Get me an aspirin and an elastoplast will you?

It was a few years ago now. I was in  a small supermarket. The product organisation escaped me. I'd found the washing powders and bath cleaners but the washing up liquid was laying low. Breaking with my usual stubborn silence I asked a shelf stacker where it was. The Mistol is at the back, near the freezers," she said.

Just as we Brits use aspirin, escalator, biro, trampoline, thermos, sellotape, catseye, dormobile, durex, bubble wrap, photoshop, stanley knife, armco, JCB, fibre glass and lots more trademarks to describe generic products so do the Spanish.

So Mistol is a brand of washing up liquid. I bought it that day, just grateful that I'd found the stuff. It's good stuff, it smells nice, it has lots of flavours. There is a little dodge, a little marketing ploy, with Mistol though. It has a really wide spout in relation to most other brands of washing up liquids. The liquid gushes out and gets used up very quickly. I've decided it's an abusive design and I've bought Fairy again the last couple of times.

Obviously I don't know all the Spanish trade marks that have become household language but these are some of the ones I've noticed. Actually as I worked on the list it became so long as to be boring so I cut it down. Bimbo is used for sliced bread, Danone for yoghurt, Avecrem for stock cubes, Casera for a sort of lemonade often mixed with cheap wine, Bic for Biros (see how whimsically I write?), Dodot for nappies, Rimel for mascara, Kleenex for tissues, Táper or Túper (mispronounciation of abbreviated Tupperware) for plastic food containers and Post-its for, well, Post its.

I suppose these words change with age and possibly with location. I hoover up (not often enough according to Maggie) but I don't think it's a popular generic term amongst younger people or amongst people from the South of England. I had something similar with aspirin, aspirina, which is a Bayer trade mark. I asked for aspirina in a chemist's in Yecla. The chemist asked if I were sure and produced the trademarked brand at, say, 4€ and a generic at well under half the price. I went for the cheaper brand. I only use them to ward off heart attacks after all. The chemist obviously thought this was all a huge joke and spent the next few minutes coaching me in the pronunciation and rhthym of ácido acetilsalicílico, acetylsalicylic acid. Years later, now fluent in ácido acetilsalicílico, a chemist in Cartagena took me to task. "For God's sake, don't be so prissy, say aspirina," he said.

¿Is that correct?

I've been doing a Spanish class recently. Not that I expect it to make me any more understood in the street. I just feel I have a responsibility to try to improve my Spanish somehow. I would have preferred an intercambio - the half an hour of Spanish for half an hour of English language exchange - but, despite a fair bit of effort, I couldn't find one. Well, actually, that's not true. Alvaró and I met a couple of times but then he went off to seek fame and fortune in Guildford.

So, unable to get  a bit of Spanish for free, I asked a local academy about paying for a weekly grammar class. It's not that exciting but it's structured practice, of a sort, with correction. My teacher is a pleasant and well organised young woman.

"Why not write something for me to correct?" she suggested. So I did. I've done something the last couple of weeks and I was working on this week's piece today. Writing the essay is pretty straightforward. With a biro I can write nearly as quickly in Spanish as in English but as I two finger type the clean copy I see tons of errors, wonder about lots of grammar and spend ages checking spelling and especially accent marks. Tidying up the text can take a long time. I did try writing direct to computer but the mechanics of my two fingered typing inhibit any spontaneity.

Today I was being a bit more playful with my writing than I have been the last couple of times. Well that is if you consider this sort of thing to be playful - The British Empire ran on tea, well tea and gin and tonic - oh, and quite a powerful navy. I included speech in the writing to liven it up a bit too. I started using inverted commas then I remembered, vaguely, that in Spanish the inverted commas are used to quote what someone notable said - Joan of Arc or Henry Kissinger sort of quotes. I asked Google and got a nice piece about how to deal with reporting speech in Spanish. In essence Spanish uses long hyphens, which join to the words and stick with them across line breaks and suchlike, to isolate the speech from normal narrative. There are different rules for how the hyphens are placed under different circumstances and also how to deal with other punctuation marks like full stops and question marks in and around the hyphens. I read it, it made sense and I instantly forgot it.

I was thinking about English punctuation. Do you know, I haven't a clue (probably if you read these blogs critically you do know.) I don't know about how to use parentheses - is the full stop correct and is it in the right place within that last set of brackets for instance? I don't know about single, as against double, inverted commas, I don't know where other marks go in amongst the brackets, quotes, hyphens and what not. My big ally is that I suspect that lots of other people don't know either. Whereas the book Eats, Shoots & Leaves may well have cheered up the sort of person who writes to the BBC about the pronunciation of envelope I'm certain that any ordinary person who slogged through it will no longer remember much, if any, of it.

So, I foresee a truly interesting conversation about how to correctly punctuate Spanish in one of the next classes. Life surely is a riot.

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And here is the text, in Spanish, from a blog called Tinta al sol, about how to do it for anyone interested.

Según el Diccionario panhispánico de dudas de la RAE, lo primero que hay que aclarar es que los diálogos en un texto narrativo no van precedidos de guiones, sino de una raya, que es ligeramente más larga que un guión.

Esta raya antecede a los diálogos, tras una sangría, y sin dejar espacio entre la raya y el comienzo del parlamento.

La raya también enmarca las acotaciones del narrador, y debe cerrarse sólo si el diálogo continúa tras el comentario del narrador.

—Hola, ¿cómo estás? —dijo ella tras verle entrar—. ¿Vas a salir?

—No, no saldré —dijo él sin mirarla.

Cuando se utiliza un verbo de habla para el comentario del narrador (decir, exclamar, afirmar, responder, etc.), éste va en minúscula, aunque el diálogo haya terminado con un signo de puntuación del mismo valor que un punto, como un signo de exclamación o de interrogación.

—¿Eso es todo? —preguntó ella.

Si el diálogo del personaje continúa tras la acotación, y la primera parte termina con coma, punto, punto y coma o dos puntos, este signo de puntuación se coloca tras la raya del cierre.

—Todo —respondió él—. Y tanto que es todo.

Cuando el comentario del narrador no lleva un verbo de habla, la primera parte del diálogo se cierra con un punto, y la acotación comienza con mayúscula. Si el diálogo continúa después, se escribe un punto tras la raya de cierre.

—Estupendo. —Ella se volvió para que no viera su sonrisa—. Me llevo la llave.

Professionalism

It's probably some sort of jingoism on my part but I can't say I'm that impressed by the professionals that we have occasionally used here. By professionals I don't mean doctors or mechanics or plumbers or builders. They seem fine or at least just normally inept. No, I'm talking about the sort of people who work from offices and should wear suits - architects, lawyers, accountants, bank workers and the like.

A friend of ours was going through a divorce. The lawyer forgot to tell her that the divorce had been granted. Right on the ball then?

When we first got here we hired a lawyer to sort out our residence papers. We thought we could do it ourselves but to avoid hassle we paid a professional. Unfortunately the lawyer was completely unaware that the legislation was changing. He went through the tried and tested process but, by the time we went to collect the documentation, it no longer existed. We'd paid upfront. There was no talk of a refund. We did the correct paperwork ourselves.

As a part of some half hearted anti money laundering legislation everyone has to prove that they are who they say they are to their bank. This has to be done in person at a branch. The legislation was introduced in October 2010 leaving over four years for the banks to collect the information. In the last few weeks the banks have been in some sort of blue funk trying to get an extension on the implementation date at the end of April. They seemed to have forgotten to tell anyone. I read it in the press. This really is leaving your weekend homework to the school bus on Monday morning.

Last year the tax office caught up with some untaxed pension income of mine. I went to the Revenue to sort it out with my annual declaration. I wanted to correct any underpayment in previous years too but the Tax Office said that was a job for an accountant. I'd gone directly to the Tax Office because I reckoned that if they made a mistake at least it would be an "official" mistake. Anyway, following their advice I went to an accountant in the town where I was living. He told me there was no past tax liability - I was in the clear. The man did not fill me with confidence though. He used a calculator for the simplest of sums, He made lots of ooh and aah sounds as he stared at his computer screen. He kept reaching for his fags before remembering that it's no longer legal to smoke at work. He wasn't Cockburn's Port.

This year I have to have an accountant as I am self employed. The first thing my accountant did on my behalf was to register me as self employed. I knew it had happened because the Social Security confirmed it in a text message and took money from my bank account. They took 40% more than the accountant told me they would take. I heard nothing from the accountant though, not a dickie bird. When I went to see him a month or so ago I asked for the self employment registration certificate. "Oh, haven't we sent it you?," he said. 

The tax people don't seem to have forgotten that I get a UK pension. They sent me a letter offering an amnesty on any unpaid taxes on pension income to foreigners like me - no interest, no fines, just the normal payment of any unpaid back tax. My new accountant didn't seem to want to see the letter that the Tax People had sent even though I said that it talked about a new process, a special form. Unlike last year's accountant my new accountant is sure I owe the Revenue something.

Today, when I sent a WhatsApp to ask him when I might see the paperwork that they were going to submit on my behalf  he replied by phone. I've told him that I try to avoid technical phone calls in Spanish preferring emails or other written options. He told me there was a specific form that had to be completed in my case. The Tax Office need to send the form to me so that in turn I can send it on to the accountant. I presume this is the special form mentioned in the letter that he didn't want to read. Before he rang off he said he just wanted to be sure that he had my correct postal address. It was perfect except for the street, the PO box and the town.

He thinks we should leave the submission till the last possible day. That sounds like the perfect strategy to me.

Support for corvidae

The music festival season is just beginning to warm up in Spain. We usually try to get along to at least one event. It's good to hear a band that goes on to greater things - "Calvin? great musician! First time I saw him he was on the tiny fourth stage just by the latrines at half past six in the evening" It's good to hear new bands in general and I always look forward to those vegetable noodles they serve in the overpriced food areas too.

So I was reading an article, in Spanish, from a national newspaper. It was suggesting ways to keep the costs of festival going to a bare minimum. It suggested coachsurfing (sic). Fortunately for me coachsurfing was hyperlinked and when I followed the link there was a little piece about couchsurfing (sic). Taken along with the rest of the article about how nice someone had been to some tourists I decided that it was about an internet method of finding a floor to kip on. Someone who would put you up on their couch for a fraction of the price of the cheapest hostel. I have no idea whether couchsurfing is in use in the UK but there is a fair chance that it is - it's just new to me. I may know what wotless and glamping mean but it's imppossible to keep up with all the linguistic changes from a couple of thousand kilometres away.

Back in our living room I was watching some late night current affairs programme. The subtitles were on. They repeatededly mentioned crowfunding (sic) which is a fair phonetic interpretation of the word the people were using during the debate. I guessed straight away that it was not some crow support charity but a mispronunciation of crowd funding. Similar things happen all the time. I'm never quite sure whether the word is basically an Englishism given a Spanish twist - like WhatsApp becoming wassap or whether some Spanish person has decided that an English word or phrase will do the job better than a Spanish word and invented something that only exists here. Not to stray too far a really simple example of the latter would be the word parking, which is a well established and widely used Spanish word, that translates as car park or parking lot.

English words crop up in the middle of educated Spanish speech all the time. Today, in maybe an hour or so of radio listening, I noticed base camp, hotspot and peacekeeper. Often the words are pronounced to Spanish pronunciation rules so that they become unintelligible to my Brit ear. It's quite strange to maybe hear a new phrase or word on the radio or TV only to realise, when I see it written down, that it is some perfectly simple English word. Change the stress, as my students do, on ear to make it sound like a West Country exclamation and you'll appreciate how easily and quickly it can happen.

At least I've worked out a strategy for one thing that used to flummox me all the time. I get to the cinema and the title is in English. I often tried, unsuccessfully, to guess the Spanish pronunciation. Now I just say the title in English and follow it up with a Spanish phrase which says "I hate it when the titles are in English." We all have a bit of a laugh and the success rate on trouble free ticket buying has skyrocketed.

I must be in Paris

I used to use an English language exercise about the difference between must and could. You know the sort of thing; she must be delayed: she could be ill, she could be in traffic. The example went something like " I can see the Eiffel Tower, I can see the River Seine - where am I?" I learned to write the words on the board because my pronunciation never clicked with my Spanish students but it didn't help much. The success rate on "You must be in Paris." was pretty low. Maybe 50% would get the French capital with Rome coming a close second. Another exercise had pictures of the Christ statue in Rio, the Opera House in Sydney, The Coliseum in Rome and The Capitol Building in Washington DC. Hardly anyone could identify anything other than the Coliseum.

Now not recognising Sydney Opera House is no sort of crime; no measure of intelligence. I'm dead against lots of rote learning and there is no reason that anyone should know a series of landmarks but I would have hoped that a bunch of young people would maybe have done just a little better. Most of the students for the particular course were mid 20s university students doing Master's degrees after all.

There are lots of American series on Spanish TV. Programmes like The Mentalist, Bones, Big Bang Theory, Modern Family, Two Broke Girls etc. Nowadays we normally watch these programmes in English with the Spanish subtitles on just to give the impression that we live in Spain. Where the subtitles make some reference to something colloquially American - Betsy Ross sewing the flag, tater tots, doughboy marshmallows, Fox News etc. - the subtitles often gently subvert that into a Spanish reference. So Lifesavers become Chupa Chups and Russell Westbrook becomes Marc Gasol. Some "black" US delicacy in Blackish last night was translated into ham and tortilla by the subs.

I sometimes don't get the US references myself. It's a foreign country after all, and my faculties are going, but I can usually work out the basic idea. I can also see a justification at times - for instance where the reference is language based as in the example of tater tots - which were simply translated as crisps. On the other hand such a narrow, parochial view of the world where everything is referenced to Spain seems basically unhealthy to me. It could be one of the reasons those students don't know that the Eiffel Tower is in Paris.

Slightly off

I signed up for a weekly Spanish course yesterday. I haven't quite given up on the language yet - despite what Maggie says, and what I know to be true, that I will never speak Spanish adequately.

I have just finished a blog post. Looking for information I was wading trough official bulletins, where laws and official notices are published. I could understand them but I wouldn't pretend that it's easy reading. It's the same with books, I normally read in Spanish but, at the moment, I'm reading a book written by an Englishman and it seemed perverse to read it in translation. I have to admit that it's much more comfortable reading in English.

We took Maggie's car for an ITV yesterday, the road worthiness check. The tester took the car off us and drove it through the various test bays himself. I have the feeling that he was only doing that with us immigrants. Easier to do it himself than explain the various actions he required of us.

Bank yesterday too to comply with some legislation. No problem really but the odd falter so that I chose to be economical with the truth rather than explain a complicated situation.

I stupidly lost a pair of sunglasses. I went to the three shops that I'd been in to ask if I'd left them there. In two of the three cases I stumbled slightly as I asked. Nothing serious, just a slip of a tense that needed correction or a falter over the pronunciation of a word, not a problem I notice with English.

I wanted an appointment with my accountant. I used WhatsApp to avoid a telephone conversation.

A Spanish friend asked me for my opinion on a service he was considering buying. At the end of my reply, which I rewrote several times before running it through Google translate and a spell checker, I added my usual - I hope you can understand what I meant to say.

Easier to buy the poor supermarket meat than ask (and queue) in a butcher.

And so on.

It's nice living here. It's home. But the truth is that language affects every aspect of everything we do from watching the telly to getting a beer. Anyone who isn't fluent in both the culture and the language will always be a bit out of it.

Day to day

I remember some adverts at the cinema along the lines of "Which teacher changed your life?" It was a recruiting campaign for teachers; the idea being that teachers could make a real difference. Without the Ms. Williamsons or Mr. Gwizdaks there wouldn't be as many great novels or so many life enriching scientific discoveries. I've never really believed in the concept of inspirational teaching. I do not doubt that some teachers are better than others, that some teachers explain concepts better than others, that some teachers are more empathetic than others but, in the end, I think it's the student that counts. I was an average sort of student and I got average sort of results in a whole bundle of subjects. Who taught me seems to have been irrelevant. Nowadays anyway the very idea of a teacher as the fount of all knowledge seems so Victorian when my phone can tell me much more about chemistry than Messrs Lofthouse, Bottomley and all my other school chemistry teachers put together.

I'm certainly no inspirational teacher myself. I don't particularly care for the job and I do it because I get paid. I'm reasonably organised and I'm reasonably lively so I don't think I'm a bad teacher or anything but I'm certainly nothing out of the ordinary. I've now worked in three different "academies"  which seems to be the accepted translation of the word academia which is usually used to describe a private language school here in Spain.

One of my academies had a flexible learning system built around units of learning but two of the academies, including my present one, use a standard and very simple system which is a bit odd to British eyes. The students pay a fixed fee per month for a set number of classes. The classes are usually graded by ability or by age. So, take an example. In March this year if your classes were on Monday and Tuesday you would get ten classes but, if they were on Wednesday and Thursday you would only get eight. Actually that's not quite true because Father's Day, Thursday March 19th, is a holiday so there will only be seven classes for the Wednesday/Thursday brigade. It's a swings and roundabouts system and most people simply hand over their cash and come every month. You can play the system of course and some people do. December, for instance, is plagued with holidays so lots of students do November, miss December and come back in January.

English is a regular topic of conversation in Spain. There's a belief that without English you cannot succeed. Professionals often need English. Teachers, for example, have to have a high intermediate qualification in English (B2) no matter what subject or area they teach. On the radio there are often pieces complaining about the intrusion of English into the everyday language. It seems to be pretty cool for Spaniards to drop in a few English words to the conversation. The funny thing is that the variations in pronunciation mean that many native English speakers do not recognise the words as English. On top of that many supposedly English words aren't used correctly. Cross and camping for instance are well established, everyday words used by all Spaniards but the first is a cross country race and the second is a campsite. There is camping close to the start of the cross would, I suspect, confound most Brits.

So there is a sizeable market for English language teaching across the age range in Spain. The backbone of the majority of the academies though is children.  Responsible adults want their children to succeed. They send them to do English because either they are doing well at school and want to reinforce the success or because they are doing badly and want to make up the deficit. In reality the level of even the best of the youngsters is excruciatingly bad. I have no idea what's going on with English language teaching in Spanish schools but it isn't working for the youngsters I bump into.

It may be, of course, that for me at least there's no need for younger students to apply themselves. Most of the youngsters would rather be manipulating a games console, kicking a football or chatting with their pals than doing English and as long as they do well, or better, at school their parents will leave them alone. There is no real need for them to try and speak or understand English for me. I can offer neither substantial threats nor incentives. So even the nicest of them, the ones who seem keen, chatter all the time. Spain is a noisy country which means that everyone knows that you need to raise your voice to be heard. The result is that chatter often turns to shouting. Amongst the less interested, on top of the noise, there is fighting. They fight each other and occasionally they fight with me in the sense that they will try to wrest a board marker from my grip or force closed the book that they don't want to study. There is a lot of pinching and kicking amongst them and a fair bit of stabbing each other with pencils. Tearing up worksheets is the norm. I hate English (said in Spanish of course)  and a point blank refusal to participate in the activities are common. Several of the younger children seem to delight in dropping their trousers or throwing snot around. Most endearing. The environment is not one that fosters speedy language learning and one of the real differences between me and a properly trained teacher is that I have no idea about classroom management.

Personally of course I'm still struggling to learn a bit more Spanish, to improve my fluency and what not. So for the past few years the parallels between my own struggles with a language and those of my students have made the whole thing quite interesting. I don't find it quite so aborbing anymore now that I spend most of my time asking people to get off the table or to stop shouting.

Goodly Sir wouldst be so kind as to render me aid?

The man on the phone asked me if he was speaking to don Christopher. I told him that he was but whatever he was selling I didn't want it. He didn't need to say anything else. Nobody uses don unless they wear headsets to talk on the phone. He assured me that he was just checking to see if I'd got a particular piece of junk mail. He didn't try to sell me anything so maybe it really was just a check on whoever does their bulk mailing.

I don't like being called don. It's supposed to be courteous. It's used with your first name rather than using the surname. It's a bit antique but I simply don't like people deferring to me and I particularly don't like it when it's a sham deference.

Usted, unlike don, isn't archaic. If, like me, you were taught French at school, then the Spanish usted is equivalent to the vous form. The polite form of you. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? rather than Je t'aime. The idea is that usted is used for people you don't know, for people who are a bit older than you or to show a bit of respect. I don't like that either. I don't like it in shops, I don't like it in bars, I don't like it in general.

Spanish people tell me I should use usted - they tell me that I should only use tú when I know people. Tugging one's forelock and doffing one's cap went out even before I was born. I see usted as very similiar. For Latin Americans I don't think there's the same distinction. I think Ecuadorian parents address their children as usted. Some Latin American countries use a different way of saying you all together.

Dealing with everyone the same is fine by me whether it's a formal, Mr Thompson, or more informal, Chris but using the equivalents of sir or esquire. No thanks.

Lord Grantham and me

I've been living in Spain for ten years and five days now. We've owned the house in Culebrón for all but three months of that time. Despite that we've lived in Santa Pola, Ciudad Rodrigo, Cartagena and La Unión. We've rented six different flats all because of where we have found work. So it's nice to be finally living at home and paying just one electric bill, one phone bill and not having to move here and there for weekends or bank holidays.

Culebrón, or more accurately Pinoso is, nonetheless, the most British of all the places I've lived in Spain. Now don't get me wrong Spain is just outside the door. The mountain view is Spanish, the crops in the field are Spanish, the traffic is Spanish, the opening times are Spanish but Britishness crowds in here in a way that it hasn't in any of those other places. I say Pinoso by the way because that's where we go to buy bread and beer. In Culebrón we live right on the edge of the village and we only really venture into the village centre for events and to dump stuff in the recycling bins.

The English language is everywhere now. Lots of people can manage to communicate in a form of English. I was, for instance, rather amused when we had lunch with one of Maggie's pals in Cartagena. Her Spanish is good, basically because her family is Spanish, but despite her speaking Spanish to the waiter he always replied in English. Everyone wants to practise their English and most Brits speak Spanish so badly that we're glad of the help. But I'm not talking about language here I'm talking about Britishness.

Walk up the street by the Post Office in Pinoso and the chances are you will hear more English being spoken than Spanish or Valencià. The paper shop has a good range of British magazines, sells The Daily Mail and has some sort of selection of birthday cards to satisfy a particularly British craving. The only bar in the street is British run and I think the second hand furniture shop too. One of the two Estate Agents is British though I think they work with a Spanish colleague. The queue in the Post Office is often predominantly British and the chap behind the counter now speaks the English he needs for his job pretty well. The local supermarkets make concessions to Brits - Tetley tea recently appeared in Consum, though they seemed to have stopped stocking Stilton, whilst Más y Más has sold British tea for years and they occasionally even have Branston. The Algerian fruit shop sells Yorkshire Tea.

The other evening Maggie had been with me to Fortuna so we decided to have an evening meal in Pinoso on the way home. We asked in the restaurant if it were too early to eat as it was only 9pm. Good grief said the waitess. We sell dinner to you Brits from 7.30. There were, of course, no Spaniards eating so early. Last weekend we did our bit in supporting a friend who does the props for a local am dram group. Two short English language plays to a British audience. In the bar adjoining the theatre there is British TV and you order and pay at the bar just as you would in the Dog and Duck. On Saturday morning I usually join some friends to have a coffee. The waiter is most amusing and speaks a doggerel English that perfectly matches the doggerel Spanish of our group. Britishness everywhere.

In Ciudad Rodrigo there were no other Brits and whilst there were stacks of us in Santa Pola, Cartagena and La Union we were outnumbered by Spaniards and Spanishness. We just didn't have the critical mass that we Brits have in Pinoso. The home population of Pinoso has no problem with us as a group but our numbers and our economic power have influenced the way the town works. There is a notice in a bread shop apologising that the owner doesn't speak English. The barber, whose first language is the local Valencià to the point that he sometimes forgets Castillian words knows the meaning of the phrase "Just a trim, please." The bilingual children of longer term Brits have a valuable skill to sell.

Now this is fine. I'm British, I'm happy to be British. We're not a bad lot and we can be as proud of some of the things we've done as we can be ashamed of others. I'm in a good place. I can take my choice. Sometimes I fancy a curry or roast beef and they are easy to get where there are lots of us, other times I can do something quite Spanish. It's the same in the house. Whether I choose to get my news from the BBC or the RTVE website is up to me. Whether I listen to Spanish music or international music likewise.

Now Maggie is one of those people who were brought up on telly. She can easily answer questions about who was the host of 3-2-1 or what Jim Bowen's catch phrase was. Me, I like the telly OK too but I basically I use it for entertainment - films, drama and maybe some comedy. I soon get bored of the drama and it's seldom that I can be bothered to watch the second series. TV documentaries usually take far too long to get to the point and I much prefer radio. I probably prefer radio news too. Quiz shows and talent contests bore me or annoy me in equal measure. Maggie on the other hand likes lots of those programmes and she seems to particularly like those based on individuals - the cooking competitions, the talent shows, ballroom dancing, tracing ancestors. She can watch TV for hours and hours.

We have access to both Spanish and British telly. Maggie watches "her programmes, " the British ones as they are broadcast. If there's nothing definite that she wants to watch she usually skips through the Spanish programmes first and then, when or if she can't find anything she likes the look of, she switches to the British offer. Spanish TV is of very variable quality. The drama programmes generally have low production values and the variety and most of the comedy shows are risible. The home made product also has the decided disadvantage that it's in Spanish. We have to work to watch it, we miss key phrases, we don't get the references to celebrities or topical concerns. Imported product, usually American series, have the original English language soundtrack avaialble. I like to watch the occasional programme in Spanish in a vain attempt to hear a bit of Spanish and to keep up with the place I've chosen to live. I always put the subtitles on stuff on Spanish telly - with the English language stuff I get the best of both worlds - I understand the dialogue easily but I still get to read the Spanish version and with the Spanish stuff it means I may actually understand. We do usually see at least some of the Spanish news programmes and Maggie often watches a lunctime show in Spanish too.

But here's the rub, Nowadays not only am I living in a British community outside the house but inside it too. In all those rented flats our only offer was Spanish TV. I saw the same programmes as my Spanish students, I saw the same adverts and there was a point of contact but now that's gone and, even worse, there is almost nowhere in our house where I can escape from the sound of the howling mob on the X Factor, Lord Grantham complaining about Sufragettes or the pundits talking about the Best 100 Food Adverts Of All Time.

No blame here. We should just have bought a bigger house.

Comfy

I don't start work for a couple of hours so I thought I'd go to a local bar for a bit of a read and a coffee. I'm in La Unión, quite definitely a part of Spain, but the story is based in Pinoso.

Last weekend I was in Pinoso. I laughed to myself when I noticed a sign in a bread shop "I don't speak English but at least I try." It seemed strange that the shop owner felt the need to apologise for speaking Spanish in Spain.

I was in town to get the tyre fixed on my car so with that job done a reward seemed in order. I thought bacon sandwich. A bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. If tea were involved I needed somewhere British so I went to the charity shop and café bar run by the animal charity PAPAs.

Despite spending very little time in Culebrón I knew the two people who were serving the food and drinks in the bar. Whilst I was sitting there a couple of people passed through who said hello to me. The bacon sandwich involved close questioning about the crispiness of the meat and the colour of the bread. I gave confident answers. It was all together a pleasant and comfortable experience. And it was a good bacon sandwich - just as it should be.

Now I'm off for this coffee. I have three bars to choose from and all of them are good. I always get a courteous welcome and sometimes a friendly one. I won't have any linguistic or cultural problems and if I did I would be able to cope with them. The exchange will be a short one though - businesslike. Nobody will ask me when Maggie is due home, comment on my Facebook photos or ask if I still have the same car.

One of my students, a bloke who speaks cracking English full of idiom and colloquialisms, told me yesterday that when he lived in the UK people would ape his pronunciation and snigger.

Language, language always language to make it just a touch more or a touch  less comfortable.

Oops! Ha, ha!

I seem to have started to say uuf! when something goes wrong. This is a difficult word to spell. It's not the same as pah! or oops! It's more like a phew!

Spanish cockerels go kiri kiri kiri. Obviously no Spaniard has ever heard a cockerel. If they had they would know that cockerels go cock a doodle doo. It's the same with the strange half words, half grunts that we, and they, use to express surprise, to explain away a small mishap to be sarcastic and the like.

PG Wodehouse knew that we Brits made specific noises under specific conditions. I remember the books emphasising HAH!! when the hapless hero was caught out by the stern and  haughty aunt long before his final salvation thanks to Lord Emsworth, the Port and Lemon or Jeeves. It is only in the last few days that I've caught on to the fact that Spaniards emit different non word sounds to us.

This explains why one of my colleagues often seems to dismiss most of my humorous comments as mere tomfoolery with a half mouthed, half nasally blown khah!

Up to now I'd thought it was because she thought I was a fathead.

Barcelona

Barcelona was the first place I ever visited in Spain. I loved Barcelona. So vibrant, so exotic, so exciting. It's because of Barcelona, and Maggie, that I now live in Spain.

My brother, Garry, had arranged a short break in the Catalan capital along with his wife and sons. He suggested that we meet him there. It was all a bit fraught partly because we were just back from Egypt but moreso because it was an 1100km journey along toll motorways operated by bandits. We did it though and I'm glad we did.

We haven't been to Barcelona for maybe 10 years, certainly before we lived in Spain. The last time we were there we were made to feel very unwelcome by people determined to give us a bad time for trying to speak Castillian. The rivalry between Catalans and Spain is legendary. This time that wasn't so much of a problem. Written informatin was generally in Catalan but we were foreign so we were spoken to in English. It seems to me that English is becoming omnipresent.

We didn't see a lot of town. My family was staying on the Ramblas and we were in a basic hotel in Ciutat Vella. The only time we left that bit of the city was for a jolly up to the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya (Notice the claim to nationhood even in the name of a museum). What we did see didn't wow us though. The town smelled of piss, the prices were high, service was indifferent, food was moderate, the streets were dirty, waiters warned us about possible thefts and it all felt a bit squalid. It compared badly with Madrid where we were a couple of days ago, with the peace of Culebrón and the compact friendliness of Cartagena. I suppose it's just us - getting older, more set in our ways - or maybe we were just a bit tired.

Diarrhoea and tears

I've moaned about it before. I'll moan about it again.

We went to buy diarrhoea potions this morning. And paikillers, plasters and some other things that may or may not have begun with a p. The conversation was a disaster. We got the stuff but we were like blind people in a sighted world. I came away cursing, belittled.

I'm reading a book by a bloke called Eloy Moreno. It's a cracking book. Best I've read for ages. I was just reading the chapterlet where the fat man, having abandoned his job, bank accounts and family, makes it to the top of the hill and down to the hostel. I was sobbing with emotion. The book is just so well written.

How is it that I can read a book but not ask for a beer?

Crikey, he salido en la radio

In summer, with all the politicians on holiday, the magazine type radio programmes fill their time with anything they can.

I was just listening to Radio Nacional, the equivalent of BBC Radio 4, to a programme called On Days Like Today, and they were talking about collecting cigarette, tea, bubble gum and similar cards.

I had a story so I logged on to Facebook and posted my story on their wall. I did it in English first, for speed, because it had taken me a while to sort out how to send them a message and they'd been running the item for several minutes. Then I did it again in my form of Spanish. They read it out as I was re-reading my post to check the grammar - and they basically used my Spanish.

The story, by the way, was that I collected the Beatles Yellow Submarine cards when I was a lad. When we came here in 2004 they were one of the things to be cleared out. We had a go at selling them on eBay. I remember I put a reserve on them of £5 and they sold for several hundred in one of those last minute bidding frenzies. I told Radio Nacional £500 but I can't actually remember exactly how much they went for.

That was exciting.

Gainfully employed

According to three people I've spoken to this week Murcia is now the seventh largest city in Spain. That's not what it says on Wikipedia or almost any other Internet source I can find (9th or 10th) but it's nice to know that Murcianos are proud enough of their city to want to bump it up the league a couple of spots.

Culebrón is 58.6kms from Murcia yet I don't really know the city that well. I've seen the Cathedral scores of times, visited a few museums etc. but I still let the Tom Tom guide me in and I pay to park. So, when I decided to book up a weeks worth of residential Spanish course Murcia seemed like a good choice. Near enough to be cheap travelling and yet still largely undiscovered, by me at least.

The plan was a school with five lessons a day of Spanish tuition and also to stay with a Spanish host family for a week. I had this vague notion of me sitting, Homer like, on the couch, bottle of beer in hand as the host family and I guffawed along with something on the telly after a hard day of internalising compound conditionals. It didn't work quite like that but it was surprisingly close.

For a start María Ángles doesn't watch much TV. She seems to get her news form the radio and the normal sound as I crossed the threshold was Classical music. The rest of it hasn't been that Homerish either - Mediterranean cuisine and hardly any alcohol at all. The best bit was that I did get to speak and trying to explain about Lingula, the brachiopod, or my views on some Spanish authors, in Spanish, has been exactly the sort of thing I wanted to try to do.

The school, Instituto Hispánico de Murcia, has been good too. It would be easy to start a list of things I would have preferred to be slightly different but the truth is I got the package as described, the teachers were pleasant and skillful and I've probably spoken about half of the Spanish I've spoken all year in their classrooms or with Mª Ángeles over the past week. The cultural programme hasn't been that good so I haven't picked up as much about Murcia as I might have hoped but I don't want to nit pick and I did drive out of town without Tom's help so I must have learned something.

Dichotomy

Sometimes it crosses my mind that I live a strange life here.

Being British I behave like a Brit. I turn up to places on time, I like written information, I don't queue jump and I eat food from every corner of the globe.

I try my best to live an ordinary immigrant life. I keep up with the news, I pay taxes and I vote. I don't speak Spanish much though as I'm paid to speak English and, obviously enough, Maggie and I speak to each other in English. You don't get to practise a lot of Spanish at the supermarket or buying a newspaper and the truth is I'm a bit unsociable anyway trying to avoid small talk in any language.

When I'm with Brits I'm often accused of having gone native. Being only vaguely interested in the news from "back home" or what's just happened on the X Factor is regarded as a venal sin. What do I care about David Cameron's posturings or whether it's a bank holiday? Those things affect me no more and no less than Berlusconi's pronouncements or Bastille day. Not always wanting to go to the quiz or for a roast on Sunday at one of the several expat bars is tantamount to treason.

When I'm with Spaniards they think of me as being as British as pea soupers in London. Lots of Spaniards are remarkably ill informed and firmly believe that fog and high tea are British realities. When I ask about culture, politics or social customs I'm never quite sure whether the simplistic answers I get are because they class me along with the inquisitive five year olds or because simplistic is what they have. I can't recount the number of times I've being asked if I've ever eaten paella. Being spoken to as though I were stupid is a far too common an occurrence.

When I'm in mixed Spanish and British company the Spaniards will corral we Brits into the same corner so that we can talk about dear old Blighty. It never crosses their mind that for many of us Spain is now our one and only home. Spain is where I go to the doctor, get my hair cut, buy bread and tax my car. It's also a place I chose to live and a culture I like and enjoy.

The truth is that I am adrift - no that isn't right - it's more that I'm not quite anchored. Caught between two existences and a bit at a loss in either. My links with the UK are pretty tenuous nowadays and my links with Spain are pretty shaky too. It's the language of course. Brits think I speak good Spanish whilst the Spanish think I'm a gibbering, incomprehensible fool. The quizzical look on the shopkeeper's face as I ask for a juicer. The sheer terror of making a phone call.

Yes, definitely strange

Coals to Newcastle

The school is in a prime
 city centre location handy
for the sweet shop,
bars and  restaurants

You're going where? In high summer? You must be bonkers - it'll be like an oven! That's been the general drift of the conversation when I've explain to any Spanish chums that I'm intending to spend a week in Murcia city doing a 25 hour Spanish course and living with a host family for a week.

They also find it difficult to understand. You do live in Spain, don't you? Nearly all Spaniards firmly believe that a few months in an English speaking country will turn them into polished and fluent English speakers. If that's the case why hasn't it worked for me the other way around?

The reason is twofold, the first and most important is that I am so terrified to speak that I avoid doing so if at all possible. The other reason is that I hardly ever get the opportunity to speak Spanish. They pay me at work to speak English, Maggie and I speak in English and you don't get a lot of language practice buying a beer or getting the supermarket shopping done.

So, in a few days the Instituto Hispánico de Murcia and Maria Angeles (my host) will get the pleasure of my company. We were in Murcia today signing paper so we went to see where it was.

Who knows, maybe I'll have to speak a bit of Spanish?

Well that was useful then

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.

.

Getting a coffee

I'd collected my new bank card, got the bath sealant, the potting compost and some pop so it was time for a coffee and a smoke. I popped into the local British run bar in the centre of town and "ordered up a cup of mud" (Tom Waits from the Red Sovine song Phantom 309.) The owner was looking serious.

Business is bad. The Britons who live on pensions paid in Sterling have seen their Euro income drastically cut. The younger, working age, Britons have lost their jobs because of the financial slump and have headed back to the UK. The self employed Brits were generally associated with construction, housing etc. and as that market has dried up so has their income. The early morning Spanish breakfast trade has also shrunk with the offices, shops and banks that the Spaniards worked in being closed or merged. The final nail in the coffin is that this particular bar has always been "working class" and a Spanish café just up the road has bought some classy new tables, chairs and umbrellas which seem to be attracting the Brits who see themselves as slightly more sophisticated.

The end could well be in sight.