The great insight I have arrived at today is how much difference the sun makes. I seem to recall from my study of 18th C English enlightenment writings that there was a theory about that people's character was a function of the climate and topography: therefore Scottish people are hardy and warlike because they have had to conquer mountains in the cold, while your Italians lie about eating tomatoes and so on. Anyway, this was all rubbished of course, but the fact is, I am beginning to see something in it, in particular, how negative the British are, something I didnt realise particularly before, and which in my mind is now linked to the fact that the UK is under several metres of water, according to my mother.
I notice nobody here is at all bitchy. For instance, when I mention "el dueno anterior," the previous owner, Oliver, who seems to have started and screwed up endless projects appeared to owe everyone money and then disappeared, nobody jumps at the chance to say what a tosser he was, as they would at home. No, actually the neighbours all say, as they do about almost everyone, that he was "buena gente," "like yourself," adds Isa, the cleaning lady, though I can't see where she gets that from. The fact that Oliver isnt really by most standards, buena gente, escapes them, or maybe they just see his good side: friendly, amiable, a bit absent minded, meant well, never mind he allegedly ran off without paying the Vera gas bill or Juan Manas. I think they are just more positive - yes, that cupboard will get up those stairs, and that bed will get down, we'll just saw it in two. About two minutes later, they've done it. There's no sucking the teeth and saying, no love, that'll never happen, and no bitching, except about the other Inglesa, the lady from Cardiff, and that could be racism because she is black, or could be because she doesnt speak any Spanish and has a massive satellite dish and six dogs.
Anyway, my point is, I feel as if everything in the UK is based around moaning, even the humor. Dinner party conversation, newspaper articles, etc, are basically all one long whinge about everything: the mortgate rate, the bins, other people - and I am not excluding myself here as I put my back into the process when I was living there. There is no way anyone would say, as they do here, this is a great life, life is good. You don't really hear anyone complain - or I haven't, and if they do, it's more localised. Maybe it's a town-country thing. Maybe the wet flood of whinging is a South East, urban thing in the UK, and it's not like that in Grasmere, or Fort William - who knows? Or maybe it is the sun . It's hard not to feel good when the sun is on your face As Juana's father said, when he was telling me he didnt need anything from Sorbas, all we need is to have a good time with family and friends, that's all. The sun determines all that: sitting outside, feeling relaxed, going to the beach, just as being up to your knees in water makes you feel pretty pissed off.
Anyway, this is what I have spent today:
28 Euros for a full tank of diesel: my car will run on this for ages.
2.10 for a rosca, a round ring of bread in a bit of paper
2.20 for a coffee and a mineral water, in the square, under the palm tree watching all the little dogs and the old men
34 Euros - big spend- for two bead curtains to keep the flies out.
A good day, all in all.
Monday 30 July 2007
Sunday 29 July 2007
Mirror, mirror, not on the wall
About to go to bed (midnight, early!) think about having a bath and the think I am not sure there's a point if I'm going in the pool first thing. Is that disgusting? There is a lot of chlorine in there, after all, but I suppose it is not a recommended beauty routine.
I have not looked in a mirror for two weeks, if you don't count dark ones in public toilets. There are some mirrors in the house, but it is pretty hard to see in them. I have to wonder what I look like, as Xtina will be here on Thursday and will be quick to spot any downward trend on the path to a Greta-like state where I will not be able to fit my feet into my shoes.
Mind you, Juana and Pablo will be the first to point it out. They came round after a few days to say hello and after looking me up and down, Juana nodded sagely and said, well, you have put on a couple of kilos.
"Oh, really?" I asked, looking unconvinced.
"Yes," she said, firmly. "Why is that?"
I said, perhaps because I had stopped working.
"Aha!" she said triumphantly, as if that rested her case. "Anyway, it makes you look younger, about three years younger," she said.
Well, that's ok then. The weird thing is, I didnt mind at all. I didnt mind being told, and I dont mind putting on a few kilos. Who's looking at you, anyway, as Anita's mother says. Nobody round here.
Meanwhile, the removals, which I feel I have handled more or less single handed, give or take a few burly men, have taken their toll on my beauty regime. I have not painted my nails, and I am injured in various ways. I have a cut on my toe (broken glass - I have broken about 7 during the move, maybe it is now good luck) a bang on my head (trying to get plaster off the stable door), and various bruises on my arms from bumping into things (somnambulently walking around trying to unpack at 2 a.m., moaning at Sandy for sitting outside with a cigar). Fortunately, mosquitoes don't like me so am not bitten, though I have a wasp sting on my foot; unlike Sandy I did not make a huge fuss and claim my arm was swelling up to twice its size. You need to shave your legs about twice as often here, too. It is clearly going to be easy to let myself go; even now am relaxing my grip. The only good thing is that once I can actually leave the house and stop unpacking, I can get a suntan which will cover some of the damage.
Looking back at my past post, I now know I will not be getting any more Creme de la Mer, or any of that truck. Ha ha! I will be far too Almerían before long! Already, I have trodden down the backs of my Camper shoes, and it is only a matter of time before I am using Mercadona beauty products. It is a mystery where you get most cosmetics - all I have seen so far is nail polish, which they sell in the various local shops called Bazaar and "Mira Que Précios!" (Look at the prices!), along with hairslides, folding beach chairs, toasters, and so on. Why bother? The only people I have seen today are goats, and tomorrow it will only be the decorators, though mind you I do like Juan, who has had an interesting conversation with me about Princess Diana (she was not murdered, that was just the newspapers), Franco (his grandfather's experiences; though not religious he was shopped by someone for something religious - I didn't follow this entirely) and the Spanish royal family (they breed like rabbits "crian como conejos" and cost too much.) He has also advised me on how to clean the floor (not with the hoover and on your knees with a scrubby thing, but with a brush, then a mop. They don't like the hoover here; it is always the broom) and has told me a lot about the old style of Spanish farm, like our cortijo, with the wood, cane and plaster ceilings; they are rare now and it has been a labour of love or as he said "un trabajo de chino" - a Chinaman's job - to clean them up, taking off the old plaster and varnishing the cane and the beams. In the old days, they used lime to clean them and keep them white, apparently, and some thing called "azul", which is blue, and is now a huge nuisance to get off.
The whole effect is very dark and traditional, contrasting with the still rather rough white walls. So, there are no mirrors. I could get some bright lights, but it wouldn't look right, so it's probably better if I just do without. It is a hard business, trying to become local, like an elaborate camouflage, or disguise, where you rub down all those features that stand out. When I hear the echo of myself talking, which you often do on our phone, I try harder and harder to lose the English intonation, that so characteristically English way of swallowing words. I try to get the right tone when I say "por nada," (no trouble? it's nothing? ok? - a way conversations about someone doing something often end) or "y ya esta," (there you are, that's it, that's all), as they do. It isn't just accent; it is a whole way of being, and I imagine the process is rather like a sex change, like trying to turn yourself inside out and reverse what you did before - helped so much by the fact that however perverse the work is, it is your heart's desire to do so. In this context, what's a mirror more or less?
I have not looked in a mirror for two weeks, if you don't count dark ones in public toilets. There are some mirrors in the house, but it is pretty hard to see in them. I have to wonder what I look like, as Xtina will be here on Thursday and will be quick to spot any downward trend on the path to a Greta-like state where I will not be able to fit my feet into my shoes.
Mind you, Juana and Pablo will be the first to point it out. They came round after a few days to say hello and after looking me up and down, Juana nodded sagely and said, well, you have put on a couple of kilos.
"Oh, really?" I asked, looking unconvinced.
"Yes," she said, firmly. "Why is that?"
I said, perhaps because I had stopped working.
"Aha!" she said triumphantly, as if that rested her case. "Anyway, it makes you look younger, about three years younger," she said.
Well, that's ok then. The weird thing is, I didnt mind at all. I didnt mind being told, and I dont mind putting on a few kilos. Who's looking at you, anyway, as Anita's mother says. Nobody round here.
Meanwhile, the removals, which I feel I have handled more or less single handed, give or take a few burly men, have taken their toll on my beauty regime. I have not painted my nails, and I am injured in various ways. I have a cut on my toe (broken glass - I have broken about 7 during the move, maybe it is now good luck) a bang on my head (trying to get plaster off the stable door), and various bruises on my arms from bumping into things (somnambulently walking around trying to unpack at 2 a.m., moaning at Sandy for sitting outside with a cigar). Fortunately, mosquitoes don't like me so am not bitten, though I have a wasp sting on my foot; unlike Sandy I did not make a huge fuss and claim my arm was swelling up to twice its size. You need to shave your legs about twice as often here, too. It is clearly going to be easy to let myself go; even now am relaxing my grip. The only good thing is that once I can actually leave the house and stop unpacking, I can get a suntan which will cover some of the damage.
Looking back at my past post, I now know I will not be getting any more Creme de la Mer, or any of that truck. Ha ha! I will be far too Almerían before long! Already, I have trodden down the backs of my Camper shoes, and it is only a matter of time before I am using Mercadona beauty products. It is a mystery where you get most cosmetics - all I have seen so far is nail polish, which they sell in the various local shops called Bazaar and "Mira Que Précios!" (Look at the prices!), along with hairslides, folding beach chairs, toasters, and so on. Why bother? The only people I have seen today are goats, and tomorrow it will only be the decorators, though mind you I do like Juan, who has had an interesting conversation with me about Princess Diana (she was not murdered, that was just the newspapers), Franco (his grandfather's experiences; though not religious he was shopped by someone for something religious - I didn't follow this entirely) and the Spanish royal family (they breed like rabbits "crian como conejos" and cost too much.) He has also advised me on how to clean the floor (not with the hoover and on your knees with a scrubby thing, but with a brush, then a mop. They don't like the hoover here; it is always the broom) and has told me a lot about the old style of Spanish farm, like our cortijo, with the wood, cane and plaster ceilings; they are rare now and it has been a labour of love or as he said "un trabajo de chino" - a Chinaman's job - to clean them up, taking off the old plaster and varnishing the cane and the beams. In the old days, they used lime to clean them and keep them white, apparently, and some thing called "azul", which is blue, and is now a huge nuisance to get off.
The whole effect is very dark and traditional, contrasting with the still rather rough white walls. So, there are no mirrors. I could get some bright lights, but it wouldn't look right, so it's probably better if I just do without. It is a hard business, trying to become local, like an elaborate camouflage, or disguise, where you rub down all those features that stand out. When I hear the echo of myself talking, which you often do on our phone, I try harder and harder to lose the English intonation, that so characteristically English way of swallowing words. I try to get the right tone when I say "por nada," (no trouble? it's nothing? ok? - a way conversations about someone doing something often end) or "y ya esta," (there you are, that's it, that's all), as they do. It isn't just accent; it is a whole way of being, and I imagine the process is rather like a sex change, like trying to turn yourself inside out and reverse what you did before - helped so much by the fact that however perverse the work is, it is your heart's desire to do so. In this context, what's a mirror more or less?
Journey from Hell, First Week
Journey from Hell
Well, we are here, but only just. Getting here was like Frodo going up Mount Doom and I did wonder if it would ever be over. The last few days in the UK, when we were living out of one cardboard box and I was majorly stressed, behaving like a mad, inefficient Monica from Friends, everyone kept saying, don't worry, it'll be fine when you get there. I did doubt this at the time; it falls into the category of advice like "of course you're not fat," and "of course you'll get a First", i.e based on no evidence whatsoever.
In the event, the nasty premonition that the arrival would be all wrong, was actually right.
Firstly, there were the cats. I do love them, but it would have been a lot easier (and cheaper) to shoot them and buy new ones at the other end. They went mental, producing dreadful deep caterwauls and hanging their sad little paws out of the grille of their enormous, deluxe travel box. People kept turning round and staring in the airport, as if they were crazy celebrities. I kept saying things like "don't worry Shrimpy, we'll soon be there," but they clearly didnt understand and having had four days locked up before we left (if not, they would have run away, as they knew what was coming), they were completely nuts by the time we got to Heathrow. Alexander claimed when he went to the loo he could hear them in the hold and I wouldnt have been surprised. Nobody looked at the endless cat travel paperwork I had so laboriously procured; they were all very relaxed and just shoved us through, though only with about five minutes to spare as we had to go to a Special Needs bay and wait for the poor things to be loaded up. None of this process is explained by BMI, as I pointed out to the nice lady.
"We didn't really know what to do," I said, plaintively. "I couldn't get anyone to give me any advice."
"Oh, I expect you were talking to Bombay," she said. "It's not on their question list, so they don't know how to answer. The best thing is just to nip down and see us." In Heathrow, that is, an hour away on the M25, but if I'd known, I might have done it.
"You could put some advice on your website," I suggested.
"No, they don't tell you on the website," she said cheerfully. The cats looked at her pleadingly, wanting to be let out.
At the other end, they came out on the conveyer with the luggage, yowling fit to bust. Actually, we are not talking yowling, really, but dreadful, agonized, tortured screeches. They had upset their food, been sick and crapped in the box, so it was a choice of the air conditioning and the smell, or windows open and the heat.
Later, I noticed that my Spanish neighbours generally ignored the cats, while the English people treated them like temperamental royalty who happened to be travelling with us. Well, I knew the attitude to animals was different (Daily Mail donkey stories, etc) but of course they do have pets. The word for a pet is a "mascota," which is interesting: a mascot in English being something lucky you hold up during a sport match or an exam, whereas a "pet" is something you call someone up North. A lot of men around here have little dogs, the type with a smile and a curly tail; you see them walking them in Vera. It is always men, usually old men, not women. The other day in the square I heard one talking about his dog to another man, pointing out its attributes. I think dogs are something a man has in the way he might have a particular car, in any case, there is no way anyone here says "oo, de little sweetie darling, did he want some Whiskas?" the way, or treats a cat as if it were a baby, only better.
Anyway, the journey from hell continued. Oh well, I thought, we'll soon be there and it will all be lovely, because of all the work Juan Mañas has done since May. At the back of my mind, I thought: or has he? I had texted him a week ago, although I knew I should have called about a month before that, but I sort of didnt, because I didnt want to face the fact that I know what he's like, and I think I knew what he might have done, or not done.
When we got to the house and opened the door, there were three men there with the radio on. Half the ceiling was on the floor, the furniture was all in piles, and all the beds were covered in plastic. The sitting room floor was covered in rocks and cement. The cats were yelling in their box. It brought new meaning to the expression "I could not believe my eyes," because it actually couldn't register what was going on. Sandy and I just kind of looked at each other, and then sat down and felt like crying.
I shouted at the men, who looked bewildered. Juan gave me his word he would do all the work in June! Why are you here! There is a whole lot of furniture arriving on Wednesday! (this was Monday) Where are we going to sleep! The builders looked at me a bit vaguely and said they had just been called a week ago. Jose, the boss builder, said that we could probably go to a hotel, or one of Juan's houses. I said no. He said, maybe the furniture lorry could come another day. I said no, it had to go back to France. He said, well, it'll soon be finished. I said, how soon. He said, oh, two weeks perhaps.
In the end, I called Juan and sort of held back., trying to be Spanish and relaxed and think that mañana was another day, as I shrieked hysterically at him. He turned up about an hour later in his van, as he always does, and was very friendly and grinned at me. I kind of grinned back and then I asked him what he was doing to me, what happened to him giving me his word? He was a bit sheepish and gave me some rather useless explanation to do with him having done his bit but not the decorators. Anyway, he said the men would get it all tidied up by Wednesday and then come back later. Don't worry, no te preocupes. Tu tranquila. You hear these words a lot "no pasa nada," and "no te preocupes/no se preocupe," don't you worry. Also, my neighbours always say "tu tranquila," which seems to equate to, "just relax."
I was not at all tranquila, but there was not much I could do and in the end, the men worked from eight till ten at night and got it tidy enough to get the furniture in, sort of, only most of it would not go up the stairs. Fortunately Gary was there; he is a great guy and a total optimist, not at all British. The fat one, Dean, that works with him kept saying, "No way luv, there's no way any of that will get up them stairs," as if he was pleased about it (this is so typical of any UK workperson), but Gary was very positive and managed to get a lot of it in and take it back and forth and stay for hours trying to work out where it could go. We worked non-stop and had nothing but Fanta orange all day, and then fell asleep on our dusty beds, surrounded by little bits of rock.
Really this was the story of last week; get up when men arrive at 8, make coffee (getting electric shock from machine), have no time to drink it, move boxes, lose things, try to find them, can't find any paperwork needed, chargers, etc, drink Fanta, move more things, fall asleep among dust and rocks. The men were quite jolly; they sat down outside at 11 or so to have their breakfast and went off at 2.30 for lunch, but came back on the dot and worked till late, even waiting till 9 with me for a furniture lorry when it had got lost. (This was new furniture we had to buy for upstairs; the chico who delivered it was so cross at how late it was and how far away we lived, and that he had to get back to Roquetas del Mar, that he had left half the bits behind and didn't assemble it).
The first week
We had a list of things to do, all very boring and to do with banks, cars, and so on.
It was all predictably chaotic - nothing we planned in May had worked out, no surprises there. However, I did manage, finally, to get the papers for the old Hyundai from Pedro, our lawyer - after about a year. One of the decorators gave me the number of the ITV (MOT equivalent) place, and amazingly I phoned and got a time to turn up there. The conversation lasted about 5 seconds and is a model of me being English and the man at the ITV being Spanish:
Man: Digame! (this is how everyone generally answers the phone; a bit unnerving when it is briskly yelled at you - it means, tell me, talk to me, and seems the equivalent of "Yes?" in English, only presumably not so rude).
Me: Hello, I wonder if you can help me, the thing is, I've bought this house, and there's an old car, I havent driven it yet, but the thing is, I think I need to get it a test... ramble, ramble.
Man: Registration?
Me: Er (working out what "matricula" means).. hold on a minute.. Oh, I think this is it. Reads out number.
Man: 2pm, Tuesday the 31st. Hangs up.
My neighbour, Pablo, has kindly agreed to go to the place with me, which is a relief, as I can just see it probably won't be simple; the Hyundai is ok but you have to disconnect the battery when you're not driving it as the warning light won't go out and it drains it. Tu tranquila, Julia, he said.
Meanwhile, we bought a new car, a Ford Focus, ex showroom, good price. Mysteriously long and opaque transaction, during which the men kept disappearing for half hours without explanation, but it all worked out int he end. He was a very jolly and nice salesman who Pepe Lopez assures me is "buena gente", a good guy and he seemed to be: he explained it was in n his interest to give us a good deal as we might come back and get another car, which he would prefer. We met Pepe in the garage, having his 4x4 repaired; normally he is on a quad, as they all seem to be in Rambla Alhibe. He showed Sandy a lot of pictures of him racing it in Morocco, getting Sandy all excited about buying a Landrover and then hammering it around the desert. There is a big car race of some kind every other week in Vera, it seems; clearly will be on Sandy's to-do list. Clearly, having a 4x4 sends a different message in Rambla Alhibe than in Sevenoaks.
I called Inma, our lawyer, Pedro's, admin lady and failed to reach her a few times. I asked her about residency; we have a letter from the bank saying we need to renew the non-resident status on our bank account, but perhaps not, given that we will be resident. She finally says Almeria office is moving, she will find out where to and get back to me. She hasnt, yet.
Meanwhile, the broadband saga continues; we are managing with a dial-up line and a wire hanging across the stairs, which we keep tripping over.
I tried a number I found in the Ayuntiamento, claiming to call Gloria and get rural Internet, but it was Telefonica again, who were no help at all. However, I found a leaflet from a company called Iberbanda, and spoke to them in Madrid, then in the local Sorbas office, to a nice man with the wonderful name of Eulogio. Names here are great; the lady in the furniture shop is called Luz Divina. Eulogio said we had to put in an application and then they could find out if we could have the service; they won't know this till they come up here.
Meanwhile, it's down to the Lubrin library if you need a fast connection. – possibly the only practical way of getting online. The chairs are quite small; everyone else there was four years old and playing a game with a penguin; but that was OK. I can't say I've exactly missed being online, but it did give me an anxious feeling. I have always pitied those people who said they felt as if they had lost an arm when they lost a mobile phone (how is it similar, really?) but I do now see that being completely cut off from the online world is a bit unsettling. Mind you, I could get used to it easily. When the lady there finds out Sandy works for IBM she asks if he can advise them on putting wireless into the whole town; he recklessly agrees and says he can get her a free router which seems to delight her.
We go to collect our new cheque books. I now have one and BBVA in Vera have enlightened me as to why I couldnt use my passport number to access my account online. It seems they had used some other numbers from another part of my passport. No pasa nada, she reassured me, it won't matter. When we have our residency cards, they'll maybe switch it over, or maybe not.
Later in the week, the pool man, Tony, says he is having it put in in Rambla Alhibe so if Iberbanda doesnt work we can try that. He has been doing a good job on the pool, especially as he has a wasp phobia and there was a big nest under one of the loungers, and also the almond tree nearest the pool has some disease that makes it gummy and attracts wasps. We called Pablo to cut it down; his goats then came up to eat the branches, which they did in about 5 minutes flat, like a lot of locusts.) The fact is, however painful the transition has been, however much cement is in the house, and however many Spanish call centres I have to negotiate, it is quite impossible to be anything but happy sitting on the terrace in the warm, 10pm evening, watching the goats come home while the sky turns turquoise, then green and the moon rises. This is the most wonderful place I have ever been. I can't quite believe I am here; today I did about five hours of cleaning but at the end of that I dived into the pool and came out into 40 degrees and a chair with a view of my date palm.
Well, we are here, but only just. Getting here was like Frodo going up Mount Doom and I did wonder if it would ever be over. The last few days in the UK, when we were living out of one cardboard box and I was majorly stressed, behaving like a mad, inefficient Monica from Friends, everyone kept saying, don't worry, it'll be fine when you get there. I did doubt this at the time; it falls into the category of advice like "of course you're not fat," and "of course you'll get a First", i.e based on no evidence whatsoever.
In the event, the nasty premonition that the arrival would be all wrong, was actually right.
Firstly, there were the cats. I do love them, but it would have been a lot easier (and cheaper) to shoot them and buy new ones at the other end. They went mental, producing dreadful deep caterwauls and hanging their sad little paws out of the grille of their enormous, deluxe travel box. People kept turning round and staring in the airport, as if they were crazy celebrities. I kept saying things like "don't worry Shrimpy, we'll soon be there," but they clearly didnt understand and having had four days locked up before we left (if not, they would have run away, as they knew what was coming), they were completely nuts by the time we got to Heathrow. Alexander claimed when he went to the loo he could hear them in the hold and I wouldnt have been surprised. Nobody looked at the endless cat travel paperwork I had so laboriously procured; they were all very relaxed and just shoved us through, though only with about five minutes to spare as we had to go to a Special Needs bay and wait for the poor things to be loaded up. None of this process is explained by BMI, as I pointed out to the nice lady.
"We didn't really know what to do," I said, plaintively. "I couldn't get anyone to give me any advice."
"Oh, I expect you were talking to Bombay," she said. "It's not on their question list, so they don't know how to answer. The best thing is just to nip down and see us." In Heathrow, that is, an hour away on the M25, but if I'd known, I might have done it.
"You could put some advice on your website," I suggested.
"No, they don't tell you on the website," she said cheerfully. The cats looked at her pleadingly, wanting to be let out.
At the other end, they came out on the conveyer with the luggage, yowling fit to bust. Actually, we are not talking yowling, really, but dreadful, agonized, tortured screeches. They had upset their food, been sick and crapped in the box, so it was a choice of the air conditioning and the smell, or windows open and the heat.
Later, I noticed that my Spanish neighbours generally ignored the cats, while the English people treated them like temperamental royalty who happened to be travelling with us. Well, I knew the attitude to animals was different (Daily Mail donkey stories, etc) but of course they do have pets. The word for a pet is a "mascota," which is interesting: a mascot in English being something lucky you hold up during a sport match or an exam, whereas a "pet" is something you call someone up North. A lot of men around here have little dogs, the type with a smile and a curly tail; you see them walking them in Vera. It is always men, usually old men, not women. The other day in the square I heard one talking about his dog to another man, pointing out its attributes. I think dogs are something a man has in the way he might have a particular car, in any case, there is no way anyone here says "oo, de little sweetie darling, did he want some Whiskas?" the way, or treats a cat as if it were a baby, only better.
Anyway, the journey from hell continued. Oh well, I thought, we'll soon be there and it will all be lovely, because of all the work Juan Mañas has done since May. At the back of my mind, I thought: or has he? I had texted him a week ago, although I knew I should have called about a month before that, but I sort of didnt, because I didnt want to face the fact that I know what he's like, and I think I knew what he might have done, or not done.
When we got to the house and opened the door, there were three men there with the radio on. Half the ceiling was on the floor, the furniture was all in piles, and all the beds were covered in plastic. The sitting room floor was covered in rocks and cement. The cats were yelling in their box. It brought new meaning to the expression "I could not believe my eyes," because it actually couldn't register what was going on. Sandy and I just kind of looked at each other, and then sat down and felt like crying.
I shouted at the men, who looked bewildered. Juan gave me his word he would do all the work in June! Why are you here! There is a whole lot of furniture arriving on Wednesday! (this was Monday) Where are we going to sleep! The builders looked at me a bit vaguely and said they had just been called a week ago. Jose, the boss builder, said that we could probably go to a hotel, or one of Juan's houses. I said no. He said, maybe the furniture lorry could come another day. I said no, it had to go back to France. He said, well, it'll soon be finished. I said, how soon. He said, oh, two weeks perhaps.
In the end, I called Juan and sort of held back., trying to be Spanish and relaxed and think that mañana was another day, as I shrieked hysterically at him. He turned up about an hour later in his van, as he always does, and was very friendly and grinned at me. I kind of grinned back and then I asked him what he was doing to me, what happened to him giving me his word? He was a bit sheepish and gave me some rather useless explanation to do with him having done his bit but not the decorators. Anyway, he said the men would get it all tidied up by Wednesday and then come back later. Don't worry, no te preocupes. Tu tranquila. You hear these words a lot "no pasa nada," and "no te preocupes/no se preocupe," don't you worry. Also, my neighbours always say "tu tranquila," which seems to equate to, "just relax."
I was not at all tranquila, but there was not much I could do and in the end, the men worked from eight till ten at night and got it tidy enough to get the furniture in, sort of, only most of it would not go up the stairs. Fortunately Gary was there; he is a great guy and a total optimist, not at all British. The fat one, Dean, that works with him kept saying, "No way luv, there's no way any of that will get up them stairs," as if he was pleased about it (this is so typical of any UK workperson), but Gary was very positive and managed to get a lot of it in and take it back and forth and stay for hours trying to work out where it could go. We worked non-stop and had nothing but Fanta orange all day, and then fell asleep on our dusty beds, surrounded by little bits of rock.
Really this was the story of last week; get up when men arrive at 8, make coffee (getting electric shock from machine), have no time to drink it, move boxes, lose things, try to find them, can't find any paperwork needed, chargers, etc, drink Fanta, move more things, fall asleep among dust and rocks. The men were quite jolly; they sat down outside at 11 or so to have their breakfast and went off at 2.30 for lunch, but came back on the dot and worked till late, even waiting till 9 with me for a furniture lorry when it had got lost. (This was new furniture we had to buy for upstairs; the chico who delivered it was so cross at how late it was and how far away we lived, and that he had to get back to Roquetas del Mar, that he had left half the bits behind and didn't assemble it).
The first week
We had a list of things to do, all very boring and to do with banks, cars, and so on.
It was all predictably chaotic - nothing we planned in May had worked out, no surprises there. However, I did manage, finally, to get the papers for the old Hyundai from Pedro, our lawyer - after about a year. One of the decorators gave me the number of the ITV (MOT equivalent) place, and amazingly I phoned and got a time to turn up there. The conversation lasted about 5 seconds and is a model of me being English and the man at the ITV being Spanish:
Man: Digame! (this is how everyone generally answers the phone; a bit unnerving when it is briskly yelled at you - it means, tell me, talk to me, and seems the equivalent of "Yes?" in English, only presumably not so rude).
Me: Hello, I wonder if you can help me, the thing is, I've bought this house, and there's an old car, I havent driven it yet, but the thing is, I think I need to get it a test... ramble, ramble.
Man: Registration?
Me: Er (working out what "matricula" means).. hold on a minute.. Oh, I think this is it. Reads out number.
Man: 2pm, Tuesday the 31st. Hangs up.
My neighbour, Pablo, has kindly agreed to go to the place with me, which is a relief, as I can just see it probably won't be simple; the Hyundai is ok but you have to disconnect the battery when you're not driving it as the warning light won't go out and it drains it. Tu tranquila, Julia, he said.
Meanwhile, we bought a new car, a Ford Focus, ex showroom, good price. Mysteriously long and opaque transaction, during which the men kept disappearing for half hours without explanation, but it all worked out int he end. He was a very jolly and nice salesman who Pepe Lopez assures me is "buena gente", a good guy and he seemed to be: he explained it was in n his interest to give us a good deal as we might come back and get another car, which he would prefer. We met Pepe in the garage, having his 4x4 repaired; normally he is on a quad, as they all seem to be in Rambla Alhibe. He showed Sandy a lot of pictures of him racing it in Morocco, getting Sandy all excited about buying a Landrover and then hammering it around the desert. There is a big car race of some kind every other week in Vera, it seems; clearly will be on Sandy's to-do list. Clearly, having a 4x4 sends a different message in Rambla Alhibe than in Sevenoaks.
I called Inma, our lawyer, Pedro's, admin lady and failed to reach her a few times. I asked her about residency; we have a letter from the bank saying we need to renew the non-resident status on our bank account, but perhaps not, given that we will be resident. She finally says Almeria office is moving, she will find out where to and get back to me. She hasnt, yet.
Meanwhile, the broadband saga continues; we are managing with a dial-up line and a wire hanging across the stairs, which we keep tripping over.
I tried a number I found in the Ayuntiamento, claiming to call Gloria and get rural Internet, but it was Telefonica again, who were no help at all. However, I found a leaflet from a company called Iberbanda, and spoke to them in Madrid, then in the local Sorbas office, to a nice man with the wonderful name of Eulogio. Names here are great; the lady in the furniture shop is called Luz Divina. Eulogio said we had to put in an application and then they could find out if we could have the service; they won't know this till they come up here.
Meanwhile, it's down to the Lubrin library if you need a fast connection. – possibly the only practical way of getting online. The chairs are quite small; everyone else there was four years old and playing a game with a penguin; but that was OK. I can't say I've exactly missed being online, but it did give me an anxious feeling. I have always pitied those people who said they felt as if they had lost an arm when they lost a mobile phone (how is it similar, really?) but I do now see that being completely cut off from the online world is a bit unsettling. Mind you, I could get used to it easily. When the lady there finds out Sandy works for IBM she asks if he can advise them on putting wireless into the whole town; he recklessly agrees and says he can get her a free router which seems to delight her.
We go to collect our new cheque books. I now have one and BBVA in Vera have enlightened me as to why I couldnt use my passport number to access my account online. It seems they had used some other numbers from another part of my passport. No pasa nada, she reassured me, it won't matter. When we have our residency cards, they'll maybe switch it over, or maybe not.
Later in the week, the pool man, Tony, says he is having it put in in Rambla Alhibe so if Iberbanda doesnt work we can try that. He has been doing a good job on the pool, especially as he has a wasp phobia and there was a big nest under one of the loungers, and also the almond tree nearest the pool has some disease that makes it gummy and attracts wasps. We called Pablo to cut it down; his goats then came up to eat the branches, which they did in about 5 minutes flat, like a lot of locusts.) The fact is, however painful the transition has been, however much cement is in the house, and however many Spanish call centres I have to negotiate, it is quite impossible to be anything but happy sitting on the terrace in the warm, 10pm evening, watching the goats come home while the sky turns turquoise, then green and the moon rises. This is the most wonderful place I have ever been. I can't quite believe I am here; today I did about five hours of cleaning but at the end of that I dived into the pool and came out into 40 degrees and a chair with a view of my date palm.
A little reflection
I have not read a newspaper for two weeks. did read El País in the UK, but I am nowhere near a newspaper shop now. In fact is it is not high up my list; I feel much better for not reading all the depressing stories about murders and floods. This is considered to be a pig-ignorant approach but I don't care. I have always wondered about "need to know" - on what basis exactly do you need to know something? What about needing not to know? It is not as if anything happens if you don't, though no doubt my mother would point out this is how Hitler got into power, since both she and Sandy think my lack of interest in history, politics, etc, is deplorable and I am one step off Jade Goody.
I have not watched TV. (I did listen to the radio for the first time today; it was a Spanish phone in about people's psychological problems, which I partly understood though I had the feeling I was missing interesting nuances. Hmm, Marie Carmen, you must just carry on with your life.. etc.) We don't have TV yet; question whether we will, or not. We did bring the Sky box, because Sandy kept threatening me "you know, the only way you can EVER get Sky is if you bring the box with you". Well, it is in a cardboard box somewhere in the house; we'll see if we actually need it.
I have also not used a tumble dryer. It is just so great hanging out the washing, something I have not done since I was a graduate student, I don't think, when Mrs George, the bonkers landlady, used to come out from her lair with her cherry brandy and tell me I was not doing it properly and must peg things from the very edge, not fold them over; this lesson has now come very useful and I have passed her wisdom onto Lara. There is something very satisfying about hanging out washing that you just don't get from a drier/ The sun dries everything in about 5 minutes and it is an excellent thought that it would have taken me hours of electricity to dry the same stuff at home. This has nothing to do with me being environmentally aware; one of the huge reliefs of leaving the UK is not having to hear the words "carbon footprint" again: I dont think anyone in Almeria has a clue what it is, in fact, I am not sure they have got to the concept of environment really. However, here they are drying stuff on the line, and eating organic tomatoes - our neighbour in the wheelchair came up and gave me a bag the other day as a welcome gift and told me they were "ecológicos" (guessing the accent goes there) and they were certainly delicious. He also made a very nice speech about how all the "cariño" of the village would be open to me, and compared me favourably to the other Inglesa who does not speak any Spanish and has six dogs!" I will have to go round with some presents soon - it is hard to know what so I generally fall back on Tartan shortbread biscuits from the airport; suitably British though actually Scottish, as when you look there are never any traditionally English things, except a roast dinner, which you can hardly present to someone.
It is still hot at 9pm, and just now out of the window there is a beautiful sunset; on other nights the sky has been pale green beyond the hill, with a crescent moon and the evening star but today it is a pale orange; the moon moves mysteriously around the sky and changes size, but the whole sky as far as I can see is full of hundreds and thousands of stars, far more than I ever saw at home. There is no light at all, except the free street lamp stuck on every house by the council and these hardly disturb the darkness. Once it is dark, wild boars are out and about, apparently - Sue says you can tell from the smell if they have been, and certainly a patch of the garden stank the other day - though that could have been anything.
Now I am sitting here, waiting for my chorizo and patatas a la pobre to cook. There is a party of tomcats somewhere on the hill; the goat man, Antonio, is just crossing the corner of our field on his way home; the goat bells are ringing. Am home alone; kids have gone to Madrid and Sandy is on his way to New York from Madrid tomorrow. It is very peaceful; I feel more at home here than I ever did anywhere else, though I do wonder where Shrimpy is and if he has joined the cat party; he has walked further every day, and is doing new and interesting things like sleeping on a pile of boxes in the garage, climbing almond trees, and hanging by all four paws outside the upstairs windows because he hasnt worked out they have mesh outside: it was an odd sight looking out this afternoon and seeing a furry stomach pinned against the glass.
Sunday 15 July 2007
Last day
Today is our last day.
I am sitting in the kitchen with a slight hangover - mainly from lack of sleep but also from last night's goodbye party. Tomorrow is D Day, moving out day, our last day in the UK: everyone kept asking me if I felt excited, but I just feel exhausted. It is like having a baby - you are excited when you find out you are pregnant and after that it is all downhill. You forget why you did it, and in the last few days you are enormous and bad-tempered.
It is clear that the house and my body both know something is up. Over the last few weeks, the appliances have all acted up and gone wrong, and then a week ago on Thursday, I was about to go to Lara's school play and suddenly didn't feel well. This turned out not to be my sub-conscious trying to get out of seeing Oliver again - I was then violently ill for a week (you know what violently means in this context) which many people ascribed to stress; however as my mother-in-law had it too, I don't think so, unless she is having phantom removal pains.
It was then D-Day - 4 and I had missed a week.
D-Day-4
At half past eight, three removals men arrive: our mate Fred, one a bit like a less attractive David Essex and a very fat one. They tried to get their lorry next to the house, but the green camper van was parked outside our gate, again. Movers asked, could I get that moved, love? Hmm. Went to the pub to ask Shirley whose it was; someone at number 3. Girl answered the door, and said it was the lodger, but he wasn't there. He stuck his head out and said he was, but he was in bed. I asked if he could move it in the next half hour or so. Went back; the boxes were piling up on the pavement. Movers asked for a coffee.
Half an hour later, lodger had not moved van. Went back: he said crossly that he was just dressing. Eventually he moved it; Fat Mover told me the leather sofa should not have been wedged under the stairs and is scratched; I explained I didn't care; I liked it that way and he looked at me as I were barking.
The lady who is moving in, called to say BT were saying I hadn't put a stop on the phone line. I had, but I had to call them again; the call centre said they were very busy at the moment, and I thought, what do you know about being busy? When I spoke to someone, he said they had cancelled the stop on my line. Why was that, I wondered. It says, customer changed their mind, he said. I said I hadn't changed my mind. He said that it said on his notes that I had. I said, well, can I change it back? He sighed. I mentioned my tenants moving in two weeks later. The man got cross, and said it had been done all wrong! If tenants were moving in, I did not want a stop now, but later! He said someone should have a slapped wrist for doing it all wrong, but he would now change it and put it right. Thank you for your patience.Movers said "Another coffee would be great, love".
Went round the house losing the packing tape and scissors, finding things we had forgotten to pack; there were about 500 boxes and no room to walk. Fat Mover had a hard time squeezing through. Biffy was mewing and clawing the boxes; Shrimpy had vanished.
The post came, with various letters from financial services who had been asked not to send any more mail. I called their call centres, which were also very busy "taking calls from other customers." Is that supposed to make you feel better? Option 1, 2, and 3 never include asking not to be sent junk mail, but I eventually got a rather camp, helpful man, who called said, "I can provide that address for yourself, if you like."
I called the organisation that is supposed to help you stop junk-mail. The call centre options have recorded messages that tell you to write a letter and request an information pack. I try it a few times, then give up.
I talk to HSBC about Spanish account; it turns out that despite massive global multicultural ad campaign about being everywhere in the world, they are not in Spain. The woman says, yes, it is odd, isn't it? Instead, I set up a form to transfer money to our BBVA account; have to read IBAN numbers, etc, many times. Have got very good at "Bravo, Bravo, Victor, Alpha," stuff. Move money, apparently, then try to get on BBVA website but cannot sign in with my passport number. Call BBVA, who say I have another number registered. What can I do, I ask? They don't know - I can call the Internet help number. Decide instead to call back a few times and eventually get a man who gives me the passport number, which is quite different from mine. Go online, try to change the address, but need another number to do this. Ring up, and go to automated service to get number, then go back online. The system says I have been sent a one-use pin, which I need to enter and change on the site. I have not been sent this, or if I have, it will have gone to Spain by post and will take a week to arrive.
Went downstairs to see how men were doing. Fat Mover heaved a heavy sigh and said another coffee would be great. I pointed out the kettle, Nescafe etc and suggested they help themselves.
When they finally went, I saw they had gouged two holes in the £2000 redecoration job in the hall. Called Barry to get him to fix this and the smoke alarms. The kitchen tap wouldn't turn off; Sandy had tried to fix it with a bit of tape, but clearly that didn't work. Called Keith to see if he could fix it. Went out to get cat harnesses, the idea being that we can walk them round Spanish territory before releasing them into it. I know this will not work, but do it all the same.
Later on, Shrimpy appears, looking wary, and sniffs about. We decide we have to shut the cats in till we go, or Shrimpy will run away. He knows what boxes mean - they mean cattery, and he usually vanishes for 48 hours when he sees them. We try the harnesses; he goes very flat like a snake and growls, then nearly strangles himself. Biffy goes mad trying to get her harness off; anyway she is too fat for the waist part. We try to get Shrimpy to walk down the road, but he alternately lies down flat and then charges under parked cars.
All night, the cats yowl their heads off; Shrimpy produces a horrible deep roar that is nothing like his usual mew. Sandy comes in and says the massive cat carrier does not fit in the car. I had asked him to check it fitted 3 times; he said airily that it would, and because he is excellent at spatial awareness and I am crap at it, I had let it go.
In the night, Biffy wees on Alexander's mattress. I get up, put it in the washing machine, and get him another quilt.
D Day -3
Get up early to drop children at mother's, so I can go into London for laser eye check up with Dr Dan. Am nervous about some cells apparently growing on my eye - it will be a real nuisance if I have to come back from Spain - at the time, this seems a worse possibility than going blind. In fact, I am generally likely to take major medical risks to avoid minor inconvenience, like when I had the ganglion and could not cope with keeping the elastic bandage on by the pool and having a big white ankle mark on my tan.
Stop at Sainsbury for cat litter, drop kids off. Mother says sadly that it would be nice to have time to talk before I go. Sandy is getting a bad cold and says he has a temperature; we buy Lemsip. In London, go to my glamorous doctor Gill for valedictory Botox; she is looking slinky as usual, has run off with much younger man but sadly lost her place in Spain in the divorce. I think: I would rather have a house in Spain than a young man, any day.
It takes me 45 minutes and £20 to get to Dr Dan in a taxi. I sit there for 45 minutes eating up market chocolate biscuits and reading Vogue; it is the most rest I have had in a month. I read about ex-model Lady India or Savannah somebody who lives in the jungle in Kenya and shops in London once a year. She is feeding a warthog; I try to relate my move to this. Sandy and I are about twice as fat as them and our house is not in the jungle but we do have wild boar. My eyes are fine; I go to Liberty to try and get some fabric remnants to make things with in Spain; their remnants all start at £65 and vintage ribbon is £45 a metre. I give up and go to meet Jane for a drink, then go home.
We get kids, then go to Pets at Home to look at smaller carrier. Sandy has to go home to get the big one; meanwhile Lara runs around yelling "Mummy! Look at this!" and nagging me to get a chinchilla, rabbit, etc. We swap the carrier, go home and try the cat-harness business again; I tell the children it is a question of perseverance, but I know I will give up shortly. David, kids' godfather, has arrived to say goodbye; I am cross and sweaty and take Shrimpy to the allotment with Lara, where he continues to lie flat, or drag us into people's cabbages, then mews complainingly before making mad dashes to try and escape the harness. When we get back, Sandy has gone to the pub. I phone and yell at him about not being a maid; he says, why don't I come to the pub myself? I yell at him some more, then have a shower and decide to go over. As I leave the house, Alexander runs after me and says one of the cats has done a poo on the hall carpet.
We go to bed: Shrimpy continues the weird, deep mewing at regular intervals. I lie there, listening to it. Eventually, I shut him and Biffy in the kitchen and conservatory area, where they go quiet. Upstairs, Sandy is snoring very loudly so I go down to Lara's room but can't get back to sleep. The futon smells funny; I try not to think it is cat.
D-Day-2
Shrimpy and Biffy are sitting in the larder, on different shelves. They stare at me balefully and start to mew. Sandy takes them off to the vet. We decide to put them in the coach house for the rest of the day; it is too horrible listening to them asking to go out. Amazingly, they go quiet and fall asleep on the sofa, although Biffy does do a poo on the sisal matting.
Sandy takes the kids to Harry Potter movie. From 11 to 5 I clean and pack the rest of the stuff, which has expanded overnight. Then get changed for farewell party. This is good fun, though like all these events, you end up saying the same thing to everyone: yes, I am excited (I am not, actually, I just want it to be over), yes, the weather will be a lot better in Spain, yes, do visit us. If everyone we have invited actually visits us, we will have a full house all year, but they won't; we know that and so do they. The kids and their friends run riot round the streets. Go to bed at 1.30.
D-Day -1
I think to myself that I need a holiday, not in Spain.
I am sitting in the kitchen with a slight hangover - mainly from lack of sleep but also from last night's goodbye party. Tomorrow is D Day, moving out day, our last day in the UK: everyone kept asking me if I felt excited, but I just feel exhausted. It is like having a baby - you are excited when you find out you are pregnant and after that it is all downhill. You forget why you did it, and in the last few days you are enormous and bad-tempered.
It is clear that the house and my body both know something is up. Over the last few weeks, the appliances have all acted up and gone wrong, and then a week ago on Thursday, I was about to go to Lara's school play and suddenly didn't feel well. This turned out not to be my sub-conscious trying to get out of seeing Oliver again - I was then violently ill for a week (you know what violently means in this context) which many people ascribed to stress; however as my mother-in-law had it too, I don't think so, unless she is having phantom removal pains.
It was then D-Day - 4 and I had missed a week.
D-Day-4
At half past eight, three removals men arrive: our mate Fred, one a bit like a less attractive David Essex and a very fat one. They tried to get their lorry next to the house, but the green camper van was parked outside our gate, again. Movers asked, could I get that moved, love? Hmm. Went to the pub to ask Shirley whose it was; someone at number 3. Girl answered the door, and said it was the lodger, but he wasn't there. He stuck his head out and said he was, but he was in bed. I asked if he could move it in the next half hour or so. Went back; the boxes were piling up on the pavement. Movers asked for a coffee.
Half an hour later, lodger had not moved van. Went back: he said crossly that he was just dressing. Eventually he moved it; Fat Mover told me the leather sofa should not have been wedged under the stairs and is scratched; I explained I didn't care; I liked it that way and he looked at me as I were barking.
The lady who is moving in, called to say BT were saying I hadn't put a stop on the phone line. I had, but I had to call them again; the call centre said they were very busy at the moment, and I thought, what do you know about being busy? When I spoke to someone, he said they had cancelled the stop on my line. Why was that, I wondered. It says, customer changed their mind, he said. I said I hadn't changed my mind. He said that it said on his notes that I had. I said, well, can I change it back? He sighed. I mentioned my tenants moving in two weeks later. The man got cross, and said it had been done all wrong! If tenants were moving in, I did not want a stop now, but later! He said someone should have a slapped wrist for doing it all wrong, but he would now change it and put it right. Thank you for your patience.Movers said "Another coffee would be great, love".
Went round the house losing the packing tape and scissors, finding things we had forgotten to pack; there were about 500 boxes and no room to walk. Fat Mover had a hard time squeezing through. Biffy was mewing and clawing the boxes; Shrimpy had vanished.
The post came, with various letters from financial services who had been asked not to send any more mail. I called their call centres, which were also very busy "taking calls from other customers." Is that supposed to make you feel better? Option 1, 2, and 3 never include asking not to be sent junk mail, but I eventually got a rather camp, helpful man, who called said, "I can provide that address for yourself, if you like."
I called the organisation that is supposed to help you stop junk-mail. The call centre options have recorded messages that tell you to write a letter and request an information pack. I try it a few times, then give up.
I talk to HSBC about Spanish account; it turns out that despite massive global multicultural ad campaign about being everywhere in the world, they are not in Spain. The woman says, yes, it is odd, isn't it? Instead, I set up a form to transfer money to our BBVA account; have to read IBAN numbers, etc, many times. Have got very good at "Bravo, Bravo, Victor, Alpha," stuff. Move money, apparently, then try to get on BBVA website but cannot sign in with my passport number. Call BBVA, who say I have another number registered. What can I do, I ask? They don't know - I can call the Internet help number. Decide instead to call back a few times and eventually get a man who gives me the passport number, which is quite different from mine. Go online, try to change the address, but need another number to do this. Ring up, and go to automated service to get number, then go back online. The system says I have been sent a one-use pin, which I need to enter and change on the site. I have not been sent this, or if I have, it will have gone to Spain by post and will take a week to arrive.
Went downstairs to see how men were doing. Fat Mover heaved a heavy sigh and said another coffee would be great. I pointed out the kettle, Nescafe etc and suggested they help themselves.
When they finally went, I saw they had gouged two holes in the £2000 redecoration job in the hall. Called Barry to get him to fix this and the smoke alarms. The kitchen tap wouldn't turn off; Sandy had tried to fix it with a bit of tape, but clearly that didn't work. Called Keith to see if he could fix it. Went out to get cat harnesses, the idea being that we can walk them round Spanish territory before releasing them into it. I know this will not work, but do it all the same.
Later on, Shrimpy appears, looking wary, and sniffs about. We decide we have to shut the cats in till we go, or Shrimpy will run away. He knows what boxes mean - they mean cattery, and he usually vanishes for 48 hours when he sees them. We try the harnesses; he goes very flat like a snake and growls, then nearly strangles himself. Biffy goes mad trying to get her harness off; anyway she is too fat for the waist part. We try to get Shrimpy to walk down the road, but he alternately lies down flat and then charges under parked cars.
All night, the cats yowl their heads off; Shrimpy produces a horrible deep roar that is nothing like his usual mew. Sandy comes in and says the massive cat carrier does not fit in the car. I had asked him to check it fitted 3 times; he said airily that it would, and because he is excellent at spatial awareness and I am crap at it, I had let it go.
In the night, Biffy wees on Alexander's mattress. I get up, put it in the washing machine, and get him another quilt.
D Day -3
Get up early to drop children at mother's, so I can go into London for laser eye check up with Dr Dan. Am nervous about some cells apparently growing on my eye - it will be a real nuisance if I have to come back from Spain - at the time, this seems a worse possibility than going blind. In fact, I am generally likely to take major medical risks to avoid minor inconvenience, like when I had the ganglion and could not cope with keeping the elastic bandage on by the pool and having a big white ankle mark on my tan.
Stop at Sainsbury for cat litter, drop kids off. Mother says sadly that it would be nice to have time to talk before I go. Sandy is getting a bad cold and says he has a temperature; we buy Lemsip. In London, go to my glamorous doctor Gill for valedictory Botox; she is looking slinky as usual, has run off with much younger man but sadly lost her place in Spain in the divorce. I think: I would rather have a house in Spain than a young man, any day.
It takes me 45 minutes and £20 to get to Dr Dan in a taxi. I sit there for 45 minutes eating up market chocolate biscuits and reading Vogue; it is the most rest I have had in a month. I read about ex-model Lady India or Savannah somebody who lives in the jungle in Kenya and shops in London once a year. She is feeding a warthog; I try to relate my move to this. Sandy and I are about twice as fat as them and our house is not in the jungle but we do have wild boar. My eyes are fine; I go to Liberty to try and get some fabric remnants to make things with in Spain; their remnants all start at £65 and vintage ribbon is £45 a metre. I give up and go to meet Jane for a drink, then go home.
We get kids, then go to Pets at Home to look at smaller carrier. Sandy has to go home to get the big one; meanwhile Lara runs around yelling "Mummy! Look at this!" and nagging me to get a chinchilla, rabbit, etc. We swap the carrier, go home and try the cat-harness business again; I tell the children it is a question of perseverance, but I know I will give up shortly. David, kids' godfather, has arrived to say goodbye; I am cross and sweaty and take Shrimpy to the allotment with Lara, where he continues to lie flat, or drag us into people's cabbages, then mews complainingly before making mad dashes to try and escape the harness. When we get back, Sandy has gone to the pub. I phone and yell at him about not being a maid; he says, why don't I come to the pub myself? I yell at him some more, then have a shower and decide to go over. As I leave the house, Alexander runs after me and says one of the cats has done a poo on the hall carpet.
We go to bed: Shrimpy continues the weird, deep mewing at regular intervals. I lie there, listening to it. Eventually, I shut him and Biffy in the kitchen and conservatory area, where they go quiet. Upstairs, Sandy is snoring very loudly so I go down to Lara's room but can't get back to sleep. The futon smells funny; I try not to think it is cat.
D-Day-2
Shrimpy and Biffy are sitting in the larder, on different shelves. They stare at me balefully and start to mew. Sandy takes them off to the vet. We decide to put them in the coach house for the rest of the day; it is too horrible listening to them asking to go out. Amazingly, they go quiet and fall asleep on the sofa, although Biffy does do a poo on the sisal matting.
Sandy takes the kids to Harry Potter movie. From 11 to 5 I clean and pack the rest of the stuff, which has expanded overnight. Then get changed for farewell party. This is good fun, though like all these events, you end up saying the same thing to everyone: yes, I am excited (I am not, actually, I just want it to be over), yes, the weather will be a lot better in Spain, yes, do visit us. If everyone we have invited actually visits us, we will have a full house all year, but they won't; we know that and so do they. The kids and their friends run riot round the streets. Go to bed at 1.30.
D-Day -1
I think to myself that I need a holiday, not in Spain.
Sunday 8 July 2007
Bulk up on Creme de la Mer?
I have been deferring to the last minute the decision whether to buy a large pot of expensive Creme de la Mer moisturiser to take with me to Spain, on the basis that you can only get Astral and things like that in Vera. Well, this is a philosophical question. Jane very astutely pointed out to me, when we were talking about my getting a job in Spain, that I didn't want to replicate my life in the UK. I don't: I don't want to be a communications director, even in Spanish. I would rather be in the estate agent in Vera. At least that's what I think now. The charm of our Spanish life has always been the lack of crap - no carpets, no curtains, wood stoves, no TV or PC, not much stuff and I am going to have to make sure we don't turn it into our English house; it is already a risk, even though the weather keeps you outside much more.
Does this, however, extend to moisturiser? I am not sure. There are three dimensions to this a) does it matter getting old and wrinkly and b) being unsure that C de la M actually makes any difference anyway and c) blenching at the thought of the price, which is immoral, when £27 buys a poor family a goat as I read in one of the charity marketing flyers I got recently.
I thought I would just stop having Botox, which I have had in my forehead for ages, and which has got rid of my deep frown line, thereby, perhaps, briefly deceiving people into thinking I am not a stressed out, worrying control freak. However, when the line began to surface after about 6 months of withdrawal, I thought I would just nip to the doctor for a quick booster. I have booked this in for the last day, but the question of whether I will come back for more, or start to age "gracefully," remains an open one. I will, however, buy the goat, though part of me was thinking about the 500 or so that are constantly having babies in Los Herreras - no doubt I will soon have them to give away.
I constantly wrestle with this problem. (I mean, of course, at the back of my mind; it is not an all-consuming Blakean tussle). Is it superficial to care about looking nice, or does it not matter?In the red corner are people like Xtina and Jasmine, who think it is bad manners, lacking in self esteem, etc, to let oneself go, and even Jan pointed out that it is really depressing dealing with social workers who never wear any makeup. In the blue corner is the figure of Death with a sickle, reminding me that all remedies are pointless and that we are all going to be old and ugly. I suppose God is also there saying things like Handsome Is that Handsome Does and Fine Feathers make Fine Birds. I vaguely recall that this is a perennial philosophical question to do with the body and the soul; are they like an onion or is there an unimportant box with something valuable inside it?
It strikes me that this is a version of the same question as the one about language that has been on my mind - I am sure old Saussure or Chomsky or even that frightful Jacques Derrida used to bang on about the idea not being separate from the expression: the way you talk determines what you say, just as you cannot say "bossy" or "I am stuffed" (after dinner that is) in French, presumably because French people are not bossy and don't overeat. It will be interesting to find out what you can and can 't say in Spanish. For instance, Luis already told me that you don't say you catch an illness, it catches you, because the Spanish are more fatalistic and don't blame themselves for things happening.
I might have already said this, but I think they have a better attitude to age. I have noticed that the older Spanish woman can still be sexy, and I suspect has a lot of home-made remedies such as olive oil which work just as well as Creme de La Mer. This will save me a lot of money, and if it doesn't work, I can always not see anyone from the UK any more.
One ans wer is not to have a magnifying mirror, but the
Does this, however, extend to moisturiser? I am not sure. There are three dimensions to this a) does it matter getting old and wrinkly and b) being unsure that C de la M actually makes any difference anyway and c) blenching at the thought of the price, which is immoral, when £27 buys a poor family a goat as I read in one of the charity marketing flyers I got recently.
I thought I would just stop having Botox, which I have had in my forehead for ages, and which has got rid of my deep frown line, thereby, perhaps, briefly deceiving people into thinking I am not a stressed out, worrying control freak. However, when the line began to surface after about 6 months of withdrawal, I thought I would just nip to the doctor for a quick booster. I have booked this in for the last day, but the question of whether I will come back for more, or start to age "gracefully," remains an open one. I will, however, buy the goat, though part of me was thinking about the 500 or so that are constantly having babies in Los Herreras - no doubt I will soon have them to give away.
I constantly wrestle with this problem. (I mean, of course, at the back of my mind; it is not an all-consuming Blakean tussle). Is it superficial to care about looking nice, or does it not matter?In the red corner are people like Xtina and Jasmine, who think it is bad manners, lacking in self esteem, etc, to let oneself go, and even Jan pointed out that it is really depressing dealing with social workers who never wear any makeup. In the blue corner is the figure of Death with a sickle, reminding me that all remedies are pointless and that we are all going to be old and ugly. I suppose God is also there saying things like Handsome Is that Handsome Does and Fine Feathers make Fine Birds. I vaguely recall that this is a perennial philosophical question to do with the body and the soul; are they like an onion or is there an unimportant box with something valuable inside it?
It strikes me that this is a version of the same question as the one about language that has been on my mind - I am sure old Saussure or Chomsky or even that frightful Jacques Derrida used to bang on about the idea not being separate from the expression: the way you talk determines what you say, just as you cannot say "bossy" or "I am stuffed" (after dinner that is) in French, presumably because French people are not bossy and don't overeat. It will be interesting to find out what you can and can 't say in Spanish. For instance, Luis already told me that you don't say you catch an illness, it catches you, because the Spanish are more fatalistic and don't blame themselves for things happening.
I might have already said this, but I think they have a better attitude to age. I have noticed that the older Spanish woman can still be sexy, and I suspect has a lot of home-made remedies such as olive oil which work just as well as Creme de La Mer. This will save me a lot of money, and if it doesn't work, I can always not see anyone from the UK any more.
One ans wer is not to have a magnifying mirror, but the
Saturday 7 July 2007
Disposing of pickles and other tasks
Today I looked at the list of jobs I have been keeping on the task bit of my Outlook. There were about 350 crossed out jobs, going back to March, when we decided to go. I expect if I were a different person, someone entrepreneurial, I could turn this into a product and market it to people about to move house. It feels as if it is something like this:
- Get cats their rabies jab. Go back to check antibody levels. Speak to airline about cats, book flights for cats, pick up cat passports. Go to Pets at Home to get cat carrier. Pets at Home say ask airline what is approved carrier. BMI say get approved carrier from shop. Order carrier, it is not in stock. Call back airline, they want cat weights and dimensions of carrier. Give rough ideas as cats will not stand on scale.
- Weeks later call back, carrier was not actually ordered as manager did it and ha ha he is not very reliable, just like a man! Well, please can I have one? You better come over and look at them. Go and get massive carrier, maybe it will not fit in car. Give measurements to airline who say they will have to get back with confirmation as these are different. Do I need fit to travel health certificate? ask DEFRA? DEFRA say ask vet? vet says ask DEFRA. DEFRA say ask airline. Airline say no, not sure though so book cats in. Vet calls to say I see your cats are booked for check, vet is not in that day. This is Saturday before we go and check must be 48 hours before travel. What do I do? Vet does not know, suggests I ask DEFRA. Get cat litter tray, bowls for travel.
- Invite agents round to see house to rent. Many agents come round, all very nice, your house is charming. Do a lot of paperwork, using sticky address labels. Order more sticky address labels. Nobody comes round to visit. Call round agents and chase, take photos of house and shrink to email size, email to all agents. Have anxiety attack about house not being nice enough. Put house on websites. Change price of house. Agents say get permission from HSBC to rent house. Ask permission, they send me forms, ask for £3000 for permission. Am about to swallow this when I think, hmm, it's a lot of money and ring to check this is right. Woman laughs sheepishly and says, well, how long are you renting for? I say not sure, she says, ok then, it'll only be £250. I say that's a bit bad, I nearly paid it. She giggles and says, yes, it's awful really, they try it on.
-Agent advises to get hall decorated. Hire decorator, he does estimates, says he will do it all while we are away on May half term week. Is this certain? (it is March now). order Farrow and Ball paint. Go away for half term to Spain. Decorator calls, says job is worse than he thought. I say he came in twice before hand to look at it, why is it worse now? Life is like that, you don't know what you're going to find on a project till you do. Yes, I know this from AMEC. He suggests we just cover it up with some heavy flock wall paper. I say no, I don't think so. Why not? It is not my taste. OK then, we'll talk when I get back.
Get home Sunday late pm to find lights are all off, there is no power in house. Wardrobe is in bathroom, hall is half plastered, doorbell is off, etc. Avoid hysterical call to decorator till Monday, then make it. Wait in for decorator, he says he is on another job till mid next week. Also, plaster has to dry. Argue with decorator (why is my job not priority? why did he say it would all be done last week of May?) Evntually get decorator back. Painting work starts.
Have nervous breakdown symptoms because only three weeks' viewing left and decorator says F&B paint has not stuck to wall properly, it is all patchy. He says he has never thought much of F&B, we argue about it as I have used it lots of times before. He gets his mate on the phone for advice and says loudly "Yes mate, F&B, I don't think much of it myself, either." We speak to F&B on the phone, they say plaster probably not properly dry. Decorator says this is a big problem, does not know what to do. In the end, he paints over it in F&B emulsion and it works. He finishes it all off then I ask him to hang the clock back. I explain I would rather he put the fixing in as you can't just tap nails into the wall. He says you can. He does it, and a big piece of plaster comes off. He says he will come back and fix it later.
One agent puts up board without asking. Ask about board (this is when they put it up without asking). She says it is a good marketing technique, so board stays. Neighbours all say: "I see your house is up for rent!" and "Haven't you rented it yet?" No.
Am advised by one agent that I had too many agents and this could be the death of my property. Says she once knew a house that took a YEAR to go, because it was on with too many agents. People think this means there must be something wrong with it. Ask her why she can't tell them there isn't. Ask Xtina for advice. She says this is cynical ploy, but also, maybe true. I drop agent. and some others, stay with two. Change the price again. Sandy says not to panic and he does not want to subsidise tenants, but I do it anyway. Phone them constantly, driving them mad. . ake up book with all appliance information, find appliance information, find utility information, find plumber, electrician and all other supplier numbers, find meters and stopcock, fill in book.
- HURRAH, we have tenants. I knew only non-Brits would appreciate my house; he is French. Take nice lady round, show her all appliances and how they work. Coffee machine breaks down when she is gone, call Miele, book engineer. Call tenant about taking on allotment, take her round to allotment. Fix security light, buy new bulbs for security light, SHIT light not working, call decorator, try all fuses, photo light and email to decorator to replace chase agency for rental agreement, organise cleaners, book cleaner in to do estimate, put cleaning into rental agreement. Get gifts for agents who got tenants, wrap and take round. Get weedkiller to do patio, call tree company to take out dead tree that may be Health and Safety risk. Tree people cannot come for a week, then come, will have to come back to take out tree. Cleaner does estimate - cat wee patch on carpet is big problem and needs fitter to come and replace underlay. Big job, suggests I get someone to do it. I suggest he could do it. He says he will get back to me. Agency have not yet sent rental agreement, chase it up. Call insurers to advise of new conditions.
- Pack up house, order boxes from online site, order more boxes, order bubble wrap, order tape, order more tape, SHIT next day delivery not arrived, on phone, phone does not answer, call back, call back. It is on the lorry madam, no we can't say when it will arrive. No, delivery is next day, that does not actually mean it is next day guaranteed. If you read the small print, you will see. Chase orders that have not arrived, pack, pack, pack, pack. Run out of bubble wrap, order more. Go to get Arctic root and St Johns Wort tablet stocks to take so I do not revert to unmedicated self when in Spain. There is no more Arctic Root (wonder drug) in stock, order it. Go to get cat discs engraved and collars for cats, batteries for scales to take to Spain in case they don't have these, plus bayonet fitting light bulbs for our lamps (no bayonet fittings there).
- Go through kitchen, emptying and washing about 100 jars of pickle which are past their sell by date, sometimes by about 3 years.
(I pointed out to Sandy long ago that he ought to join Pickles Anonymous: I remember him when he thought the Millenium Bug would mean no food in shops: he stockpiled about 3 cupboards of Ambrosia Cream Rice and Macedonia Fruit Salad which I said I would rather starve than eat and then after there was no Millenium Bug I had to throw all that out; even school Harvest Festival would not want it, they expect nice Twining Tea and Bonne Maman jam. I have to hope that in Spain, we will not have access to so many pickles and also that people will not take it into their heads to give them to us for Christmas. It is all down to people not knowing what to buy for a man, which has meant that for years, we have been being given small jars of pickled beetroot or chutney (which I have seen it lots of times but never eaten it; chunks of vegetable in brown sauce doesn't appeal to me). They come with a little checked cloth over them and quaint writing but the fact is they are just Branston pickle more or less and they move slowly to the back of the cupboard, where they go off. Fortunately, the Mercadona doesn't have much pickle, only olives and small white onions, which Sandy doesn't seem so compelled to collect.
I am not joking when I say Pickles Anonymous I actually think it's a psychological problem he has. Women bang on about diets and read novels about them but actually men have just as many food issues, only different ones. The way they manifest stress is different. Recently, Sandy has started behaving like a marauding bear, one of those ones that invade people's bins in Canada which are called "rogue" bears. The other day, he approached the fridge as if he were going to claw it open, and he is even looking more and more like a bear. I told him maybe he had reverse anorexia, where you look in the mirror and actually you are fat, but you think you look thin. He just laughed and said he was planning to see how big he could get.)
- Take jars to bottle bank, several trips, using a lot of petrol (plus water used to wash them out, which takes a long time, especially sticky Chinese sauce which will not come out of the bottle even if upside down in sink).
- Fill boxes of soft toys, apologising to the bears as I compress them down, plus random clothes, and about 1 million computer games. Keep telling the kids "you won't be on the computer all the time in Spain, you know." It is true, they play outside a lot more, and now Alexander thinks he can get a quad bike, I don't think we will see him for dust.
- Make Sandy get rid of many shirts left in cupboards "too gay" (ie they fit and are not baggy enough to pull up round beer belly). Go to Oxfam with bags of shirts. He has never thrown anything away in his life: the only reason we don't have more is because I have removed university rugby shirts, etc. on the sly. Run out of boxes, order more. Throw things, throw things out, pack. Order missing chess pieces from Alexander's talking chess set he has never used because of missing pieces, so we can take it with us. Go and get books because you can't buy them in Spain, pack them.
- Go on Royal Mail website to try and work out how to get post forwarded. Can't understand site - it seems only to cater for moving in the UK. Call them, listen to call centre music. They can send me a form in the post. I order it, but also get one from the post office. The one I ordered turns up about 5 weeks later, after I have had the reply from the second one. Meanwhile, go through files to find all people who send us post, make a list of them. Call them to tell them we are moving. A lot of things like phones and his credit cards are in Sandy's name because that's his domain. They say things like, due to the Data Protection Act, we cannot speak to you as your name is not on the account. Where is your husband? He is in Australia. Get irritable and say spitefully, well, you'll be the ones writing to the wrong address!
- I make a list for him. I call the numbers I have and get automated call centres. Option 1, 2 and 3 do not include moving to Spain. I use cunning ruses to get a human being, and when I do, they pass me around a bit. Someone says, "Right, give us the new address." I try to explain Spanish address on the phone. People say "What?" and "What's the postcode?" L-A-S that is LIMA, ALPHA, SIERRA... I say. "Is that LOS?" No it's LAS. I have a lot of chats with people about how super, moving to Spain, I bet the weather is lovely out there. It takes about 2 whole days to make the calls; a lot of them say, you have to put it in writing. I cannot even reach half the people who send us junk mail; they do not have phone numbers or addresses. I call some of them several times; they say we are on a number of lists which is why we keep getting more post.
- Cancel store cards. Ask for all bills to go online. Listen to "ANOTHER GIRL, ANOTHER PLANET" on Vodafone helpline about 6 times, till nearly driven mad. Girl on the other end says, yes, we are thinking about changing the music. I point out also they could tell you where you are in the queue like everyone else. She says they are thinking about that too. Cancel more cards, call Sevenoaks council re poll tax. They register I am going and am in credit with them. They say they will stop all paperwork and pay off the account. A week later they sent me a paper bill for next year.
-Call Trevor (garage man) about selling Mercedes. He gives me dealer's number, I go and see them, they make an offer, I sell the car. We now only have one, which means Sandy and I have to negotiate all the time. Call Landrover about selling the car back to them. Sandy has claimed this is not possible as we are on a 3 year contract. I am not sure; anyway, we have nowhere to park it in the UK as tenants will take both parking spaces. Landrover are great. Nice guy called Darryl says we can return it and there is enough change on the contract to hire a car. We hire a Passat and let the side down on the school run. Lose the cheque from Landrover and have to call them back to reissue it.
- Resume driving responsiblities. I now have to: leave at 7.30 to go to Alexander's busstop, then back to Lara's school. If Sandy is working in town, go to station in Chelsfield first, or afterwards. Get home, do all other stuff, then do same in reverse from 4pm, or 3pm if school has kindly decided it is school play so children can go home early for a rest before hand.
- Get big stock of fishfood for fish, arrange for fish in tank, orchids, freezer and microwave to go to Jamie and Neville, and Jan respectively. They turn up in the drive: large lady in purple (Jan),tattooed cool skinny guy in khaki fatigues (Neville) and larger guy with jewellery and cap (Jamie). Keith (policeman neighbour) is fixing his bike in the garage, we are chatting. It's the first day the sun has been out for weeks; it all feels a bit Lily Allen. There is some banter:
Me: Here comes my team.
Keith: Team of pikies, you mean.
Neville and Jamie laugh.
Jan: Anyone want some lavender?
Keith: Or Little Britain, more like.
I start to feel sad about going. I have some cool neighbours here, I really do. I tell Neville and Jamie to name the 4 fish (bred from eggs in our pond) after the family. Neville says if one dies we'll decide which one of you it is and let you know. Then they relent and say they will send me some photos of the fish. Jan takes my orchids. It is all a bit final as they wheel the stuff away.
- Get cats their rabies jab. Go back to check antibody levels. Speak to airline about cats, book flights for cats, pick up cat passports. Go to Pets at Home to get cat carrier. Pets at Home say ask airline what is approved carrier. BMI say get approved carrier from shop. Order carrier, it is not in stock. Call back airline, they want cat weights and dimensions of carrier. Give rough ideas as cats will not stand on scale.
- Weeks later call back, carrier was not actually ordered as manager did it and ha ha he is not very reliable, just like a man! Well, please can I have one? You better come over and look at them. Go and get massive carrier, maybe it will not fit in car. Give measurements to airline who say they will have to get back with confirmation as these are different. Do I need fit to travel health certificate? ask DEFRA? DEFRA say ask vet? vet says ask DEFRA. DEFRA say ask airline. Airline say no, not sure though so book cats in. Vet calls to say I see your cats are booked for check, vet is not in that day. This is Saturday before we go and check must be 48 hours before travel. What do I do? Vet does not know, suggests I ask DEFRA. Get cat litter tray, bowls for travel.
- Invite agents round to see house to rent. Many agents come round, all very nice, your house is charming. Do a lot of paperwork, using sticky address labels. Order more sticky address labels. Nobody comes round to visit. Call round agents and chase, take photos of house and shrink to email size, email to all agents. Have anxiety attack about house not being nice enough. Put house on websites. Change price of house. Agents say get permission from HSBC to rent house. Ask permission, they send me forms, ask for £3000 for permission. Am about to swallow this when I think, hmm, it's a lot of money and ring to check this is right. Woman laughs sheepishly and says, well, how long are you renting for? I say not sure, she says, ok then, it'll only be £250. I say that's a bit bad, I nearly paid it. She giggles and says, yes, it's awful really, they try it on.
-Agent advises to get hall decorated. Hire decorator, he does estimates, says he will do it all while we are away on May half term week. Is this certain? (it is March now). order Farrow and Ball paint. Go away for half term to Spain. Decorator calls, says job is worse than he thought. I say he came in twice before hand to look at it, why is it worse now? Life is like that, you don't know what you're going to find on a project till you do. Yes, I know this from AMEC. He suggests we just cover it up with some heavy flock wall paper. I say no, I don't think so. Why not? It is not my taste. OK then, we'll talk when I get back.
Get home Sunday late pm to find lights are all off, there is no power in house. Wardrobe is in bathroom, hall is half plastered, doorbell is off, etc. Avoid hysterical call to decorator till Monday, then make it. Wait in for decorator, he says he is on another job till mid next week. Also, plaster has to dry. Argue with decorator (why is my job not priority? why did he say it would all be done last week of May?) Evntually get decorator back. Painting work starts.
Have nervous breakdown symptoms because only three weeks' viewing left and decorator says F&B paint has not stuck to wall properly, it is all patchy. He says he has never thought much of F&B, we argue about it as I have used it lots of times before. He gets his mate on the phone for advice and says loudly "Yes mate, F&B, I don't think much of it myself, either." We speak to F&B on the phone, they say plaster probably not properly dry. Decorator says this is a big problem, does not know what to do. In the end, he paints over it in F&B emulsion and it works. He finishes it all off then I ask him to hang the clock back. I explain I would rather he put the fixing in as you can't just tap nails into the wall. He says you can. He does it, and a big piece of plaster comes off. He says he will come back and fix it later.
One agent puts up board without asking. Ask about board (this is when they put it up without asking). She says it is a good marketing technique, so board stays. Neighbours all say: "I see your house is up for rent!" and "Haven't you rented it yet?" No.
Am advised by one agent that I had too many agents and this could be the death of my property. Says she once knew a house that took a YEAR to go, because it was on with too many agents. People think this means there must be something wrong with it. Ask her why she can't tell them there isn't. Ask Xtina for advice. She says this is cynical ploy, but also, maybe true. I drop agent. and some others, stay with two. Change the price again. Sandy says not to panic and he does not want to subsidise tenants, but I do it anyway. Phone them constantly, driving them mad. . ake up book with all appliance information, find appliance information, find utility information, find plumber, electrician and all other supplier numbers, find meters and stopcock, fill in book.
- HURRAH, we have tenants. I knew only non-Brits would appreciate my house; he is French. Take nice lady round, show her all appliances and how they work. Coffee machine breaks down when she is gone, call Miele, book engineer. Call tenant about taking on allotment, take her round to allotment. Fix security light, buy new bulbs for security light, SHIT light not working, call decorator, try all fuses, photo light and email to decorator to replace chase agency for rental agreement, organise cleaners, book cleaner in to do estimate, put cleaning into rental agreement. Get gifts for agents who got tenants, wrap and take round. Get weedkiller to do patio, call tree company to take out dead tree that may be Health and Safety risk. Tree people cannot come for a week, then come, will have to come back to take out tree. Cleaner does estimate - cat wee patch on carpet is big problem and needs fitter to come and replace underlay. Big job, suggests I get someone to do it. I suggest he could do it. He says he will get back to me. Agency have not yet sent rental agreement, chase it up. Call insurers to advise of new conditions.
- Pack up house, order boxes from online site, order more boxes, order bubble wrap, order tape, order more tape, SHIT next day delivery not arrived, on phone, phone does not answer, call back, call back. It is on the lorry madam, no we can't say when it will arrive. No, delivery is next day, that does not actually mean it is next day guaranteed. If you read the small print, you will see. Chase orders that have not arrived, pack, pack, pack, pack. Run out of bubble wrap, order more. Go to get Arctic root and St Johns Wort tablet stocks to take so I do not revert to unmedicated self when in Spain. There is no more Arctic Root (wonder drug) in stock, order it. Go to get cat discs engraved and collars for cats, batteries for scales to take to Spain in case they don't have these, plus bayonet fitting light bulbs for our lamps (no bayonet fittings there).
- Go through kitchen, emptying and washing about 100 jars of pickle which are past their sell by date, sometimes by about 3 years.
(I pointed out to Sandy long ago that he ought to join Pickles Anonymous: I remember him when he thought the Millenium Bug would mean no food in shops: he stockpiled about 3 cupboards of Ambrosia Cream Rice and Macedonia Fruit Salad which I said I would rather starve than eat and then after there was no Millenium Bug I had to throw all that out; even school Harvest Festival would not want it, they expect nice Twining Tea and Bonne Maman jam. I have to hope that in Spain, we will not have access to so many pickles and also that people will not take it into their heads to give them to us for Christmas. It is all down to people not knowing what to buy for a man, which has meant that for years, we have been being given small jars of pickled beetroot or chutney (which I have seen it lots of times but never eaten it; chunks of vegetable in brown sauce doesn't appeal to me). They come with a little checked cloth over them and quaint writing but the fact is they are just Branston pickle more or less and they move slowly to the back of the cupboard, where they go off. Fortunately, the Mercadona doesn't have much pickle, only olives and small white onions, which Sandy doesn't seem so compelled to collect.
I am not joking when I say Pickles Anonymous I actually think it's a psychological problem he has. Women bang on about diets and read novels about them but actually men have just as many food issues, only different ones. The way they manifest stress is different. Recently, Sandy has started behaving like a marauding bear, one of those ones that invade people's bins in Canada which are called "rogue" bears. The other day, he approached the fridge as if he were going to claw it open, and he is even looking more and more like a bear. I told him maybe he had reverse anorexia, where you look in the mirror and actually you are fat, but you think you look thin. He just laughed and said he was planning to see how big he could get.)
- Take jars to bottle bank, several trips, using a lot of petrol (plus water used to wash them out, which takes a long time, especially sticky Chinese sauce which will not come out of the bottle even if upside down in sink).
- Fill boxes of soft toys, apologising to the bears as I compress them down, plus random clothes, and about 1 million computer games. Keep telling the kids "you won't be on the computer all the time in Spain, you know." It is true, they play outside a lot more, and now Alexander thinks he can get a quad bike, I don't think we will see him for dust.
- Make Sandy get rid of many shirts left in cupboards "too gay" (ie they fit and are not baggy enough to pull up round beer belly). Go to Oxfam with bags of shirts. He has never thrown anything away in his life: the only reason we don't have more is because I have removed university rugby shirts, etc. on the sly. Run out of boxes, order more. Throw things, throw things out, pack. Order missing chess pieces from Alexander's talking chess set he has never used because of missing pieces, so we can take it with us. Go and get books because you can't buy them in Spain, pack them.
- Go on Royal Mail website to try and work out how to get post forwarded. Can't understand site - it seems only to cater for moving in the UK. Call them, listen to call centre music. They can send me a form in the post. I order it, but also get one from the post office. The one I ordered turns up about 5 weeks later, after I have had the reply from the second one. Meanwhile, go through files to find all people who send us post, make a list of them. Call them to tell them we are moving. A lot of things like phones and his credit cards are in Sandy's name because that's his domain. They say things like, due to the Data Protection Act, we cannot speak to you as your name is not on the account. Where is your husband? He is in Australia. Get irritable and say spitefully, well, you'll be the ones writing to the wrong address!
- I make a list for him. I call the numbers I have and get automated call centres. Option 1, 2 and 3 do not include moving to Spain. I use cunning ruses to get a human being, and when I do, they pass me around a bit. Someone says, "Right, give us the new address." I try to explain Spanish address on the phone. People say "What?" and "What's the postcode?" L-A-S that is LIMA, ALPHA, SIERRA... I say. "Is that LOS?" No it's LAS. I have a lot of chats with people about how super, moving to Spain, I bet the weather is lovely out there. It takes about 2 whole days to make the calls; a lot of them say, you have to put it in writing. I cannot even reach half the people who send us junk mail; they do not have phone numbers or addresses. I call some of them several times; they say we are on a number of lists which is why we keep getting more post.
- Cancel store cards. Ask for all bills to go online. Listen to "ANOTHER GIRL, ANOTHER PLANET" on Vodafone helpline about 6 times, till nearly driven mad. Girl on the other end says, yes, we are thinking about changing the music. I point out also they could tell you where you are in the queue like everyone else. She says they are thinking about that too. Cancel more cards, call Sevenoaks council re poll tax. They register I am going and am in credit with them. They say they will stop all paperwork and pay off the account. A week later they sent me a paper bill for next year.
-Call Trevor (garage man) about selling Mercedes. He gives me dealer's number, I go and see them, they make an offer, I sell the car. We now only have one, which means Sandy and I have to negotiate all the time. Call Landrover about selling the car back to them. Sandy has claimed this is not possible as we are on a 3 year contract. I am not sure; anyway, we have nowhere to park it in the UK as tenants will take both parking spaces. Landrover are great. Nice guy called Darryl says we can return it and there is enough change on the contract to hire a car. We hire a Passat and let the side down on the school run. Lose the cheque from Landrover and have to call them back to reissue it.
- Resume driving responsiblities. I now have to: leave at 7.30 to go to Alexander's busstop, then back to Lara's school. If Sandy is working in town, go to station in Chelsfield first, or afterwards. Get home, do all other stuff, then do same in reverse from 4pm, or 3pm if school has kindly decided it is school play so children can go home early for a rest before hand.
- Get big stock of fishfood for fish, arrange for fish in tank, orchids, freezer and microwave to go to Jamie and Neville, and Jan respectively. They turn up in the drive: large lady in purple (Jan),tattooed cool skinny guy in khaki fatigues (Neville) and larger guy with jewellery and cap (Jamie). Keith (policeman neighbour) is fixing his bike in the garage, we are chatting. It's the first day the sun has been out for weeks; it all feels a bit Lily Allen. There is some banter:
Me: Here comes my team.
Keith: Team of pikies, you mean.
Neville and Jamie laugh.
Jan: Anyone want some lavender?
Keith: Or Little Britain, more like.
I start to feel sad about going. I have some cool neighbours here, I really do. I tell Neville and Jamie to name the 4 fish (bred from eggs in our pond) after the family. Neville says if one dies we'll decide which one of you it is and let you know. Then they relent and say they will send me some photos of the fish. Jan takes my orchids. It is all a bit final as they wheel the stuff away.
Different ways of working
Juana's mother's career advice
When I first went out to Las Almendras, I walked round the rambla and met my neighbours: Juana, Pablo and their family. I was actually a bit scared, as I have never stopped being when I meet new people, and particularly as I was the estranjera, the foreigner. As I went up the track, I felt conspicuous in my shorts and sunglasses when everyone else was in a shirt and trousers, long skirt, or in Juana's mother's case, a black widow's outfit. But, of course, they were incredibly friendly and kind, as they have always been. It was on this first trip that Juana's mother asked me why we didn't just live in Spain.
We have to pay the mortgage, work, I said. I wish we could. We need to work, though.
There was a pause. Then she pointed at the fields.
"Plenty of work here," she said.
After a minute, she looked at me and had second thoughts.
"You're educated, you could probably get a job in an estate agent, in Vera," she added.
(Career counsellors have never done much for me. At Oxford, the Careers Service lady ran her finger down a chart. "English degree ...Advertising!" Since then, I've been advised to: run your own business, work in a big company, work in a small company, go into PR, go into marketing, and (from Sandy) go into IT, work with some crazy journalists I know who've started an online business or work for BarCap because it's a lot of money. They all seemed to have some validity as ideas, but the problem was I didnt want to do any of them and in most cases wasn't fit for them either. That's the thing with advice, like horoscopes, it's OK if it tells you what you want to hear, but not otherwise, and it really ought to come from someone clever who sees you from on high, like God or a good shrink, and not a friend or colleague who is just saying the first generally applicable thing that comes into their head. In fact, I would say the only one time in my life I have had good advice was in church or from the shrink from the Priory I saw twice when I couldn't sleep.)
I laughed, and told quite a lot of people the story of Juana's mother. But now I come to think of it, I think she saw me more clearly than I saw myself. I just thought of myself as a "professional" who worked in an office, ignoring the fact that the only thing that matters is if you enjoy doing something. This is often the way: Sylvia and Alain said, when we bought Las Almendras, that we would be living there within a year, and we are. And after all, though I didnt know it, being an estate agent in Vera may well be my destiny, or part of it.
No, Minister
When I first went out to Las Almendras, I walked round the rambla and met my neighbours: Juana, Pablo and their family. I was actually a bit scared, as I have never stopped being when I meet new people, and particularly as I was the estranjera, the foreigner. As I went up the track, I felt conspicuous in my shorts and sunglasses when everyone else was in a shirt and trousers, long skirt, or in Juana's mother's case, a black widow's outfit. But, of course, they were incredibly friendly and kind, as they have always been. It was on this first trip that Juana's mother asked me why we didn't just live in Spain.
We have to pay the mortgage, work, I said. I wish we could. We need to work, though.
There was a pause. Then she pointed at the fields.
"Plenty of work here," she said.
After a minute, she looked at me and had second thoughts.
"You're educated, you could probably get a job in an estate agent, in Vera," she added.
(Career counsellors have never done much for me. At Oxford, the Careers Service lady ran her finger down a chart. "English degree ...Advertising!" Since then, I've been advised to: run your own business, work in a big company, work in a small company, go into PR, go into marketing, and (from Sandy) go into IT, work with some crazy journalists I know who've started an online business or work for BarCap because it's a lot of money. They all seemed to have some validity as ideas, but the problem was I didnt want to do any of them and in most cases wasn't fit for them either. That's the thing with advice, like horoscopes, it's OK if it tells you what you want to hear, but not otherwise, and it really ought to come from someone clever who sees you from on high, like God or a good shrink, and not a friend or colleague who is just saying the first generally applicable thing that comes into their head. In fact, I would say the only one time in my life I have had good advice was in church or from the shrink from the Priory I saw twice when I couldn't sleep.)
I laughed, and told quite a lot of people the story of Juana's mother. But now I come to think of it, I think she saw me more clearly than I saw myself. I just thought of myself as a "professional" who worked in an office, ignoring the fact that the only thing that matters is if you enjoy doing something. This is often the way: Sylvia and Alain said, when we bought Las Almendras, that we would be living there within a year, and we are. And after all, though I didnt know it, being an estate agent in Vera may well be my destiny, or part of it.
No, Minister
It is, of course, always easier to know what isn't your destiny, especially once you've tried it, like Tigger, and don't like it. This was what happened with the government contract I tried. People told me it would be a different culture and it was: the secretaries were not glamorous but old and fat and you couldnt say someone was crap, you had to say their skill set didn't match the project, or something of that kind.
While I worked there, I never got a desk, a phone and a PC at the same time. Before I joined, I asked Sarah, the boss, about where I would sit, and she said something like we wasn't sure. I asked her about my laptop and she said I should phone IBM's helpdesk. IBM's helpdesk said I should ask my local IT consultant, who came a few days later and said personal laptops wouldnt work in the government building, nor would Blackberrys. In the end, sometimes I got one of the three things I needed, sometimes two, but never all three. I did ask at the beginning, and it went like this:
Me: Hi, Sylvia, good morning.
Sylvia: Oh, good morning.
Me: Where could I sit today?
Sylvia: (looking round very vaguely as if she didnt recognise the office). Ah... Ah, well.
Me; Over here?
Sylvia: Er, no, not there. Sue's sitting there later.
Me: Over here?
Sylvia: No, it's Friday. Jackie's in on Fridays.
Me: Well, where can I sit?
Sylvia: Well...you could sit next to Ann..only she doesn't like anyone sitting near her.
Stuff that. I try the desk next to Ann, but the PC, which takes 10 minutes to wake up, has no internet. Also, the phone doesn't work.
Me: Paul, is that desk next to you free?
Paul (heavy sigh at the idea I might sit next to him) Er.. I don't know. it might be.
I sit down. The phone is forwarded to someone's mobile. The PC works, but I can't load Yahoo mail, which I am mainly using, because there isn't enough memory: I have to opt out of the Beta version and into the old one. I work for a bit, using my laptop, transferring stuff onto a flash drive and then mailing it on the office system. Then the system goes down. I listen to the conversations around me:
Paul: Sylvia?
Sylvia: (staring at the screen intently as if going to catch a mouse) Silence.
Paul: (more loudly) SYLVIA!
Sylvia: (starting) Yes? Yes? What is it?
Paul: Could you possibly copy these for the meeting?
Sylvia (looks blank) These?
Paul: Yes, the agenda.
Sylvia: Oh, well.. I was just.. Yes, alright, leave it with me.
Hours pass. Sylvia takes most of the morning going back and forth to the copier, which bleeps intermittently as if in pain.
Hours pass.
Paul: Sylvia, did you do those copies?
Sylvia: Er, ah...I think there must be some problem with the machine, it seems not to be working.
Paul (with frustrated tutting noise and sotto voce) For heaven's sake! He heaves a sigh and goes over: there is no paper in the machine.
Paul: Sylvia, this is where the paper goes..
Sylvia: Well, I'm just off home now, it is 4pm .... (Takes lift down to ground floor).
In the end, I come in, then say I am going to Starbucks as there is no desk, phone or PC. Everyone ignores me and carries on working. I
People don't really like change, especially not in the office. The IR director in my old job did not like change. Once, when I suggested that instead of emailing tens of powerpoint files around the office during results, they could be stored on a shared drive. There was an intake of breath and a silence. "That would be a whole new way of working," he said, in shocked tones. We used this phrase as much as we could in my team after that, about moving the stapler and things of that kind, which was quite funny ("Shall we move this stapler? That would be a whole new way of working"), but it wasn't really that funny. In fact, I am quite bitter and upset about my UK work experience, particularly since 1989. Is it right that, in that same last job, the Company Secretary, when I said things in meetings, would put his hand on my arm restrainingly and say "Just a minute, dear." Offices are full of conventions, and old men, and the worst of it is that, whenever you have a bright idea for change, you end up feeling like the schoolgirl who spoke out of turn.
I have had a lot of advice about how moving doesn't change your problem, but it allows you to imagine yourself differently, do things that you would be scared to do at home. There is no way I could go and work in an estate agent in Sevenoaks, but there are many days when the estate agency starts to look quite appealing.
Education, education
Miss Mackintosh and me
I had a row with one of Alexander's teachers over the phone the other day. A month ago, I would have held back, but I am getting a bit demob crazy. Her name is Miss Mackintosh, and in my mind's eye she has a large backside, a bit like my old Latin teacher, and is wearing a mackintosh. I had called to ask if Alexander could study Spanish instead of doing SATS tests, since he isnt going to need them in Spain. This is what happened:
Miss M:(very loudly and clearly in ringing posh voice which goes up and down on stressed words) Now Mrs Aitken, about this idea of Alexander doing Spanish homework (said as if I had suggested he use the time to download porn) during the tests, I' m afraid we can't possibly have that.
Me: (with cold suspicion) And why is that? (I could have added "pray?" but I didnt actually).
Miss M: We can't possibly make exceptions for individual children. If we did that, every parent in the school would be ringing to ask for the same treatment.
Me: (thinking, why would they do that, the rest of them are not moving to Spain). Well, it's a bit disappointing. You don't seem to be very flexible..
Miss M: (interrupting). You say that Mrs Aitken, but most of the parents are perfectly satisfied. You must understand, Mrs Aitken, the school is geared up to provide what most of the parents want..
Me (interrupting) Which is? Exam results, I suppose.
Miss M: Of course they want the children to do well and to have Choices!
Me: It's a shame they couldnt do Spanish, when it is the world's 3rd most spoken language whereas French and German...
Miss M: (Over the top of me). Well, Mrs Aitken, I am a linguist, and I have been teaching for FORTY YEARS and I am afraid I DO NOT AGREE WITH YOU.
Me: I dont think we're going to agree.
Miss M: (booming and onto the next thing) I'm sorry to hear that Mrs Aitken, and I do wish you very well in your future life. Goodbye!
I can see I was being pretty annoying from her point of view, but all the same her listening skills weren't that great and she got a C-for customer relations. I told this story to Jan who said in the public sector she would be expected to provide individual programs for children and in fact does, for at least a third of her class, most of whom are special needs, statemented, or have parents that make Kerry Katona look posh, who come up to the school with a large posse of relations and say "You fucking lay off my kid, you hear? I don wanna hear the word OMEWORK you fuckin ear me?"
It seems pastoral care is better in the state sector, which when you think about it is not really surprising. I basically fell for the middle class folly of thinking that if I paid for something it would be better. It may well be, if what you want is Oxbridge, but in other ways, maybe it isn't. Certainly, they seem to apply a ruthless capitalist ethic to the customer: put up or shut up if you want results.
A bonnet? I don't think so!
And by the way, it pisses me off that while I am in the middle of packing, which as we know by now is a never-ending nightmare, that the school sends me a note asking me to provide Lara with a garter, a black skirt, a feather boa, a cape or jacket, a blouse and, to cap it all, A BONNET. Where am I supposed to get a flipping bonnet? The note helpfully says that I may find it useful to go round the charity shops in Sevenoaks. think I am supposed to make it. Hmm, there is a lot of stuff in the Sevenoaks charity shops, but given that most of them are full with the good burghers' cast-off Armani (not to mention all the stuff I dumped in there since packing fors Spain) and given that most people stopped wearing bonnets about 200 years ago, I don't really think I am likely to come across a bonnet.
The point is, what happened to the dressing-up cupboard? Every year, the school puts on the same play, more or less, and every year the parents are asked to go and look for bonnets. Ie expect I will get a "slack mark" , the latest invention of Lara's school, which has a whole range of ways of punishing the children. Ha ha, I think to myself. You may give me a slack mark if you like! I'm leaving!
La Directora
At the end of May, I met Isabel, the lady who runs the children's new school. Registering was no sweat, as I may have said before - just an email with their passport numbers. We went into the school, which is the only one in Lubrin - at 9.00. Not a 4x4 in sight, because people a) walk or b) take the bus. The bus picks up every child in the villages from their front door; I expect this used to happen in the UK. Isabel was charming; other ladies came in and out and kissed us on both cheeks as we were talking. We had a chat about what year the children would go in.
"Some of the English children fall behind in their Spanish, so we put them back a year," she said.
I said I'd prefer them not to fall behind.
"The trouble is, they work hard in school, but they don't do their deberes, homework." School ends much earlier, 2 for Lara and 3 for Alexander, after which there is lunch, and then the bus back. So homework is important.
"Why not?" I asked.
She sighed. "Well, you know, it's the English mothers... They don't really make them work.."
Later, I asked Juan Manas (builder in Spain) about this. He said it was true, most of the English women sat around in the square getting drunk and letting their children play in the street. Oh dear. I have seen them, actually; there are a couple of blondes with the leopard-top, dirty feet kind of look, with their beers lined up on the table. I assure Isabel I will not be like this. Later, Jane tells me maybe I will. Maybe I will have my fag and flipflops and let the kids play on quad bikes all day. Maybe not, though. I can be a rebel when Miss Mackintosh is on the phone, but then, any good middle-class girl can do that.
I had a row with one of Alexander's teachers over the phone the other day. A month ago, I would have held back, but I am getting a bit demob crazy. Her name is Miss Mackintosh, and in my mind's eye she has a large backside, a bit like my old Latin teacher, and is wearing a mackintosh. I had called to ask if Alexander could study Spanish instead of doing SATS tests, since he isnt going to need them in Spain. This is what happened:
Miss M:(very loudly and clearly in ringing posh voice which goes up and down on stressed words) Now Mrs Aitken, about this idea of Alexander doing Spanish homework (said as if I had suggested he use the time to download porn) during the tests, I' m afraid we can't possibly have that.
Me: (with cold suspicion) And why is that? (I could have added "pray?" but I didnt actually).
Miss M: We can't possibly make exceptions for individual children. If we did that, every parent in the school would be ringing to ask for the same treatment.
Me: (thinking, why would they do that, the rest of them are not moving to Spain). Well, it's a bit disappointing. You don't seem to be very flexible..
Miss M: (interrupting). You say that Mrs Aitken, but most of the parents are perfectly satisfied. You must understand, Mrs Aitken, the school is geared up to provide what most of the parents want..
Me (interrupting) Which is? Exam results, I suppose.
Miss M: Of course they want the children to do well and to have Choices!
Me: It's a shame they couldnt do Spanish, when it is the world's 3rd most spoken language whereas French and German...
Miss M: (Over the top of me). Well, Mrs Aitken, I am a linguist, and I have been teaching for FORTY YEARS and I am afraid I DO NOT AGREE WITH YOU.
Me: I dont think we're going to agree.
Miss M: (booming and onto the next thing) I'm sorry to hear that Mrs Aitken, and I do wish you very well in your future life. Goodbye!
I can see I was being pretty annoying from her point of view, but all the same her listening skills weren't that great and she got a C-for customer relations. I told this story to Jan who said in the public sector she would be expected to provide individual programs for children and in fact does, for at least a third of her class, most of whom are special needs, statemented, or have parents that make Kerry Katona look posh, who come up to the school with a large posse of relations and say "You fucking lay off my kid, you hear? I don wanna hear the word OMEWORK you fuckin ear me?"
It seems pastoral care is better in the state sector, which when you think about it is not really surprising. I basically fell for the middle class folly of thinking that if I paid for something it would be better. It may well be, if what you want is Oxbridge, but in other ways, maybe it isn't. Certainly, they seem to apply a ruthless capitalist ethic to the customer: put up or shut up if you want results.
A bonnet? I don't think so!
And by the way, it pisses me off that while I am in the middle of packing, which as we know by now is a never-ending nightmare, that the school sends me a note asking me to provide Lara with a garter, a black skirt, a feather boa, a cape or jacket, a blouse and, to cap it all, A BONNET. Where am I supposed to get a flipping bonnet? The note helpfully says that I may find it useful to go round the charity shops in Sevenoaks. think I am supposed to make it. Hmm, there is a lot of stuff in the Sevenoaks charity shops, but given that most of them are full with the good burghers' cast-off Armani (not to mention all the stuff I dumped in there since packing fors Spain) and given that most people stopped wearing bonnets about 200 years ago, I don't really think I am likely to come across a bonnet.
The point is, what happened to the dressing-up cupboard? Every year, the school puts on the same play, more or less, and every year the parents are asked to go and look for bonnets. Ie expect I will get a "slack mark" , the latest invention of Lara's school, which has a whole range of ways of punishing the children. Ha ha, I think to myself. You may give me a slack mark if you like! I'm leaving!
La Directora
At the end of May, I met Isabel, the lady who runs the children's new school. Registering was no sweat, as I may have said before - just an email with their passport numbers. We went into the school, which is the only one in Lubrin - at 9.00. Not a 4x4 in sight, because people a) walk or b) take the bus. The bus picks up every child in the villages from their front door; I expect this used to happen in the UK. Isabel was charming; other ladies came in and out and kissed us on both cheeks as we were talking. We had a chat about what year the children would go in.
"Some of the English children fall behind in their Spanish, so we put them back a year," she said.
I said I'd prefer them not to fall behind.
"The trouble is, they work hard in school, but they don't do their deberes, homework." School ends much earlier, 2 for Lara and 3 for Alexander, after which there is lunch, and then the bus back. So homework is important.
"Why not?" I asked.
She sighed. "Well, you know, it's the English mothers... They don't really make them work.."
Later, I asked Juan Manas (builder in Spain) about this. He said it was true, most of the English women sat around in the square getting drunk and letting their children play in the street. Oh dear. I have seen them, actually; there are a couple of blondes with the leopard-top, dirty feet kind of look, with their beers lined up on the table. I assure Isabel I will not be like this. Later, Jane tells me maybe I will. Maybe I will have my fag and flipflops and let the kids play on quad bikes all day. Maybe not, though. I can be a rebel when Miss Mackintosh is on the phone, but then, any good middle-class girl can do that.
Friday 6 July 2007
Marital tensions, call centres
Sandy acts weird around logistics
Sandy did something pretty weird when it came to this move, particularly given that he used to be in the military and is supposedly Logistics Man. When we were talking about moving, one of the questions was whether he could work from the Spanish house or not. We are, after all, in a small village which is long on goats but not much else. Working out there required two things: broadband Internet access, to allow Sandy to get onto IBM Starship Enterprise HQ - no small undertaking - and an airport which could fly him to meetings in Ankara or Munich, or wherever.
He decided it was all hunky-dory: Oliver, the previous owner, had told him there was broadband, and Almeria airport was all he needed. That was in March, when we decided to go to Spain. This is what then happened in about April:
Sandy: We have to sort out that broadband, you know. (We, in this context, means, you).
Me: I thought it was sorted out.
Sandy: No, it's not connected up. We need to get the software to connect it up.
Me; (Glazing over at thought of technology) How do we do that?
Sandy: You have to get it from Telefonica, we have to get them to come round to the house and fix it.
Me: (Heart sinking) Oh? How do you know we've got Internet?
Sandy: Oliver showed it to me. I saw it working, and there is a satellite on the side of the house, and a router. It's there, it just isn't connected up.
Me (thinks: what is a router?)
Sandy: Yes, you better call them and arrange it.
A bit later, he says in a very grouchy way:
Sandy(Staring at laptop, in usual position on sofa. When Sandy is sulking, he sits on the sofa hunched over his laptop. In fact, inasmuch as quite a fat man can, he starts to actually look like a laptop.): This is a real problem with these flights. This is going to be a real problem.
Me: What is?
Sandy: I can't fly anywhere from Almeria. There are basically no flights except to the UK.
Me: Well, didn't you know that? You must have checked the flights.
Sandy: Well I did, but not in depth.
Me: What do you mean, not in depth?
Sandy (banging away on the laptop): I looked at it, but now I look at it more, I can see there are no flights.
Me: Well, we'll just have to work it out.
Sandy: Well, I can't fly from there. I don't know how I'm going to work it out.
Me: Can't you fly from Alicante?
Sandy: Yes, but it's an extra hour on the journey. (tap, tap)
Me: I dont understand why you're just looking at this now.
Sandy: Silence (Tap, tap). Frowns.
Later on, he points out that if there are no flights, this would mean I Cant Work, which would mean I Would Have to Fly to Madrid, Never Be at Home, never see the children and they would be very sad (I was not mentioned as never being seen). He is clearly majorly stressed: he stares at the laptop all the time although it clearly has no answers.
I then call Sylvia, my friend in Madrid, and ask her to call Telefonica for starters. She is very obliging and tries, but it turns out Telefonica say we don't have an Internet account. We then try Movistar, since we also seem to have a bill from Movistar, which Sandy thinks might relate to the satellite dish on the side of the house. Movistar (which is kind of part of Telefonica, but kind of not - not entirely clear in the call centre) don't do Internet.
At about this point, Sylvia suggests I speak to an engineer, Fernando, she knows in Agua Amarga. Why don't I call him and get him to sort it out? Maybe, but I decide to have another go at working out whether we have an Internet account.
I speak to Movistar and have several nice conversations with people in local mobile shops in Vera who offer me little cards and things. Then we realise I am after Internet and they don't do that. I have to call Telefonica from the UK. It takes me a while to find a number that works. I then get Telefonica Movil (not Movistar), and am in the wrong place; I have to speak to Telefonica Fixed. After a while, I do. A lot of Spanish call centre people are very patient. "Mira, Dona Juliet, this is no good, you are in the wrong place. No, they have no Internet registered on this phone number. Dona Juliet, you call this number..." I start to bang things on the floor.
Sandy calls and asks me if I have sorted it out. I shout at him, he says:
Sandy: Well, we have to sort it out, or I Can't Work.
Me: What am I supposed to do?
Sandy: I don't know, but we have to get it sorted. If I can't get online, I will have to go back to the UK. I will not see the kids, they will be upset.
Back to Telefonica: we have to speak to Telefonica Fixed, not Telefonica Mobile. I speak to them. No, you can't have Internet where you are, they say. But I think I do, I say. No, you don't, they say. But I have a dish on my house, I say. We don't know what kind of system you have, they say. Can an engineer come and look? No, not if you haven't got an account. Bang, bang.
In the end, one lady (I have spoken to most of Telefonica's call centre by now) says that I can have some kind of Internet and do I want to contract it now? But it is not ASDL something, it is something else something. I am stabbing in the dark now. OK, I think, I'll have it anyway, on the basis that something might be better than nothing. I organise to amend the account to take whatever it is. Will we now have broadband? I have no idea. I call Fernando and say I'll call him from the house if it doesn't work. The nice lady, Maria, gives me a magic number which she says I need to input to the computer to link up. I am pleased to have the number: in my mind this is the code that will solve all our problems. I ask Maria if I can just put it into any computer: she says yes.
Later, I am not sure. I call back to ask about the number: Telefonica then tell me to call their technical team. I do. They put me onto some local technical office, who say the number hasnt' got the right number of digits, also it is not for broadband, which would connect automatically. Can they come out and look? No, they don't do that: I need to speak to the main Telefonica number.
We go there in the last week of May, accompanied by Lizzie, the ex-nanny, Jane and her girls. Xtina and Eddie are going to join us, so there will be lots of witnesses to the marital discord.
We get there: Sandy logs on, spends a lot of time doing stuff and none of it works. It goes tlike this for a bit:
Sandy: You had better call Telefonica.
Me: But they wont speak to me.
Sandy: Well, we have to do something.
Kids: Can we have an ice cream? Can we go to the waterpark?
Other adults: How about a glass of wine? Cor, this is great, being on holiday!
I call Telefonica again, this time I can use the Spanish number. They ask me what kind of Internet I have: I don't know. I tell them they have just sold me something so surely they know what it is? They say, they don't know what system I have, they are just the billing people? They point out that the phone line is very bad and needs fixing: they will call me back. Bleep, bleep.
Nobody calls back. I call back several times.
Eventually, I speak to a nice marketing man who says I need a new satellite dish, that will just be for the Internet. It will cost a lot, 2000 Euros. I dont care: by now I wouldnt mind if it cost 10,000. I feel I am finally getting somewhere. Does that mean I will have Broadband? It is very important for my husband's work! By now, all the Telefonica people know about my husband and how he needs broadband to work, but I suspect they don't actually give a toss. Why would they?
I call Fernando and he says he could also supply this satellite dish for me, but with another operator. He will come out, but it will cost about 1000 Euros to come out. I say I'll call him back a bit later. Bang, bang.
Just as I am about to give up, Telefonica, miraculously, calls me back. Things like this happen in Spain, I have noticed. They are sending an engineer out to look at the system. At last, a human being will come and see what we have in the house.
He turns up the next day. Everyone else is by the pool: I am walking about attached to the phone and Sandy is on the laptop. The engineer is quite silent: he does a lot of things on the laptop and realigns the satellite dish. He says it is nonsense to have a new dish; the two signals would get confused and our village is too far from the satellite, that is the real problem. But the marketing man told me, I said. He sniffs: these marketing people don't understand the technology, he says. Shocking, I say, from the depths of my PR experience. I haven't understood most of what he said, but the dish is now nice and straight.
What do you suggest? I ask. He says we could go down and work in Lubrin. Yes, there is broadband there. It seems odd to me that the satellite is millions of miles up in the sky and yet it makes a big difference if you are in Lubrin or in Los Herreras, 15 minutes away. We are facing the wrong way, apparently. No chance of broadband in the house? No, all we have is a dial-up line - it is ok for email but not more than one computer. Oh.
Sandy is still sulking. He goes out in the car to buy a phone card which may let him do 3G or something. He goes all the way to Vera and the shop is not open. He waits for it to open, but has left his passport behind, which he needs. He has to come back again, then go again. The shop is then closed. He goes back later, with his passport. Eventually, the girl does the paperwork and says it will be sent off: come back tomorrow. He is very silent by the pool.
I go over to the neighbours. Juana's son's novia, girlfriend, Maria, is also there: she is also our plumber, Gilberto's, daughter. I explain my trials with Telefonica: they all agree it is very hadrd dealing with Telefonica though they look very vague when I mention "banda ancha", Broadband. What is that? I can see them thinking. The Spanish are very switched on to e-commerce, but maybe not in Los Herreras. Maria, however, works for the Ayuntiamento - she says there is broadband in Lubrin and also that they are going to put up a new mast in Saeti (our area).
Oh, when? I say. "Soon, quite soon." This year? Maybe, could be. Maybe next year. Anyway, they have written to the residents about it. You don't want to go and buy a satellite dish now and then find they've done it all free.
I try talking to Sandy. It is uphill work: he is like Eeyore. I point out angrily that it is not my fault he didnt check if there was broadband or not. If it was that important, why didnt he check? He says Oliver told him. As Oliver was, on a generous interpretation, absent-minded, and on a less generous one, a bankrupt, financial disaster who scarpered back to the UK leaving lots of unpaid bills, you could wonder why Sandy Oliver saying anything was gospel. Sandy goes back down to look for his 3G card. The girl has forgotten to send off the paperwork: he will have to come back again.
After a while, I talk to Jane. I explain Sandy's unreasonable behaviour and like most people she seems to think it was my decision to come to Spain and somehow Sandy has been corralled into it. Is that what he told her? Not exactly, but clearly while his mouth said it was a joint decision his body language was saying I Was Pushed. I didnt effing push him. I gave him several get-outs - the last few times I was approached about jobs I asked him if he was quite sure and he said, yes, though on reflection he used words like "we 've made the decision now, we have to stick to it," and "it's the best thing for the children." He is in a foul mood: I hate him and want to leave. Jane and I wonder if he ignored the information about the flights and bloody banda ancha until it was too late because subconsciously he really wanted to go to Spain, so was ignoring any logistical obstacles. I think this is right. He has been quite unhappy at work for some time and I think he wants to escape - but he has to burrow his way out backwards and with his eyes closed, as usual, rather than just picking up the spade and going for it.
The fact is, it all ended OK, the way things do in Spain. You try for ages to do something through the official channels, and then, as if by magic, someone helps you. We went down to Lubrin to se the school's headmistress and stopped by the Ayuntiamento. There was Maria, who gave us a password and user name. We logged in, sitting in the bar, and lo and behold, there was free broadband and Sandy got onto Starship Enterprise Flight Deck. A cloud lifted; he was suddenly connected with the Mother Ship. He became a different person and started talking to me about car brands, having not spoken to me for some days.
At the same time, Juan Manas, our builder, was in the bar. I had told him about the Internet problem and how we might have to rent a small office space somewhere in Lubrin. All smiles, he offered us a desk in his office there if we wanted one, where there is also working broadband. Sandy said Juan Manas was a sharp operator, and was going to charge us a fee that would cover his own internet costs, but I didnt see it that way. Besides, Juan Manas himself had told me that he liked helping people, not for the money, but because he wanted them to be happy living in his town. And I believe him. Yes, Sylvia - who was liaising with him because his Andaluz accent can be hard work on the phone - had given him an earful about not leaving the house tidy and not putting the glass in the windows yet. But he wasn't just guilty - he was being a Mr Fixit, which is what he likes.
Before we reached this happy conclusion, we had some very dark moments. On the Villaricos beach, Sandy was silently lying there, exuding resentment. There might as well have been a bubble coming out of his head saying: You made me come here where I can't work and have no broadband. When Jane and I were talking about what I was going to do (everyone keeps asking me that), I said I didnt know yet but wanted to take some time. She agreed and said, of course and I said, I do have a year's pay off. Sandy then raised his head slightly to say that the payoff had been spent. Subtle message: you should get a job!
I was so angry I nearly exploded; instead I walked off down the beach and didnt come back for a bit. Nobody knew it but I was crying to myself and thinking about leaving Sandy. I felt there was no way I could go out to Spain and embark on this adventure with him if he had that attitude. I He had a real cheek: the money was paid off the mortgage which meant we could afford to live on less, so it was contributing just as much as if it were in the bank. I could only think he said it to make a point about how I ought to get a job. He kept pushing me about it, even though we both know that would not be feasible when I am spending all my time talking to call centres. I don't even know what is behind it as if you ask him he denies it and says he doesn't care (note the language) what I do, it does not bother him, he does not think about my job. On the beach, I was stomping along trying to think of how I could leave him, complicated by the fact we were going to Spain. I thought probably I could share the house with him and just not speak to him. When I got back, all the other adults had "handle with care" faces on and were trying to be extra polite and constructive and probably thinking how annoying it was to come on holiday and have to see us have a big row. I downloaded a lot of my views to Eddie who was in the kitchen trying to cook up a huge meal. He wasnt generally listening as he was focused on the squid but he did agree with me that now was not the time for Sandy to think of reasons why it was not logistically possible to live in Spain.
I blame a lot of it on IBM. Their Human Resources HQ - which is some giant evil computer in Hungary - kept saying Sandy had to be based in places like Germany, based on some computer analysis of where he had worked in the last 6 months. He pointed out this changed every 6 months but the Hungarian computer was not interested. All this followed a lot of to-ing and fro-ing about whether he could, or could not, be based in Madrid, during the course of which Sandy changed his mind several times and peed off the partner based there because he didnt accept a local job on a local salary. In the end, it has all worked out and he is going to be based in Madrid, but we have had several evenings of Sandy head-in-hands, sighing and giving me his "this is a big problem" speech. He always expects the worst and is very black and white about it. One minute it will be no way, there is no way this will ever be resolved and my career is going nowhere; then suddenly some bloke in IBM will call someone and suggest Sandy joins some other team and it will all be hunky-dory again. Whatever I say during these interludes is rejected due to the fact that I don't understand, which is quite accurate.
All this has taught me a couple of things.
1) You realise how badly you speak a language when you have to go through a call centre in it. I spent three and a half hours on the phone to Telefonica, and have just spent another 30 on the phone to BBVA, the bank, trying to sort out Internet access to our Spanish bank account. Mysteriously, they have a wrong passport number for me: it bears no ressemblance to my own which means I can't input it to the Internet which requires this information.
2) In Spain, if you try hard, it don't mean a thing, as the Specials said. It's when you give up and take it easy that some nice person suddenly just solves it for you. After about 3 calls on the passport, a man just gave me the number they had and told me to use that.
3) People are not logical, even my husband. On the surface, they may seem to be, but underneath, they are being driven by hidden psychological motivations. I know this about myself, but I always assume that everyone else is completely rational.
So we dont exactly have broadband, but we know where it is and the good news it is in a bar in the square and it is free. Later on, some time this year, maybe next year, there will be a new mast, and maybe we'll get it in the house. In the Ayuntiamento, I saw a sign that said to call Gloria at Telefonica for information about rural internet, which I will do when we get out there.
Meanwhile, there is a new boiler, and I managed to read the Spanish instructions and light it, and the electrics appear to work. This will not be the end, but at least we have broken the ice.
Sandy did something pretty weird when it came to this move, particularly given that he used to be in the military and is supposedly Logistics Man. When we were talking about moving, one of the questions was whether he could work from the Spanish house or not. We are, after all, in a small village which is long on goats but not much else. Working out there required two things: broadband Internet access, to allow Sandy to get onto IBM Starship Enterprise HQ - no small undertaking - and an airport which could fly him to meetings in Ankara or Munich, or wherever.
He decided it was all hunky-dory: Oliver, the previous owner, had told him there was broadband, and Almeria airport was all he needed. That was in March, when we decided to go to Spain. This is what then happened in about April:
Sandy: We have to sort out that broadband, you know. (We, in this context, means, you).
Me: I thought it was sorted out.
Sandy: No, it's not connected up. We need to get the software to connect it up.
Me; (Glazing over at thought of technology) How do we do that?
Sandy: You have to get it from Telefonica, we have to get them to come round to the house and fix it.
Me: (Heart sinking) Oh? How do you know we've got Internet?
Sandy: Oliver showed it to me. I saw it working, and there is a satellite on the side of the house, and a router. It's there, it just isn't connected up.
Me (thinks: what is a router?)
Sandy: Yes, you better call them and arrange it.
A bit later, he says in a very grouchy way:
Sandy(Staring at laptop, in usual position on sofa. When Sandy is sulking, he sits on the sofa hunched over his laptop. In fact, inasmuch as quite a fat man can, he starts to actually look like a laptop.): This is a real problem with these flights. This is going to be a real problem.
Me: What is?
Sandy: I can't fly anywhere from Almeria. There are basically no flights except to the UK.
Me: Well, didn't you know that? You must have checked the flights.
Sandy: Well I did, but not in depth.
Me: What do you mean, not in depth?
Sandy (banging away on the laptop): I looked at it, but now I look at it more, I can see there are no flights.
Me: Well, we'll just have to work it out.
Sandy: Well, I can't fly from there. I don't know how I'm going to work it out.
Me: Can't you fly from Alicante?
Sandy: Yes, but it's an extra hour on the journey. (tap, tap)
Me: I dont understand why you're just looking at this now.
Sandy: Silence (Tap, tap). Frowns.
Later on, he points out that if there are no flights, this would mean I Cant Work, which would mean I Would Have to Fly to Madrid, Never Be at Home, never see the children and they would be very sad (I was not mentioned as never being seen). He is clearly majorly stressed: he stares at the laptop all the time although it clearly has no answers.
I then call Sylvia, my friend in Madrid, and ask her to call Telefonica for starters. She is very obliging and tries, but it turns out Telefonica say we don't have an Internet account. We then try Movistar, since we also seem to have a bill from Movistar, which Sandy thinks might relate to the satellite dish on the side of the house. Movistar (which is kind of part of Telefonica, but kind of not - not entirely clear in the call centre) don't do Internet.
At about this point, Sylvia suggests I speak to an engineer, Fernando, she knows in Agua Amarga. Why don't I call him and get him to sort it out? Maybe, but I decide to have another go at working out whether we have an Internet account.
I speak to Movistar and have several nice conversations with people in local mobile shops in Vera who offer me little cards and things. Then we realise I am after Internet and they don't do that. I have to call Telefonica from the UK. It takes me a while to find a number that works. I then get Telefonica Movil (not Movistar), and am in the wrong place; I have to speak to Telefonica Fixed. After a while, I do. A lot of Spanish call centre people are very patient. "Mira, Dona Juliet, this is no good, you are in the wrong place. No, they have no Internet registered on this phone number. Dona Juliet, you call this number..." I start to bang things on the floor.
Sandy calls and asks me if I have sorted it out. I shout at him, he says:
Sandy: Well, we have to sort it out, or I Can't Work.
Me: What am I supposed to do?
Sandy: I don't know, but we have to get it sorted. If I can't get online, I will have to go back to the UK. I will not see the kids, they will be upset.
Back to Telefonica: we have to speak to Telefonica Fixed, not Telefonica Mobile. I speak to them. No, you can't have Internet where you are, they say. But I think I do, I say. No, you don't, they say. But I have a dish on my house, I say. We don't know what kind of system you have, they say. Can an engineer come and look? No, not if you haven't got an account. Bang, bang.
In the end, one lady (I have spoken to most of Telefonica's call centre by now) says that I can have some kind of Internet and do I want to contract it now? But it is not ASDL something, it is something else something. I am stabbing in the dark now. OK, I think, I'll have it anyway, on the basis that something might be better than nothing. I organise to amend the account to take whatever it is. Will we now have broadband? I have no idea. I call Fernando and say I'll call him from the house if it doesn't work. The nice lady, Maria, gives me a magic number which she says I need to input to the computer to link up. I am pleased to have the number: in my mind this is the code that will solve all our problems. I ask Maria if I can just put it into any computer: she says yes.
Later, I am not sure. I call back to ask about the number: Telefonica then tell me to call their technical team. I do. They put me onto some local technical office, who say the number hasnt' got the right number of digits, also it is not for broadband, which would connect automatically. Can they come out and look? No, they don't do that: I need to speak to the main Telefonica number.
We go there in the last week of May, accompanied by Lizzie, the ex-nanny, Jane and her girls. Xtina and Eddie are going to join us, so there will be lots of witnesses to the marital discord.
We get there: Sandy logs on, spends a lot of time doing stuff and none of it works. It goes tlike this for a bit:
Sandy: You had better call Telefonica.
Me: But they wont speak to me.
Sandy: Well, we have to do something.
Kids: Can we have an ice cream? Can we go to the waterpark?
Other adults: How about a glass of wine? Cor, this is great, being on holiday!
I call Telefonica again, this time I can use the Spanish number. They ask me what kind of Internet I have: I don't know. I tell them they have just sold me something so surely they know what it is? They say, they don't know what system I have, they are just the billing people? They point out that the phone line is very bad and needs fixing: they will call me back. Bleep, bleep.
Nobody calls back. I call back several times.
Eventually, I speak to a nice marketing man who says I need a new satellite dish, that will just be for the Internet. It will cost a lot, 2000 Euros. I dont care: by now I wouldnt mind if it cost 10,000. I feel I am finally getting somewhere. Does that mean I will have Broadband? It is very important for my husband's work! By now, all the Telefonica people know about my husband and how he needs broadband to work, but I suspect they don't actually give a toss. Why would they?
I call Fernando and he says he could also supply this satellite dish for me, but with another operator. He will come out, but it will cost about 1000 Euros to come out. I say I'll call him back a bit later. Bang, bang.
Just as I am about to give up, Telefonica, miraculously, calls me back. Things like this happen in Spain, I have noticed. They are sending an engineer out to look at the system. At last, a human being will come and see what we have in the house.
He turns up the next day. Everyone else is by the pool: I am walking about attached to the phone and Sandy is on the laptop. The engineer is quite silent: he does a lot of things on the laptop and realigns the satellite dish. He says it is nonsense to have a new dish; the two signals would get confused and our village is too far from the satellite, that is the real problem. But the marketing man told me, I said. He sniffs: these marketing people don't understand the technology, he says. Shocking, I say, from the depths of my PR experience. I haven't understood most of what he said, but the dish is now nice and straight.
What do you suggest? I ask. He says we could go down and work in Lubrin. Yes, there is broadband there. It seems odd to me that the satellite is millions of miles up in the sky and yet it makes a big difference if you are in Lubrin or in Los Herreras, 15 minutes away. We are facing the wrong way, apparently. No chance of broadband in the house? No, all we have is a dial-up line - it is ok for email but not more than one computer. Oh.
Sandy is still sulking. He goes out in the car to buy a phone card which may let him do 3G or something. He goes all the way to Vera and the shop is not open. He waits for it to open, but has left his passport behind, which he needs. He has to come back again, then go again. The shop is then closed. He goes back later, with his passport. Eventually, the girl does the paperwork and says it will be sent off: come back tomorrow. He is very silent by the pool.
I go over to the neighbours. Juana's son's novia, girlfriend, Maria, is also there: she is also our plumber, Gilberto's, daughter. I explain my trials with Telefonica: they all agree it is very hadrd dealing with Telefonica though they look very vague when I mention "banda ancha", Broadband. What is that? I can see them thinking. The Spanish are very switched on to e-commerce, but maybe not in Los Herreras. Maria, however, works for the Ayuntiamento - she says there is broadband in Lubrin and also that they are going to put up a new mast in Saeti (our area).
Oh, when? I say. "Soon, quite soon." This year? Maybe, could be. Maybe next year. Anyway, they have written to the residents about it. You don't want to go and buy a satellite dish now and then find they've done it all free.
I try talking to Sandy. It is uphill work: he is like Eeyore. I point out angrily that it is not my fault he didnt check if there was broadband or not. If it was that important, why didnt he check? He says Oliver told him. As Oliver was, on a generous interpretation, absent-minded, and on a less generous one, a bankrupt, financial disaster who scarpered back to the UK leaving lots of unpaid bills, you could wonder why Sandy Oliver saying anything was gospel. Sandy goes back down to look for his 3G card. The girl has forgotten to send off the paperwork: he will have to come back again.
After a while, I talk to Jane. I explain Sandy's unreasonable behaviour and like most people she seems to think it was my decision to come to Spain and somehow Sandy has been corralled into it. Is that what he told her? Not exactly, but clearly while his mouth said it was a joint decision his body language was saying I Was Pushed. I didnt effing push him. I gave him several get-outs - the last few times I was approached about jobs I asked him if he was quite sure and he said, yes, though on reflection he used words like "we 've made the decision now, we have to stick to it," and "it's the best thing for the children." He is in a foul mood: I hate him and want to leave. Jane and I wonder if he ignored the information about the flights and bloody banda ancha until it was too late because subconsciously he really wanted to go to Spain, so was ignoring any logistical obstacles. I think this is right. He has been quite unhappy at work for some time and I think he wants to escape - but he has to burrow his way out backwards and with his eyes closed, as usual, rather than just picking up the spade and going for it.
The fact is, it all ended OK, the way things do in Spain. You try for ages to do something through the official channels, and then, as if by magic, someone helps you. We went down to Lubrin to se the school's headmistress and stopped by the Ayuntiamento. There was Maria, who gave us a password and user name. We logged in, sitting in the bar, and lo and behold, there was free broadband and Sandy got onto Starship Enterprise Flight Deck. A cloud lifted; he was suddenly connected with the Mother Ship. He became a different person and started talking to me about car brands, having not spoken to me for some days.
At the same time, Juan Manas, our builder, was in the bar. I had told him about the Internet problem and how we might have to rent a small office space somewhere in Lubrin. All smiles, he offered us a desk in his office there if we wanted one, where there is also working broadband. Sandy said Juan Manas was a sharp operator, and was going to charge us a fee that would cover his own internet costs, but I didnt see it that way. Besides, Juan Manas himself had told me that he liked helping people, not for the money, but because he wanted them to be happy living in his town. And I believe him. Yes, Sylvia - who was liaising with him because his Andaluz accent can be hard work on the phone - had given him an earful about not leaving the house tidy and not putting the glass in the windows yet. But he wasn't just guilty - he was being a Mr Fixit, which is what he likes.
Before we reached this happy conclusion, we had some very dark moments. On the Villaricos beach, Sandy was silently lying there, exuding resentment. There might as well have been a bubble coming out of his head saying: You made me come here where I can't work and have no broadband. When Jane and I were talking about what I was going to do (everyone keeps asking me that), I said I didnt know yet but wanted to take some time. She agreed and said, of course and I said, I do have a year's pay off. Sandy then raised his head slightly to say that the payoff had been spent. Subtle message: you should get a job!
I was so angry I nearly exploded; instead I walked off down the beach and didnt come back for a bit. Nobody knew it but I was crying to myself and thinking about leaving Sandy. I felt there was no way I could go out to Spain and embark on this adventure with him if he had that attitude. I He had a real cheek: the money was paid off the mortgage which meant we could afford to live on less, so it was contributing just as much as if it were in the bank. I could only think he said it to make a point about how I ought to get a job. He kept pushing me about it, even though we both know that would not be feasible when I am spending all my time talking to call centres. I don't even know what is behind it as if you ask him he denies it and says he doesn't care (note the language) what I do, it does not bother him, he does not think about my job. On the beach, I was stomping along trying to think of how I could leave him, complicated by the fact we were going to Spain. I thought probably I could share the house with him and just not speak to him. When I got back, all the other adults had "handle with care" faces on and were trying to be extra polite and constructive and probably thinking how annoying it was to come on holiday and have to see us have a big row. I downloaded a lot of my views to Eddie who was in the kitchen trying to cook up a huge meal. He wasnt generally listening as he was focused on the squid but he did agree with me that now was not the time for Sandy to think of reasons why it was not logistically possible to live in Spain.
I blame a lot of it on IBM. Their Human Resources HQ - which is some giant evil computer in Hungary - kept saying Sandy had to be based in places like Germany, based on some computer analysis of where he had worked in the last 6 months. He pointed out this changed every 6 months but the Hungarian computer was not interested. All this followed a lot of to-ing and fro-ing about whether he could, or could not, be based in Madrid, during the course of which Sandy changed his mind several times and peed off the partner based there because he didnt accept a local job on a local salary. In the end, it has all worked out and he is going to be based in Madrid, but we have had several evenings of Sandy head-in-hands, sighing and giving me his "this is a big problem" speech. He always expects the worst and is very black and white about it. One minute it will be no way, there is no way this will ever be resolved and my career is going nowhere; then suddenly some bloke in IBM will call someone and suggest Sandy joins some other team and it will all be hunky-dory again. Whatever I say during these interludes is rejected due to the fact that I don't understand, which is quite accurate.
All this has taught me a couple of things.
1) You realise how badly you speak a language when you have to go through a call centre in it. I spent three and a half hours on the phone to Telefonica, and have just spent another 30 on the phone to BBVA, the bank, trying to sort out Internet access to our Spanish bank account. Mysteriously, they have a wrong passport number for me: it bears no ressemblance to my own which means I can't input it to the Internet which requires this information.
2) In Spain, if you try hard, it don't mean a thing, as the Specials said. It's when you give up and take it easy that some nice person suddenly just solves it for you. After about 3 calls on the passport, a man just gave me the number they had and told me to use that.
3) People are not logical, even my husband. On the surface, they may seem to be, but underneath, they are being driven by hidden psychological motivations. I know this about myself, but I always assume that everyone else is completely rational.
So we dont exactly have broadband, but we know where it is and the good news it is in a bar in the square and it is free. Later on, some time this year, maybe next year, there will be a new mast, and maybe we'll get it in the house. In the Ayuntiamento, I saw a sign that said to call Gloria at Telefonica for information about rural internet, which I will do when we get out there.
Meanwhile, there is a new boiler, and I managed to read the Spanish instructions and light it, and the electrics appear to work. This will not be the end, but at least we have broken the ice.
Thursday 5 July 2007
Travel and narrow minds
Of course, now we are leaving we are meeting nice people.
Recently, we got to know the parents of one of Alexander's friends, Luca. A big shame we didn't meet them before; she is Italian and he is English but they have spent most of the last ten years living in Africa. I would say that there is no doubt that travel broadens the mind but equally it might be that broad-minded people are the ones that travel in the first place.
What is for sure is that people have quite different sized comfort zones. There is Di in the village who has never been further than Orpington, and the various people who ask me if Spain has proper schools and generally have this feeling that outside the UK, it's a jungle.
(Though it can change. Take David, who used to work for me, and whose comfort zone was about one metre around his desk at work. He hadn't been abroad, and then suddenly he got a job working for a mining company whose operations were in the Congo. It was quite good fun reading him information about all the poisonous snakes, and telling him it wasn't like Islington, but weirdly he seemed to take it all in his stride and apparently has now been to the Congo without ill effects.)
For some people, the concept of moving somewhere easy like Spain is daunting. for others, travelling to Baghdad, or Sakhalin, is just all part of the day's work. You have to wonder why the human range is so huge. Look at soldiers, or journalists who go to war zones, and then look at our friend Tony, who has stopped taking the train from anywhere except Eynsford station.
Caterina has the most remarkable job, advising what is left of the British Empire - 14 territories, mostly remote, small islands like St Helena's or Pitcairn. It can take a week to sail to some of these places, where a handful of people, descendents of the original inhabitants, still live. The people on St Helena's put their foot down at the idea of opening the shop because a cruise ship has come in after 4 on a Wednesday, or something like that but soon there won't be anywhere like that left. Soon, maybe, people like Di and Tony will die out, and everyone will have a large, borderless comfort zone. Or maybe not.
What does strike you is that the idea that the UK is the centre of the world and still has a huge empire, is still part of our psychology. The fact that Britain is a small, eccentric island, where most systems and services have fallen behind, and which is viewed as a quaint tourist stop by large numbers of people, hasn't registered. In our minds, we are still ahead of the game.
"Oh, it's all mañana out there," said Barry from Crown Road who has the inevitable house near Marbella. The implication is that in the UK, builders are supremely efficient and turn up on time and get the work done to a high standard whereas in Spain they are semi-natives who loaf about lying under trees having a siesta. No, it is not, guys. Our builders in Spain have worked twice as hard and efficiently as anyone we have employed in the UK. Yes, they did lie down for an hour at lunchtime, but when the boss whistled an hour later they all sprang up and got back to it. They did not have any teas or the radio, they just worked, not least because they are mainly South American labourers being paid eight euros an hour. When they lay down, they just put their heads on the ground; one of them even had his head in the shower tray, so I had to go round and put cushions underneath them, which rather surprised them.
Yes, in the 1970s, Spain was well behind. It is now 2007, mañana has come, and most of us didn't even notice it. It is like being stuck liking Chris de Burgh or the Doors because that's what you listened to when you were young; our perceptions of the world are always out of date.
And it struck me, listening to Caterina, how very sheltered and narrow my life has been. There is a whole, huge world out there, and all I've done is work in one square Mile of it, absorbed in its local politics. I have been like a goldfish, thinking its bowl is the universe, or like a person who, owning a whole huge mansion, has only ever sat in one room and looked out of the window. Yes, I lived in Bangkok a bit as a child, and I travelled as a journalist, but I have hardly scratched the surface. Now, I think once you take the first step, maybe you can't stop. Maybe in a few years Spain will seem dull and familiar, and I'll have to go to the Congo. Maybe I'll be like the unsatisfied old woman in the story, whose husband catches the fish that grants wishes. She wishes for a bigger house, then a bigger one, then a bigger one, until the fish gets angry and the whole thing falls around her ears. Maybe that's how I'll be, only I'll be greedy for experience, wondering how to cram the whole lot in before I die, which can't, after all, be that far off.
Mind you, having said that, show me a delay to the baggage arriving off the carousel and my comfort zone is suddenly not that big after all.
Recently, we got to know the parents of one of Alexander's friends, Luca. A big shame we didn't meet them before; she is Italian and he is English but they have spent most of the last ten years living in Africa. I would say that there is no doubt that travel broadens the mind but equally it might be that broad-minded people are the ones that travel in the first place.
What is for sure is that people have quite different sized comfort zones. There is Di in the village who has never been further than Orpington, and the various people who ask me if Spain has proper schools and generally have this feeling that outside the UK, it's a jungle.
(Though it can change. Take David, who used to work for me, and whose comfort zone was about one metre around his desk at work. He hadn't been abroad, and then suddenly he got a job working for a mining company whose operations were in the Congo. It was quite good fun reading him information about all the poisonous snakes, and telling him it wasn't like Islington, but weirdly he seemed to take it all in his stride and apparently has now been to the Congo without ill effects.)
For some people, the concept of moving somewhere easy like Spain is daunting. for others, travelling to Baghdad, or Sakhalin, is just all part of the day's work. You have to wonder why the human range is so huge. Look at soldiers, or journalists who go to war zones, and then look at our friend Tony, who has stopped taking the train from anywhere except Eynsford station.
Caterina has the most remarkable job, advising what is left of the British Empire - 14 territories, mostly remote, small islands like St Helena's or Pitcairn. It can take a week to sail to some of these places, where a handful of people, descendents of the original inhabitants, still live. The people on St Helena's put their foot down at the idea of opening the shop because a cruise ship has come in after 4 on a Wednesday, or something like that but soon there won't be anywhere like that left. Soon, maybe, people like Di and Tony will die out, and everyone will have a large, borderless comfort zone. Or maybe not.
What does strike you is that the idea that the UK is the centre of the world and still has a huge empire, is still part of our psychology. The fact that Britain is a small, eccentric island, where most systems and services have fallen behind, and which is viewed as a quaint tourist stop by large numbers of people, hasn't registered. In our minds, we are still ahead of the game.
"Oh, it's all mañana out there," said Barry from Crown Road who has the inevitable house near Marbella. The implication is that in the UK, builders are supremely efficient and turn up on time and get the work done to a high standard whereas in Spain they are semi-natives who loaf about lying under trees having a siesta. No, it is not, guys. Our builders in Spain have worked twice as hard and efficiently as anyone we have employed in the UK. Yes, they did lie down for an hour at lunchtime, but when the boss whistled an hour later they all sprang up and got back to it. They did not have any teas or the radio, they just worked, not least because they are mainly South American labourers being paid eight euros an hour. When they lay down, they just put their heads on the ground; one of them even had his head in the shower tray, so I had to go round and put cushions underneath them, which rather surprised them.
Yes, in the 1970s, Spain was well behind. It is now 2007, mañana has come, and most of us didn't even notice it. It is like being stuck liking Chris de Burgh or the Doors because that's what you listened to when you were young; our perceptions of the world are always out of date.
And it struck me, listening to Caterina, how very sheltered and narrow my life has been. There is a whole, huge world out there, and all I've done is work in one square Mile of it, absorbed in its local politics. I have been like a goldfish, thinking its bowl is the universe, or like a person who, owning a whole huge mansion, has only ever sat in one room and looked out of the window. Yes, I lived in Bangkok a bit as a child, and I travelled as a journalist, but I have hardly scratched the surface. Now, I think once you take the first step, maybe you can't stop. Maybe in a few years Spain will seem dull and familiar, and I'll have to go to the Congo. Maybe I'll be like the unsatisfied old woman in the story, whose husband catches the fish that grants wishes. She wishes for a bigger house, then a bigger one, then a bigger one, until the fish gets angry and the whole thing falls around her ears. Maybe that's how I'll be, only I'll be greedy for experience, wondering how to cram the whole lot in before I die, which can't, after all, be that far off.
Mind you, having said that, show me a delay to the baggage arriving off the carousel and my comfort zone is suddenly not that big after all.
Wednesday 4 July 2007
Greta's shoes
Don't let yourself go!
People have been giving me a lot of warnings about letting myself go. When we were at the house at the end of May, Xtina started, using her one-of-the-three-Fates voice - "You know, you're going to have to be very careful." This was prompted by my commenting on the fact that she had heels on to go and look at some stone for the house they are doing up in France. Dear Xtina, I do love her but she does go on. "Well, I like to look nice, it's important you don't go out looking a mess, etc etc, it's a matter of self-respect, oh, I think it's dreadful when women go out all anyhow, etc etc."
Unbinding your feet
Xtina then told me the cautionary tale of Greta, Eddie's sister, who apparently since she moved to the country from Paris has a) got much fatter and b) worn flat shoes for so long she is now unable to get her high heels back on her feet. I was a bit struck by this. Firstly, I remembered Greta as being rather beautiful, I said to Xtina who said, yes, she used to be a model, she was very beautiful; however, now she put on all that weight and her shoes don't go on. This seemed to me not such bad news; if you don't want to be a model and wear high heels, but Xtina was very disapproving and I know Jasmine would back her up. To me, it seemed rather like a reverse Cinderella story, reminding me of the bit in Local Hero where he symbolically forgets his flash watch in the rock pool to show he's left the city behind - or like footbinding in reverse. I feel I wouldnt mind spreading out a bit, after all those years of tottering among the skyscrapers. But Xtina and Jane were looking at me a bit disapprovingly, and Jane said I would have to work out a new "smart casual" wardrobe.
Hmm. Clearly everyone feels that Nora Batty stockings and apron like Juana is not an option. I made the effort to put on some make up in the evening and was told, "See, now you look nice!" I pointed out I have spent the last 25 years looking nice for work so it is hardly surprising I know how; the fact is I might now prefer to let myself go. However, it is just like being pregnant; these days you are not allowed to spread, either because you are old, or live in the country, or are having a baby. The question is, will I continue to care what they think- and put my high heels on once a month to check I still can - or will I just go native? Watch this space.
People have been giving me a lot of warnings about letting myself go. When we were at the house at the end of May, Xtina started, using her one-of-the-three-Fates voice - "You know, you're going to have to be very careful." This was prompted by my commenting on the fact that she had heels on to go and look at some stone for the house they are doing up in France. Dear Xtina, I do love her but she does go on. "Well, I like to look nice, it's important you don't go out looking a mess, etc etc, it's a matter of self-respect, oh, I think it's dreadful when women go out all anyhow, etc etc."
Unbinding your feet
Xtina then told me the cautionary tale of Greta, Eddie's sister, who apparently since she moved to the country from Paris has a) got much fatter and b) worn flat shoes for so long she is now unable to get her high heels back on her feet. I was a bit struck by this. Firstly, I remembered Greta as being rather beautiful, I said to Xtina who said, yes, she used to be a model, she was very beautiful; however, now she put on all that weight and her shoes don't go on. This seemed to me not such bad news; if you don't want to be a model and wear high heels, but Xtina was very disapproving and I know Jasmine would back her up. To me, it seemed rather like a reverse Cinderella story, reminding me of the bit in Local Hero where he symbolically forgets his flash watch in the rock pool to show he's left the city behind - or like footbinding in reverse. I feel I wouldnt mind spreading out a bit, after all those years of tottering among the skyscrapers. But Xtina and Jane were looking at me a bit disapprovingly, and Jane said I would have to work out a new "smart casual" wardrobe.
Hmm. Clearly everyone feels that Nora Batty stockings and apron like Juana is not an option. I made the effort to put on some make up in the evening and was told, "See, now you look nice!" I pointed out I have spent the last 25 years looking nice for work so it is hardly surprising I know how; the fact is I might now prefer to let myself go. However, it is just like being pregnant; these days you are not allowed to spread, either because you are old, or live in the country, or are having a baby. The question is, will I continue to care what they think- and put my high heels on once a month to check I still can - or will I just go native? Watch this space.
Blondes in 4x4s
As we get closer to going, I am looking around me with a more and more critical eye. It is as if all the things I didnt know I didnt like about life in the UK have suddenly crawled out from under the carpet and banged me over the head with a baseball bat. Noticeably, I have started irrationally hating middle class English people, as personified by the parents of my children's classmates at school, which is a bit rich since I am one.
Of course, I am still suffering from shock at having to do the school run, which I never did before. The other day I emerged from a huge tailback in the village to find the school car park full of 4x4s, just like in the Style magazine descriptions. Highlighted, well-groomed women were jumping out of them or leaning into each others cars and chatting loudly, blocking up the road. One had a convertible Mercedes which Jasmine told me was new - I dont know how everyone knows these things about each other. I felt a huge surge of hatred for them and passed this on to Jasmine who said that if you thought about it I also had a 4x4 or did, until we sold the Landrover back a couple of weeks ago, and a convertible Mercedes, now also sold, and blondehighlights so if you thought about it, people could say the same about me. I stuttered as I tried to explain the huge spiritual gulf between me and them. I pointed out that my Landrover was dirty and I was not well groomed, but apparently this was not really material and in fact I do realise that quite often people have made faces at me in the car and appeared to be mouthing things like "out of my way, you stupid stuck-up cow" which I also mouth at the school mothers.
Listen, inside I am not like that. First of all, I did not buy the cars; one was a company car from IBM and the other was Sandy's car which he chose for various spurious reasons such as it was big, because he used to be in the military and Jeremy Clarkson recommended it for driving up a mountain. For a long time I was very fond of my Toyota Carina, and before that my first and favourite car, a red Triumph Spitfire which leaked. Now that the Merc and the Landrover have gone, I plan to have a van, though what I would really like is an old cloth top Jeep of the kind we used to go to school in in Bangkok - I am not allowed to have that because apparently it will not be practical in the heat and also because there will be no spare parts and I will be stranded on a mountain road when it breaks down. As usual, Sandy likes to think of the worst case scenario and to paint it in vivid detail for me in case I don't get the point.
I am not saying I am not a style victim because I am, but my style is, I like to think, more alternative. What I really wanted to say to Jasmine was that none of those women have ever felt different, or poor, or excluded - ever. Not that I exactly have, but I've come a lot closer. Let's face it, I have worked in shops in Croydon. Anyway, I felt a great sense of relief when we got rid of the cars; like almost anything except cats, the cost of maintenance pretty much outweighs the pleasure. In fact, the more stuff I have got rid of, the better I feel; it is a great feeling cancelling direct debits, particularly when you find ones you did not even know you had. I was reminded of Snufkin in the Moomintrolls and what a nuisance he thinks possessions are and was starting to feel poor and virtuous as though I could go through the eye of the needle when I realised that I still had about 100 boxes full of stuff to go to Spain. On top of that, as Lara keeps reminding me, we are going to get other stuff, like goats, which will then have a baby which she will keep. It's not quite the simple life, yet, but perhaps it still can be.
Nothing is simple, though. All the time I was at work I held the view that women at home sat about having coffee but I now eat my words and admit that being at home is significantly more stressful than being in the office. A while ago, Trisha asked one of the posh mothers, Vanessa, who was talking in a loud voice about how busy she was, exactly what she did during the day. We all did impressions of her pushing her fringe back and saying "Well, as soon as I've dropped Holly off, it's time for my tennis lesson, then it's lunch, then Sainsbury's and by the time I've done that it's time to pick Holly up again." The fact is, she may drive a 4x4 and never have been poor, but she had a point. It's a round of boring jobs; will they be different in the sun and on empty roads? How long will I last before I have to hire someone to do the ironing, and go back to work?
Postscript: Went to a party on Sunday where I saw both my two sisters - unusual for this to happen but I expect to see them more once we have moved. Clare said that in Peckham it is the thing to do the school run in your pyjamas and not only that in general all mothers have the same ones from Etam with teddy bears on them. Clearly, there are whatever the cultural equivalent of microclimates is in the UK - it is just quite unimaginable that anyone round here to turn up in their pyjamas, let alone shop at Etam which I have to say I thought had gone out with C&A but is clearly alive and well in Peckham.
Of course, I am still suffering from shock at having to do the school run, which I never did before. The other day I emerged from a huge tailback in the village to find the school car park full of 4x4s, just like in the Style magazine descriptions. Highlighted, well-groomed women were jumping out of them or leaning into each others cars and chatting loudly, blocking up the road. One had a convertible Mercedes which Jasmine told me was new - I dont know how everyone knows these things about each other. I felt a huge surge of hatred for them and passed this on to Jasmine who said that if you thought about it I also had a 4x4 or did, until we sold the Landrover back a couple of weeks ago, and a convertible Mercedes, now also sold, and blondehighlights so if you thought about it, people could say the same about me. I stuttered as I tried to explain the huge spiritual gulf between me and them. I pointed out that my Landrover was dirty and I was not well groomed, but apparently this was not really material and in fact I do realise that quite often people have made faces at me in the car and appeared to be mouthing things like "out of my way, you stupid stuck-up cow" which I also mouth at the school mothers.
Listen, inside I am not like that. First of all, I did not buy the cars; one was a company car from IBM and the other was Sandy's car which he chose for various spurious reasons such as it was big, because he used to be in the military and Jeremy Clarkson recommended it for driving up a mountain. For a long time I was very fond of my Toyota Carina, and before that my first and favourite car, a red Triumph Spitfire which leaked. Now that the Merc and the Landrover have gone, I plan to have a van, though what I would really like is an old cloth top Jeep of the kind we used to go to school in in Bangkok - I am not allowed to have that because apparently it will not be practical in the heat and also because there will be no spare parts and I will be stranded on a mountain road when it breaks down. As usual, Sandy likes to think of the worst case scenario and to paint it in vivid detail for me in case I don't get the point.
I am not saying I am not a style victim because I am, but my style is, I like to think, more alternative. What I really wanted to say to Jasmine was that none of those women have ever felt different, or poor, or excluded - ever. Not that I exactly have, but I've come a lot closer. Let's face it, I have worked in shops in Croydon. Anyway, I felt a great sense of relief when we got rid of the cars; like almost anything except cats, the cost of maintenance pretty much outweighs the pleasure. In fact, the more stuff I have got rid of, the better I feel; it is a great feeling cancelling direct debits, particularly when you find ones you did not even know you had. I was reminded of Snufkin in the Moomintrolls and what a nuisance he thinks possessions are and was starting to feel poor and virtuous as though I could go through the eye of the needle when I realised that I still had about 100 boxes full of stuff to go to Spain. On top of that, as Lara keeps reminding me, we are going to get other stuff, like goats, which will then have a baby which she will keep. It's not quite the simple life, yet, but perhaps it still can be.
Nothing is simple, though. All the time I was at work I held the view that women at home sat about having coffee but I now eat my words and admit that being at home is significantly more stressful than being in the office. A while ago, Trisha asked one of the posh mothers, Vanessa, who was talking in a loud voice about how busy she was, exactly what she did during the day. We all did impressions of her pushing her fringe back and saying "Well, as soon as I've dropped Holly off, it's time for my tennis lesson, then it's lunch, then Sainsbury's and by the time I've done that it's time to pick Holly up again." The fact is, she may drive a 4x4 and never have been poor, but she had a point. It's a round of boring jobs; will they be different in the sun and on empty roads? How long will I last before I have to hire someone to do the ironing, and go back to work?
Postscript: Went to a party on Sunday where I saw both my two sisters - unusual for this to happen but I expect to see them more once we have moved. Clare said that in Peckham it is the thing to do the school run in your pyjamas and not only that in general all mothers have the same ones from Etam with teddy bears on them. Clearly, there are whatever the cultural equivalent of microclimates is in the UK - it is just quite unimaginable that anyone round here to turn up in their pyjamas, let alone shop at Etam which I have to say I thought had gone out with C&A but is clearly alive and well in Peckham.
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