There was a notice on the rubbish bin to say there was a meeting of the Neighbourhood Association in the Village Hall tonight to receive last year's accounts and plan this year's fiesta.
I toyed with the idea of going to a talk on olives and almonds in Pinoso; I have an unusual idea of interesting but, finally, a sense of duty to the village prevailed and I went to the meeting. I go every year and every year I understand next to nothing. Obviously the main reason is because my Spanish is crap but the echo in the room, the multiplicity of conversations (Spaniards, in my experience, don't take well to the discipline of someone else controlling when they can talk) and the occasional lapse into Valenciano all contribute.
I came home and Maggie was watching something on the BBC so in a vain effort to pretend I live in Spain I went into the kitchen to read the paper.
I understood next to nothing. No problem with the headlines, no problem with the gist but the detail escapes me. I read and re-read parts of the piece about Marta de Castillo (a 17 year old girl who was killed probably by her ex boyfriend) because I thought I should try to understand the story. I know more than I did but I still haven't got the facts straight.
It's an odd life here sometimes.