And keep the change for yourself

Spain is bespattered with Chinos, Chinese owned shops. There are two principal types. One is like the old British corner shop where the family work all the time. It opens late, it sells sweets, pop and stuff plus basic food and all sorts of things that seem a bit out of place - piles of flip flops in over brittle and discoloured plastic bags piled on top of the crisp boxes. Here in Pinoso we don't have one of those. Our 24 hour shop, or it may be shops, are Spanish run. 

We do have two Chinos though; ours are the sort that sell everything except food. There are tools, cleaning products, stationery, earphones, phone cases, reading glasses, clothing, cleaning products, photo frames, light bulbs, pet supplies and a trillion other things. We Brits love them. We can hunt around the shelves looking for whatever it is rather than having to mime and splutter to, for instance, the person behind the haberdashery shop counter, "Err, I don't know how to say knicker elastic in Spanish." The two Chinese shops in Pinoso are awash with Britons though they're popular with the locals too.

The Chinos were the first places to close when the pandemic hit. I think there was a fear amongst the Chinese community that there would be some sort of racist backlash - the sort of knee-jerk stupidity beloved of the incoherent Donny Trump. When we moved phase here, when the stranglehold of quarantine started to be relaxed, the shops started to re-open. One of the Chinese shops couldn't because it's bigger than 400 square metres and the regulations said "no" to big shops. The other could though. I couldn't avoid the temptation as I passed on the first day it re-opened and I came away grinning with my haul of paint brushes, hosepipe connectors, car shampoo and whatnot. I hear that the bigger Chinese shop has now re-opened but that it's on a sort of ask at the door process. I've scratched my own itch so I've not been in. I have been to a bookshop though, and an ironmongers and the cold meat and olive stalls in the market. Spreading my paltry wealth around.

It's been good to see the "non essential" shops opening up again. It seems to be much more a hopeful sign of the return to normality, of fewer people dying, of politicians calling each other terrorists and coup plotters, than being able to go for a stroll or do a bit of exercise close to home for a limited period in a delimited time. To tell the truth, with being able to travel in province again, we made an appointment and went down to Torrellano to look at second hand cars. Whilst we were there we went to a bar with a view over the Med. It wasn't the first bar we've been to since the confinement began to ease - the machine coffee and the ice cold beer were great but, even better, it felt just like any old day in Spain for a while.

In general things seem to be getting back on track. This morning I had to get up early to take Maggie to her hairdresser who works a little outside Pinoso. Maggie told me that the appointment queue for the haircutter had been a long one as people made up for weeks of folicular fecundity. I know that my mum, in the UK, is really anxious to get her first professional shampoo and set after weeks of staying at home.

Who knows we may still get a fiesta or a concert or something this year.

Zilch, nada

I was trying to think of what to write. I wondered about something on having to wear masks in public. I thought about the slight loosening of restrictions - being able to get a beer outside a bar or go into a shop. Neither smacked of Herodotus nor even of Stephen King. And the message has all been a bit mixed up too; freer movement promised to people living in small towns, announced last weekend, still hasn't been enacted.

Next I considered the political argy bargy. I have been thoroughly appalled at the way that the opposition parties have been trying to make political capital out of the continuance, or not, of the state of alarm, the constitutional state which allows for a "unified command". Then it turned out that our President had done a secret deal with a political party that has a dodgy, terrorist, background, and kept it from his colleagues. Bang went the moral high ground.

What about the unrest on the streets, the people banging pots and pans to protest about the perceived government mishandling of the situation? To be honest that's not much of a story really. If you've been locked up in your house for going on three months, if the promised government "temporary dole" hasn't materialised and your mortgage is unpaid and everything you like to do has been scrubbed then it doesn't take much of a social media campaign to get a few hundred or even a few thousand people on the streets to moan and groan.

I wondered if there was something in the uncivic attitude of quite a lot of people. I think anti social would be the translation but uncivic seems so much more descriptive. We've spent all this time locked up to find tons of young people flouting the rules and cramming into bars and having beach parties because they're fed up of not being able to. That's not either interesting or particularly Spain related though is it?

What about working with my sources of outside stimulus? The books I've read or the stuff I'm watching on Netflix and Filmin? What about all the podcasts that I'm still listening to? Maybe there's something about the street Spanish I've been picking up from those sources. Boring - and I've done it before. I will though, thanks to the Netflix series Valeria, be off to Madrid as soon as they let me. The city really just looks so brill and what's that beer they drink all the time?

I considered the, hugely commented, Twitter post where someone, presumably British, said they'd made a Spanish omelette. This is one of those things where the failure of two nations to understand the other is a simple failure of translation. Spaniards think that the thick egg omelette with lots of veg., that Brits call Spanish omelette, is a blasphemous recreation of the Spanish tortilla de patatas. Mistreating the tortilla de patatas is nearly as bad, in Spanish eyes, as overcooked rice with things being described by foreigners as a paella. But I realised that unless you live here the fuss about recipes would almost certainly seem like time wasted.

So, nothing then, none of them would make a decent blog. Bother!

Playing Detective with Ted Rogers

You'll probably find this really boring and almost incomprehensible so don't feel you need to read on.

During the late 1970s and 1980s there was a quiz show in the UK called 3,2,1 hosted by Ted Rogers. The original format for the show was invented in Spain by a bloke called Chicho Ibáñez Serrador. The Spanish name was the other way around - Un, dos, tres or 1,2,3. It was hugely successful here partly because, at the time, there were only two Spanish TV channels and the one that didn't carry 1,2,3 was rather highbrow.

On the same TV channel, but some 36 years after the last Un, dos, tres was broadcast, we watch a Spanish TV programme called El Ministerio del Tiempo - The Time Ministry. The idea behind El Ministerio del Tiempo is that there is a covert government ministry whose job it is to ensure that Spanish history remains unchanged. They are able to do this because they have access to a system of tunnels which lead to specific dates and places in the past. One of the reasons the past may be in danger is that there are lots of tunnels and not all are controlled by the Ministry. An important part of the background to the programme is that Spain has always had people working for the state, funcionarios, functionaries. As the Ministry of Time has always existed those civil servants were recruited to work for the Ministry of Time in their own period but where they work, in time, is flexible. 

Still with me? So, this week, a woman called Caroline and her husband are on the game show 1,2,3 in 1981. They win the star prize of a flat at the seaside. Caroline isn't a happy woman though. Her husband abuses her and, to escape being beaten up by him, she locks herself in the bathroom. As he pounds on the door she looks for a place to hide and climbs into the airing cupboard which just happens to be one of these time doors; one not one in the care of the Ministry. She comes out of the tunnel just as King Felipe IV is passing by doing a spot of hunting. He takes her in as a part of his Court. One of the things Caroline does there is to introduce 1,2,3 as a sort of parlour game. The King takes a shine to her and they decide to marry. This would rather mess up Spanish history as Felipe should marry Maria Anna of Austria. Our 21st century Time Ministry team spring into action to keep things in order.

At one point in the story the King and Caroline leave a room and say "¿Nos alabamos?" It sounded like a farewell, TTFN, but, literally it means something like "Do we praise ourselves?" It was pretty obvious that it wasn't being used that way and, clearly, it had something to do with the game show - I presumed it was a catch phrase. I went a Googling and then asked a couple of chums for clarification.

The answer is that some of the regular characters in the 1,2,3 show were a comic trio, The Hurtado Sisters or las hermanas Hurtado. Whenever they were leaving the stage they would say "¿Nos alabamos? ¡Hala, vamos! ¡hala, vamos!, ¡hala, vamos!..."  The "hala vamos" means something like "wow, let's go" but the point is that in Spanish Bs and Vs sound the same. Equally Spanish Hs are silent. So, "Hala vamos" and "Alabamos" have exactly the same pronunciation. The catch phrase was a sort of humorous play on words. There is also a second significance for good Catholics because one of the responses that the congregation make during the mass is "Te alabamos Señor" or "We praise you Lord".

And that''s it. I told you you'd find it boring but I feel like a regular Hercule Poirot having found that out.

Chores

I'm a bit of a list maker. Any job has a validity all of its own. Watching a TV programme, blowing up the bike tyres or even having a beer can all be jobs. So, for instance, completing my tax return or looking through the new book of photos that I've just bought have a similar status. In reality, I suppose, the tax return is probably more pressing but the new book gave me a photo for the blog! The mummified nuns were dug up in Barcelona at the start of the Civil War. One in the eye for the Church.

So, for eight weeks lots of the limiting, delimiting, factors went away. You can't paint a wall if you have no paint and the shops are shut. You can't not be able to do something because it's time to go to the theatre when there is no theatre. This week though the world regained some of its normality. Watching the scenes on the telly of people getting together I tend to think that we may have a bit of a rebound to the killing fields but, by then, the Government will have lost the vote on centralised control and it could all be quite interesting. Like having one of those credit cards in the 1990s living in the countryside has its privileges.

Anyway, Maggie is back at work. Just her usual part time slot from 10 till 2 and I'm driving her in and then coming home. It's amazing how those time limits have played havoc with my ability to complete essential jobs like reading a book, weeding the garden or writing a blog.

Well that's one off the list at least.

Lunching out

We're going to have takeaway for lunch. I'm almost beside myself with excitement. Well no, not really, but it is a bit of an event. At the moment almost anything at all different is an event. Of course Maggie is going back to work tomorrow so that will be a big change. With the easing of our confinement we could even go and get a beer outside a bar. I'm not sure how keen I am on that. Great to get a beer and to watch the world go past but it's still a world full of masks and latex gloves and having waited eight weeks I don't want to be too previous. Latex, of course, can be quite interesting. I once went to a club in the West End where everyone wore latex. I'm amazed to this day that they let me in wearing my interview suit but I think it was along the same lines as the Sioux not killing the geologist from the wagon train because they considered he was slightly mad grovelling amongst the stones and mumbling to himself. I talked to a bloke in the club, Skin Two, who I initially thought was really fat but then he undid the ankles on his one piece suit and all the sweat ran out and he was much, much thinner. Latex gloves are more reminiscent of internal exams and dentists than a subculture though and I'd prefer that they weren't an everyday part of my life.

So we don't really have to decide about how much advantage we take of the more relaxed movement from tomorrow, with our area being given Phase 1 status, but today we're still pretty much locked in. I can go and get pre-ordered food though perfectly legitimately. It's not takeaway in the same spirit that Madrid chose to look after it's "free school meal" youngsters by sending TelePizza and McDonald's with chicken McNuggets. They eventually stopped that but not before the President of Madrid defended the food saying something like "I'm sure the kids will enjoy pizza and burgers".

No. Eduardo, our local restaurant in the village has a big sign outside to say that they are doing takeaway. And when they're on form I think the food at Eduardo's is good. Anyway I'm all for supporting a local business and you don't get much more local than our restaurant in Culebrón. We're getting croquettes, gachamiga (a sort of doughy, garlicky pancake) and paella with rabbit and snails. I've just realised. The big paella pan will be hot and it could potentially scorch the carpets in the back of the motor so I'd better give up writing and get to lining the boot with cardboard before Eduardo phones.

Enjoy your lunch too.

Longer than the time in the desert

I've been thinking about the changes that happen slowly. I'm not talking about the sort of time needed to form the Himalayas or even the period of time that the Chauvet Cave was active. I'm thinking about how Marlon Brando, Dan Aykroyd, William Shatner and Alec Baldwin became so much bigger. Really I'm thinking about seven, going on eight weeks. I'm thinking about why so many people were champing at the bit to get to a haircut when the hairdressers re-opened yesterday. I suppose all those weeks is a big slice of the year.

I was doing reasonably well at knocking off weight before I was given detention in March. I'd lost about 11 kilos from Christmas but, this morning as I jelly rolled my stomach the distance between the shower and washbasin, ready to shave, apply brylcreem and brush my teeth I couldn't pretend that I wasn't putting it back on again. I also realised that I wasn't wearing slippers. No need for a bathmat on the floor to protect my little tootsies from the cold tiles. Last night, yesterday, we had no heating on anywhere in the house at any time. The pellets I bought for the stove on my first weekly outing in mid March, pellets sold at an incredibly inflated price, are still unused. We've had a very wet few weeks with lots of torrential rain but even when it rains and blows, when the weather definitely isn't nice, it has stopped being cold. We're back to T-shirt weather. In fact my nose is a bit red from the sun and my farmer's tan is returning from the time in the garden.

In those weeks Jess, the cat who was living in the garden, hasn't started to watch the telly with us or claw at the bedhead/sofa/record collection but she does wander in every now and then to see if there is better food down for the house cats than for her in the garden. At the beginning of the confinement she was definitely felina non grata but, 50 days later, Beatriz, Teodoro, Isabel, Fernando and Federico occasionally scream or spit at her but, basically, they tolerate her. We now, definitely, have six cats. In fact sit down to have a cup of tea and read a book in the garden and she's straight up on your knee like a fluffy purring machine. We can only presume that she's a domestic cat that fell on hard times.

Since mid March the garden has gone a luxuriant green, multicoloured actually. Despite tens and tens of man hours (specific not sexist) the weed situation remains unchanged. The little buggers are still everywhere. Outside the house the green is even more impressive and there are reds, yellows, purple and white capped plants everywhere. The explosion of flowers and plants is accompanied by the sounds of all sorts of small flying and crawling beasts. There are birds too, they all make plenty of noise and the swallows leave calling cards all over the car just to remind us that they are back from Africa. Our cats come back covered in ticks - but the ixodida don't dig in and suck blood because the cats were dosed with anti parasite stuff just before quarantine. The ticks do hitch a lift into our living room from time to time. There are thousands of mosquitoes too. The village WhatsApp group has lots of horrid pictures of people covered in bites. We've been affected too, me much less so than Maggie. She always suffers from allergies at this time of year as well but the bites must be infuriatingly itchy. Our guess is that it's all worse because the tractors, the ploughs, the harrows, the pickers and traffic in general hasn't been moving around. Just as the owls are back nesting in the towns, because there's nothing to stop them, that same nothing is not knocking the ticks off their perches and nothing is churning up the puddles and pools to keep the mossies down.

And I won't say anything about the apparently growing stupidity of the Spanish politicians who seem determined to wage their petty little party political wars at enormous potential cost. There is a good chance that the Government won't get the support it needs to extend the State of Alarm for another couple of weeks. My guess is that, with a bit of brinkmanship, they'll get it this time but that will be the last extension following the current model. Once that model goes, and with it the emergency powers, who can say how it will all develop. With a bit of luck all will be calm in Culebrón and the sun will be beating down. My hair may be longer too.

One Monday Morning

Today is May 2nd. It's an important date in Spanish, and Madrid history. It is the reason that the famous Goya painting at the left exists. Years ago I wrote this article for the old TIM magazine.

----------------------------

The 2nd of May 1808. A Monday morning in Madrid. We've had French soldiers swaggering all over the city since March. I blame the old King, King Carlos IV, when he let that lackey of his, Godoy, do a deal with Napoleon to invade Portugal. Imagine that! Our troops fighting alongside all those Frenchy gabachos. Why would we side with that lot after the way they let us down at Trafalgar? Those cowardly Frenchy sailors ran away leaving our lads in the lurch and letting that one eyed, one armed Brit dwarf sink our navy. Lot of good it did the old boy anyway. Napoleon forced him to abdicate in favour of that son of his, Fernando VII, Now old Boney has both our Kings in France at Bayona planning to do goodness knows what with them.

This morning's rumour is that General Murat, Napoleon's brother in law no less, who seems to think that he owns this country, plans to send the last of our Royals up to Bayona. Our worthless puppet government, the Junta de Gobierno, said no but Murat won't take any notice of them. He'll do what he likes. I'm off to the Royal Palace for a bit of a look see. It's time we showed those gabachos that enough is enough.

And that's where it started. Our man, along with a bunch of other Madrileños, the people of Madrid, forced their way into the Palace. Murat had dealt with rioters before. He'd blown a demonstrating mob in Paris apart with canister shot but in Madrid the result was different. Instead of running home and hiding, as the Parisians had done, the Madrileños began to fight.

Murat was confident of his army. The men in Madrid were a part of the Grande Armée of France. The Great and Invincible French Army that had crushed everyone and everything in it's path for years. It included not only Frenchmen but soldiers gathered together from all over Europe, and beyond: Dutch cavalry, Hungarian Hussars, Polish horsemen and the fearsome, turban wearing, desert warriors, the Mamelukes. The finest army in the world against a rabble, ridden with lice, living in hovels and armed with knives and outdated shotguns. That rabble was angry though and in the narrow streets of Madrid hordes of them fell on those fine cavalry horses and their moustachioed riders, overwhelmed them and hacked them to pieces with their long country knives. Dragoons, who had survived the bloodiest battles in history, died in a rain of plant-pots hurled from balconies by housewives.

Spanish troops garrisoned in the city had been confined to barracks before the revolt because the French didn't quite trust them. Two captains, Luis Daoíz and Pedro Velarde, stationed at Monteleón Artillery Barracks, disobeyed orders, joined the insurrection and became national heroes. They organised a handful of soldiers and ordinary Madrileños who not only beat off the first French attack but took the commanding general prisoner. Murat was amazed and furious. He sent a larger force to overwhelm the Spanish defence. Both Spanish officers perished in the attack.

The French eventually regained control of the city. The best figures suggest that over four hundred Spaniards died, many of them before summary firing squads (The Goya painting), when the fighting was over. French losses were about 130.

On June15 Napoleon’s brother, Joseph, was proclaimed King of Spain, leading to a general anti-French revolt. In August, a British force under Arthur Wellesley, later the Duke of Wellington, landed on the Portuguese coast. By mid 1809, the French had abandoned Portugal. In Spain it took longer for the British and Spanish to defeat Napoleon's army and it wasn't till 1813 that the Battle of Vitoria finally saw the French driven from the Iberian peninsula.

It's being so cheerful as keeps me going

The number of people dying from Covid19 in Spain is dropping. Time to relax the measures. This week youngsters were allowed back on the streets and from May 2nd older people will be able to go out for a walk or do a bit of sport. This relaxation of the quarantine is a part of the several phases that the Government has come up with to slowly remove the siege constraints. I can imagine the "cabinet meeting" where they were trying to work this out. Deciding on rules that work for places that are, still, being scourged by the virus, as against places that have no extra illness whatsoever. Trying to juggle rules that work for rural areas, where butterflies are more common than people, against blocks of flats where leaving your home potentially involves rubbing shoulders with the unwashed masses. Trying to come up with a scheme that allowed businesses to re-open without causing a new outbreak of people dying with compromised lungs, hearts and livers. "Phases! - that's how we'll do it. We'll have rules that only apply when an area reaches certain conditions".

I don't think it's a bad idea but we're now at the complaining rather than forgiving stage of the confinement and some of the proposals are, frankly, stupid. Suggesting that hotels open when customers can't travel to them isn't a good solution. Like most people I could list lots and lots of contradictions and problems in the phasing and opposition politicians, trade bodies and professional associations have been doing just that. Picking fault is much easier than optional solutions though.

Anyway, to the point. So imagine I'm talking to someone - "Maggie and I had a bit of a fight last night; we're not talking".  Now compare, "I was in the pub last night and there was a fight." The same word is key but I hope you think there is a difference. There were no slapping about with Maggie but maybe there was in the boozer. Or consider, "I'm off for a walk" and "On Sunday I'm going walking". Which do you think is the more hardcore? In English then the same word or the same sort of word can have, relatively, subtle different meanings. It's the same with Spanish for Spaniards. I've used the example before where the word comer. Normally comer is the generic verb for to eat but, at lunchtime, it means to have lunch. Ask in a Spanish bar at 4pm, the tail end of lunchtime, if they have anything to "comer" and the kitchen has closed then the answer will be "no". You may be able to see snacks in the counter top display or read the sign that says they do sandwiches but the wording of the question was wrong and it's something dictionaries can't really help with.

So yesterday the Government published it's plan for letting us out for doing a bit of individual sport or going for a walk with someone you live with. Basically they divided the day into slots letting different groups of people out at different times and with a distinction between going for a stroll and doing some serious exercise. Grasping the basic idea was child's play though, as with all rules, there are situations which could be open to interpretation especially as the already established rules for moving about remain largely unchanged.

Shortly after the details were published I saw a couple of translations on Facebook in English. One of those organisations was the Citizens Advice Bureau page. I just looked now. There were 353 comments before commenting was turned off. Another, a Facebook page maintained by the Guardia Civil had nearly two and a half thousand comments. Some of the questions were reasonable enough. For instance, right from the beginning, you've been able to take a dog out to do what dogs need to do but you had to keep close to home. With the new regs. you can walk a kilometre from home but can your dogs walk the kilometre too? I actually think the answer is obvious but I suppose it's a grey area.  Was it correct that people who live together can go out for a walk together but they can't go in the same car? There was another question that made me laugh out loud. The Guardia Civil had chosen to be amusing: "You may use bicycles, scooters, roller-skates, surf boards even!, as long as the sport that you are practising, you do it ALONE. Once a day". The nation famed for its irony has at least one citizen who asked if surf board was a mistranslated skateboard.

Half of the questions though were simply moaning, complaining or to show how clever the questioner was. Others were language or culture related. For instance several people complained about going for a walk or a run at night. The slot in question is between 8pm an 11pm and the comment shows a very "English" attitude. Traditionally Spaniards finish work around 8pm so the Spanish reasoning is straightforward; it allows for a bit of an evening stroll after work.

There was also a lot of mumbling about walking. The word in the regulations for the walks close to home is pasear, un paseo. These words were, reasonably enough, translated into English as to walk and a walk. So lots of Britons got on their pedantic, island-centric hobby-horse "Isn't walking exercise?" In fact the use of pasear is more like the British idea of a stroll, or “to have a bit of a walk”. There are other Spanish words to transmit the idea of a more physical, more exercise orientated walk. An idea that I would have thought would be pretty obvious to anyone who actually lives in Spain.

Ah well, I suppose It's being so cheerful as keeps us going to paraphrase Mona Lott

PS Since I wrote the original post we've actually got out and about. The time slots only apply to municipios of over 5,000 people. Municipio is obvious enough, it means municipality, it's the people you pay your local taxes to, the town hall you use for paperwork. In our case, for instance, Pinoso. But, apparently, this is a difficult concept for lots of Britons.

Six cats eat a lot of food

My weekly pilgrimage into our local town this morning. My sixth or seventh so far I think. I asked Maggie if she wanted to do it because she's not been out of the house for 47 days now. She preferred not to.

The roads seemed just a tad busier than last week. There was a police control at the crossroads in to Pinoso but he was checking traffic coming from another direction. Plenty of parking space in the town centre car park because nothing much is open and very few people are visibly working. My first stop was the Post Office. It was the first outing, the premiere, for my free (thanks to the Regional Valencian Government) face mask. I'd got gloves too. To be honest I'm a fan of neither but I'm happy to be civic. There was no queue at the Post Office which was a bit of a surprise. There can only be two (or possibly three) people inside so there is usually a patient, spaced out (not in the Seventies way) line of people waiting outside. Not today. Straight in. I only wanted to check our mailbox so I ducked and waddled underneath the glass side counter to avoid having to squeeze past the customer at the perspex encased desk.

Supermarket next. We're a bit too rural for home delivery. There was a masked police officer outside. He waved. Small town life. Remarkably there was space in the tiny supermarket car park and no queue to get in either. The lad squirted alcohol wash onto my gloves and then fitted new plastic gloves over the latex ones. They make it nearly impossible to open those thin plastic bags you use to put fruit and veg in but, as I struggled, one of the supermarket staff offered to help. Her nitrile gloves were less slippery. Shopping was routine. I didn't even have to wait at the delicatessen cum butchery counter. There was nothing much in short supply, there had been no butter last week but there was this. People generally kept their distance. There were no children and nobody was doing that "I don't believe a word of this so I'm not going to play along with these stupid restrictions game". I didn't meet anyone who I knew which is the first time that that's happened so the shopping got done faster! I was two trolley loads back for the checkout and the woman in front of me was slow to unpack, had trouble with her bank card and didn't seem keen to move away from the end of the checkout. After a while she realised I was waiting. "No problem," I said, "I'm hardly in a hurry". "No, nobody is," she replied. Plastic gloves to the approved bin, trolley to the car for unpacking and the emptied trolley to the disinfecting queue. Me back in the car and off towards home.

Two police vehicles working the exit from town but again I was lucky and didn't have to wait in a queue of stopped cars or explain what I'd been up to. Back through the house gate and glad to be home.

Moving my lips as I read

I was sitting in the garden. I had my feet up and a beer in one hand and an electronic book in the other so I was reading and drinking or drinking and reading. Maggie pounded past every now and then following that couch to five kilometres programme. One of the cats looked on.

I like books as things. I always think of bookshops as being precise; very neat. They often have a lovely smell too. Fan the pages as you sniff or just breathe deeply as you browse. Nowadays Spanish bookshops are much like British ones - easy access shelves and an impossible range of classifications which only make sense to the person who chose the labelling system. I mean is Philip K. Dick's Rick Deckard in a detective or a sci-fi novel? Not so long ago Spanish bookshops used to be much more difficult, much darker, very Dickensian, musty even. They had men with pince-nez behind wooden counters acting as gatekeepers to the shelves piled high with books at their backs. Old style Spanish bookshops had almost no recognisable organisation and if you were after something specific you couldn't browse - you had to ask. That scared me to death - speaking Spanish. Besides, when you asked you were committed. Do you have Blahdy blah by whatchamacallher? and you were on the road to an order and a two week wait to get the book that could cost a surprising amount of money. Some dozen or so years ago a recommendation for Antonio Gala's, Cosas nuestras set me back 45€ in paperback.

Nowadays I tend to read on a Kindle because, if I'm reading in Spanish, I can use the inbuilt dictionary to look up any key words I don't know. It was Kindle that confirmed me as a staunch Amazon customer. They have nearly everything and they deliver faster than you can drive to the shop. Spanish books are expensive, they have a controlled retail price with discounting only allowed to, I think, 5% of publishers recommended price so the price isn't that important because the market is artificially controlled. I sometimes use other online suppliers, especially for out of print books, but because I'm an Amazon customer it's dead easy to order a book within seconds of reading a review or hearing a recommendation. As the seconds become minutes, if the book exists in electronic form, it's yours. Real paper books come tomorrow or maybe the day after. I know about Amazon and taxes but I know that you too are happy to avoid taxes when you can and there is a chasm between tax evasion and tax avoidance.

I buy only novels from Amazon. I still buy books with pictures from bookshops or sometimes online. The last paper book I bought, because I expected it to have pictures, was about some of the plants featured in the paintings in the Prado museum. I made the mistake of ordering it from a shop in Pinoso. It was a lovely book and I enjoyed it a lot but it cost me 22€ for a paperback and, more annoyingly, it took 5 weeks, yes 5 weeks, to arrive.

With Spain being closed the bookshops are closed too. The independent stores are in danger of going under. I listen to a couple of radio programmes that have a cultural bent and both of them seem to be mounting a campaign in defence of bookshops. I don't quite understand why. Retail is a cut-throat business. Grocer's shops, cobblers, clothes shops, horse crop retailers, in fact all independent shops, were overwhelmed by big stores. Nowadays those physical shops are increasingly under pressure from online retailers. Why is there such a feral defence of bookshops when there wasn't for ironmongers or record shops? Is it a class thing?

Eating seagull

After 39 days of going nowhere and doing nothing there's also nothing to write about but that's not going to stop me.

We're not really seeing anyone. Occasionally we exchange distant words with our immediate next door neighbour and the arrival of the bread van causes near crowd control problems as the three of us dance around each other. We don't feel at all isolated though. The outside world flows into our lives, as it almost certainly does into yours, through the Internet. Amazing really. Keeping in touch is so easy - a message to friends, a VOIP telephone call, video calls, Zoom based zumba sessions.

Besides the personal stuff the news rolls in in endless torrents through this or that phone or computer application, I have apps that harvest newspaper stories and podcasts. Quite honestly I can't keep up. And the trouble is that newspapers and podcasts lead to recommendations for music or more books. The ordinary broadcast tele and the radio haven't gone away either but the digital platforms are also demanding of our attention. Lots of providers are giving stuff away that they would normally charge for but for some reason that didn't stop me renting my first ever online film the other day. I'm seriously considering subscribing to a sort of arty Spanish film channel too. I'm hesitating there though because when, if, the world gets back to normal I hope that we'll be able to go back to the cinema (though I suspect we'll lose even more of the independent providers). That being the case I'll be able to see films as they should be seen on a big screen. Nonetheless I fear that I'll never quite get around to cancelling that monthly FILMIN subscription.

I know that people are dying but that's not part of our experience. We're reasonably much out of harms way and simply keeping ourselves to ourselves. The consequences of stopping the world are countless and once you begin to think about them it becomes overwhelming. The economic damage being done to every sort of business is obviously going to be devastating. Whether you're Inditex or the bloke with the newspaper kiosk business must just have faded away. The closed restaurants and bars, the bookshops, the car dealers, the petrol stations, the shoe makers and thousands and thousands of other businesses are going to be hard hit and I presume that it will kill some of them off.

I was thinking about the almost unnoticed casualties. Normally I quite like micro-adventures - the local fiesta, a bit of ballet at the theatre in the next town, some up and coming band playing a nearby venue, the book launch and even the occasional sporting event. Watching those events cancel one after the other is sad in itself but I was wondering about the ways that the cancellations must affect people's lives. Doing the Mediaeval Markets or selling helium balloons can't be a secure lifestyle to start with, particularly if there are no markets and no street events. Consider the way that Easter was cancelled. Easter is huge in Spain with processions the length and breadth of the country. The people in the KKK type hats parade alongside hundreds and hundreds of floats decorated with flowers. Will the flower growers and the florists survive? Even more esoteric, in a world lit by LEDs, lots of the Easter penitents carry big candles. I don't suppose those candle makers will be selling many this year. How many more similar examples must there be?

I subscribe to the WhatsApp group run by the Teatro Principal in Alicante. Normally they send me messages to remind me that they have a ballet next week, or an illusionist or a play. Once the Covid19 thing got under way they started to send me the same sort of information but with postponed or cancelled written across it. Strangely one of the things I often think about when I go to a theatre is the odd sort of work that some people have there. The stagehands, the people who show you to your seat, the people who look after the cloakroom, the people who clean up afterwards and so on. The work can't be particularly reliable and it must only be worth a few euros each time. I fear that the people who do that sort of work really need that extra bit of income to make ends meet and now it will all have dried up.

Economic devastation aside it's going to be a sad year without lots and lots of fiestas, fairs, theatre, concerts and festivals. We've had nearly everything we'd booked up for cancelled right through the summer. Just today they announced the cancellation of Sanfermines (the bull running affair) in Pamplona. I'm sure that the economy surrounding that event is enormously important in the city and I can imagine the hundreds of hotel room booking being cancelled as I type. What are they going to do with those thousands of red neckerchiefs? How will the city bars survive without that surge in business? I suppose the silver lining is that, if they were able to work through the complicated thought processes involved, the bulls may at least be happier with the cancellation.