competitive for me’, which again I could never understand, as she even watched big brother first thing in the morning when they were all asleep.

I miss all the catalogues, she got through the post, all aimed at the older lady, and charging a fortune for their goods, but they always sent her a free gift, she loved that, thinking she had got one over on them, getting something for nothing, or so she thought. And my poor hubby who had to put all the plastic stuff she bought together as best he could, bearing in mind that 9 times out of 10, a crucial piece would be missing.

I miss the talks about family, past & present, and the way she loved all her great grandchildren, and how much she was looking forward to my brother Stephen becoming a grandparent for the first time. She would have been very proud of that.

My own son, made me laugh, when he reflected on his grandma, telling me how he had called up to her house unexpectedly, and found her dancing away to Bob Marley singing Jamming. Priceless.

Still I guess life goes on, mums’ passing has made me realize, just how quickly time does fly, and to treasure the moments you have with your loved ones, it is as they say not a rehearsal.

On a lighter note, at the funeral parlor, I happened to mentioned, that I was disappointed not to have received my Dad’s ashes when he passed away over 9 years ago. “Just a minute”, she said and trotted off to the back of the premises, which were used jointly as a joiners shop, and in she came carrying an urn, clearly marked with my Dad’s name on it. We couldn’t believe it. I can just imagine, my Dad saying about bloody time. Typical he had to wait for mum to be ready, no change there.

So we laid both mum and Dad to rest, in the rose garden, overlooking the sea, close to the bandstand. A perfectly beautiful resting place, for such a wonderful couple.

R.I.P Mum & Dad & Thank you for everything.

Toads in the Home

"I can hear something moving", I said with alarm, as I reached over to wake hubby, as there was no way I could look, not knowing what it might be. I had been in bed for a couple of hours, not wanting to watch the football, as Germany was playing, and I knew for sure they would win. I had left the front door open a while, as, it was warm, and I wanted some fresh air, but I was not about, to admit this to hubby.

Grumpily, he reached for the light, and peered across the bed to my side, "nothing there", he said, switching the light off and returning to bed, a few more minutes went by, and I heard it again. "Honey there is something there", pulling the sheets tight around my head, in case whatever it was decided to jump on me, and eat me alive. I was not terribly good with wildlife. I do not mind them outside, or in a park, but I draw a line to them invading my bedroom.

"Oh for goodness sake", he said as, I refused to turn on the light, as it was at my side of the bed, and was convinced that my hand would be slowly nibbled off by the unknown monster.He grabbed the torch, which we left for emergencies at the side of his bed,namely the many power cuts we have here in Spain, and he shone it towards the scuttling noice. By this time my imagination was running wild, was it a snake a rat,what !!. Hubby laughed, it's a toad, have a look, I slowly opened my eyes to see a big creamy coloured toad,at the side of my bed.

Maybe if I had kissed it, it could have turned into a handsome prince, but Knowing my luck it would probably be the artist formally known as... so I decided to give it a miss.

The toad was carefully picked up and put outside, and I finally got some sleep.

The Germans & The Mole

I awoke this morning to the sounds of 'Got It'

' Got what ' I said curiously.
 'The Mole' hubby said. He was referring to the mole that had been furrowing away in the garden, chewing the roots of the vegetables, completely ruining the crop. I looked outside, to see him happily shaking the garden fork in the air in triumph. Shouting 'No more Mario Mole', MMm well for now I thought, thinking it was a sure thing that Mario would have siblings perhaps a whole family tree would be there somewhere. Still I did not want to spoil hubby’s thunder, so I kept quiet.

For weeks now, he had tried everything to catch the annoying thing. He had tried smoking him out; he had borrowed a professional looking sound vibrator from my next-door neighbour, who being German had a garage full of all gardening mod cons. He blocked all the mole holes up with paper. Almost everything, it is nice to know that his dedication, paid off in the end, still I think it is only a temporary triumph, and this will be an ongoing adventure for him, but for now it is a gardening victory.

Our next-door neighbour’s garden is perfect. Which is only what we have come to expect from the German people, they seem so dedicated to any task they do. They are so efficient and precise. Unlike us they do not walk around their garden in sawn off jeans and flip-flops; they wear green garden overalls, and knee protectors. They wear goggles when clipping their trees, facemasks when spraying their crops, and jockstraps when weeding. They have all their gardening equipment, up on shelves, which looks like something from the VW factory, unlike ourselves, which is more of a whereabouts in the garden did I leave that rake?

We have to laugh though, every time we do something in the garden, or in the house, my neighbours peer over the garden fence, not knowing that we can see them. They pretend to water the plants or they will use their rotavator that they call Bobby, and if all that fails, they will pop round, with a bowl of sauerkraut to ask what we are doing, they do not miss a thing. Still they are good neighbours and lovely people.

This year has been a particularly bad one on the snail front. They are everywhere, munching their way through the trees, the plants, hauling their hunch-backed little bodies, up my freshly painted walls, over my neighbour’s fence happily eating their way round there garden also. It seems hubby and I am singularly responsible for the snail epidemic in Southern Spain, because we refuse to use pesticide or weed killer, well sorry but that is just too bad. We plan to stay organic, so unfortunately, for now we will have to keep picking them off the plants, unless someone out there has a better solution.

The Orthopaedic Bed.

SOMETIMES, strange things happen here in Spain. Today has been one of those days. Hubby and I were working in the garden, trying to decide on the companion planting, an essential role in organic gardening, and the best way to promote healthy predators, to confuse the destructive ones. Tomatoes with basil, peppers with aubergines, sweet corn with beans, peas and potatoes, and many sunflowers ,to make me smile.

The doorbell rang, peeking up the drive, I saw two Spanish women, obvious by the Spanish red hair, and Seat car. Scrambling, for my pocked sized, Spanish-English dictionary. ‘Hola’, I said quietly, after lots of arm flapping, and many turns of the pages of the dictionary, I discovered that they were cousins of the people we had bought the house off over 6 years ago. They asked us if we still had the orthopaedic bed, left in the house, when we bought it. Apparently, one of the woman’s husbands had chronic back pain and needed it.

My memory of buying the house, after all the signing and dignitaries, was standing on the Notary steps, with the three beneficiaries of the sale, the children of the vendors, who had suddenly inherited wealth, as mum was in a care home where she could be looked after properly. These three people could have been Olympic sprinters, given chance. I had not seen anyone move so fast, to put their cheques into the bank, before it closed. It was 1.45 and closed at 2pm. They almost threw the keys for the house, at us, as they ran anxiously shouting,' Banco, Banco, Banco'.

When we finally viewed our new Spanish property, we found that the only thing the vendors had taken was the wood-burning stove, and the washing machine, which was unexpected, as these two items were the only things we wanted. They had left everything else; there were clothes in the wardrobe, food in the cupboards, wines and spirits, furniture, family photographs, first communion trinkets, and an unfortunate infestation of cockroaches, which my hubby discovered as he peered into a dark cupboard, to see them all staring at him from the ceiling. The orthopaedic bed was in the “gloomy room” as we called it, as the room was then quite dark and unwelcoming.

As six years had now passed, and the house had finally, been cleared, and all the unwanted items skipped, and the cockroaches fumigated. I was surprised when hubby said, “I still have the bed it is in the garage covered in lots of items, which would of course come in handy one day. The two women were delighted and said they would come back on Sunday to collect the bed, armed with wine in exchange for the bed. They went away happy.

Hubby spent the next three days fighting his way to the back of the garage, to retrieve the item, when his back went, he had suffered from sciatica for many years, but had been fine recently, in agony; he crawled in the house, and spent the next two days flat on his back.

The two women came back on Sunday, without the wine, but an English speaker on the other end of their mobile phone, who asked if we still had the automatic hoist to lift someone in and out of bed. They were sure it was in the house six years ago. Unfortunately, we had no recollection of this item; the two women who were obviously disappointed, grunted a little, but thanked us and reluctantly put the bed in the back of their car and drove off, maybe they will come back later, looking for something else. We will see.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon.

I sit here in my warm deck chair, watching as the hot sun blazes down intensely on the unprotected mountains. The sunlight lighting up the copses of the terrain. Brilliant colours of rich amber, copper, and a subtle hint of rust that once was, lush greenery of the mountain shrubbery. Once tended, and sadly now forgotten orange and almond trees, dotted randomly amongst the backdrop.

Pathways deeply ridged clearly embedded in the mountain slopes timelessly carved in history by the dedicated trackers, who painfully climbed the steep mountain slopes, testing their own determination, 'just because it was there'.

The scattering of whitewashed houses, once full of energy from persevering people; who survived by planting fruit and vegetables, raising pigs and cattle, to market; chickens and rabbits to eat; and scrimping and scraping, just to make ends meet. Sadly, their houses now crumbling and dilapidated, the roofs, raided and collapsing, a deteriorated property no longer fashionable to any family member who may have been lucky enough to inherit them, the repairs been far beyond any potential resale value.

The shade of the old apricot tree was thankfully keeping the sun off me. I watch the snails slowly climbing the tree, clinging on with experience, to the old, weathered bark, the juice from many years of producing fruit seeping out of the old tree; it was far too precious to be cut down. If only the tree could talk what tales it could tell, it would certainly make fascinating reading.

When I sit here and drink up my surroundings, contemplating what to make for dinner, I think it was, for us  the right choice for us to move abroad, I know it would not suit everybody.

Our grasp of the Spanish language, is not good, we are OK until someone talks back to us, then it is a mad scramble for the pocket size Spanish-English dictionary, trying to get the correct response, without looking as we have come straight from the Jeremy Kyle studio. We are trying our best to learn, and have even resorted to hourly episodes of learning with the benefit of You Tube.

My immediate neighbours are German, and speak both Spanish and English, which is particularly useful, although slightly embarrassing. Whilst there are ex pats around us who speak our language, I know we would integrate much more, if we tried a little harder, Tomorrow, we will make a start, that should be fun.