International Day Against Noise

I didn't hear about this till it was too late. April 28th was the International Day Against Noise

The organisers of the day were very upset about the noise levels in Spain. They say that Spain is the second noisiest country in the World, after Japan.

I've heard that statistic before, in fact I've quoted it to Spaniards when we've been laughing about the noise levels in some Spanish bar or other. I wonder though how and where you measure noise levels? Is the noise level in a country, say Spain, made up of averaging out the noise levels in the centre of Madrid and atop Mulhacen or do only places with at least so much noise count?

It is absolutely true that Spanish people know how to make plenty of noise. Keeping quiet does not come easily or naturally to them. Their mopeds can be heard for miles. Their discussions about the qualities of this or that recipe carry through the walls of most flats. On the other hand I have often parked up somewhere to take a photo or to simply stare into the haze of a summer's day and been struck by the almost absolute silence of Spain - humming insects or the noises of the countryside toasting maybe but no human activity save my own.

Maybe those International Noise people should get out of town more often.

I declare

I've just done my tax return. It didn't take me long. The tax people, usually referred to as Hacienda, send me a document through the post that says what they think I owe them or what they think they owe me. If I agree all I have to do is go to their webpage and confirm the details and that's it done for another year.

If I hadn't agreed then I could have changed the details online and confirmed those. I presume that, after a change, some tax clerk or maybe a computer programme, checks the changes and, if they seem reasonable, the confirmed but altered details are given the OK and processed.

The first year I had to do this I went to a local accountant who charged me a few euros, 30€ as I remember, to complete the original form and get me into the tax system. Once I existed on the Hacienda database they began to log any salary and tax payments made by my employers or by the state unemployment people so that they could calculate whether I had over or under paid at the end of the tax year. The tax year is the calendar year.

It doesn't have to be done online. Accountants can deal with the paperwork as can the local tax offices and I think that banks can too. It's obviously more difficult for someone with a business or with multiple income streams but for someone with finances as simple as mine it's dead easy.

Maggie got notification that her draft was available online via a text message to her mobile phone which included the reference number to give her access to the online draft.

Best of all they reckoned they owed me a few euros.

Yes, yes, yes, yes - No

The story of the replacement of the roof of our house is a long and soporific one.

When we finally had the note from the architect last year to say the work was completed to his satisfaction we took it to the Town Hall. The paperwork was stamped. "Is that it, is it all done?" I asked. The Councillor who stamped the paperwork said it was all done. Our architect had said it was all done.

But I didn't trust either of them.

On the original notification of planning permission there was a clause to say that we needed a certificate of "First Habitation." Normally that's the certificate you apply for when you build a new house to show it's safe and to code and suchlike so you can get water and electric connected. We've lived in the house for five years so, obviously, it wasn't the first habitation of the house.

"Right," said the chief chappie in the planning office, "you need a certificate of first habitation, well that's what we call it - it isn't like a certificate of first habitation - after all you have water and electric and stuff - but that's what we call it. You need to bring me a bunch of papers, here's a list, once you've done that I'll pop out to see it and then we'll issue the certificate."

Being Easter the office is closed so we've asked someone to sort it out on our behalf.

Reading this is better than bedtime Horlicks.

Neighbours

My mum has told a joke, on and off, for the past forty years. It concerns a little girl who has been given a watch and a bottle of scent for her birthday. For days the girl pesters friends and strangers alike to look at her watch and smell her perfume. Her parents finally forbid her to mention the gifts. When the Vicar calls for tea she can contain herself no longer "If you hear a little tick and you smell a little smell it'll be me."

That was it.

The goats announce themselves with farting. Honest; you hear the hooves like the rustling of leaves in the breeze and then farts - loud, rasping, incessant farting. These goats are our neighbours, they live just down the road. If you hear a little rustle and hear a little farting it'll be the goats.

For anyone who's interested the breed is Murciana Granadina.

Shelter from the storm

We've been in Spain a while now and we've seen lots of Easter processions. The routine varies from town to town and procession to procession but the basic formula is the same. Individual squads dressed in pointed Klu Klux Klan hats and heavy, floor sweeping robes, escort carved, blood stained Christs and religious banners through the streets to solemn music based on slow, repetive drum beats. It can be impressive stuff but as it happens every night of Holy Week with extra processions to move this or that statue from one spot to another it soon drags as a spectator sport.

My procession count this year has been low so I went, for the first time, to see the midnight procession that marks the start of Good Friday here in Pinoso.

The town was pitch black. The street lights were off. The house shutters were down. The only light came from rogue phone boxes and bank machines. No cars were moving. People walking to the procession trod quietly with none of the normal chatter. Nobody was smoking. I took up my place in a side street and only after a moment did I realise that the procession was already moving past me. The drummer and his muffled, one beat every five seconds, was already gone. The black pointed hoods and black robes rolled silently by.

I had my camera but I was rather relieved when the autofocus, autoflash settings couldn't come to grips with the totally dark streets and black clothes. It seemed wrong to take snaps somehow. Amongst the silent watchers a young man talked too loud, on purpose, maybe to impress a girl. His friends left him high and dry. A mobile phone spurted to life but was silenced mid tone whilst a big, bloody Jesus on a cross lit with subtle blue light, swayed past on the backs of black hooded bearers.

Behind the cross came the silent crowd; hundreds of people of all ages, nearly everyone with a candle, Lots of spectators stepped off the pavement to join the procession. I began to feel uncomfortable for watching. Fifteen or maybe twenty minutes and it was all over.

As I walked back to my car I saw a bloke lighting up, a family walking in my direction were giggling and chatting. The night was crackling back to life in tiny little ways.