Confucius it ain't

In fact it was the English poet Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie who said "All things come to those who wait." In my case what came, after a wait of 12 years, was a branch of my bank in my home town.

You may wonder why that's a bonus. The root of the problem is that we still use a lot of cash in rural Spain. Spanish banks like to charge for services and you can avoid some of those by using your own bank. There's nearly always a maintenance fee unless you pay in over a certain amount each month and there can be charges for both paying in and for withdrawals.

I originally banked with the Caja Murcia, a savings bank, obviously enough, centred on Murcia. Murcia is pretty far to the right on the map of Spain and Ciudad Rodrigo is on the left, or if you prefer the technical term, the West, butting up against Portugal. I moved there in 2007. Not surprisingly there weren't a lot of Caja Murcia branches. The costs of taking money out of non Caja Murcia bank machines was mounting up so I opened an account with Banesto which was a national rather than regional set up. They had a branch in Ciudad Rodrigo and another in Pinoso. But the bank system in Spain was just about to teeter on the edge of total collapse. Banks and savings banks got bought and sold, merged and closed left right and centre. By the time I moved back home to Culebrón the Banesto had become the Santander and the branch in Pinoso had closed.

My nearest Santander was 15 kilometres from home which was, occasionally, a nuisance. Then, in June 2017, the Santander bought the Banco Popular. There was a branch of the Popular in Pinoso. Good I thought, only a matter of time. I should have known. No particular rush. This week the bank finally became the Santander. So, for the first time since 2007, I have a branch of my bank in my home town.

We want to go next

I was once a Geologist. The trick with geology is time. Imagine that if, every year, a stream were to cut a groove 1 millimetre in the ground. In two years the groove would be 2 mm deep and in 10 years it would be a centimetre deep. If the stream were to follow the same line for a million years the groove would be a kilometre deep. Just for my mum make it a sixteenth of an inch a year and the valley would be nearly a mile deep.

Now the earth is about four and a half billion years old. Just in case you're never sure what a billion is nowadays that would be 4,500,000,000 years. Obviously it's not possible but if our 1 mm a year stream flowed, non stop, in the same place, from the beginning, the groove would be 4,500 kilometres deep or about 500 times as deep as Mount Everest is high.

When I studied geology I found out about graptolites, brachiopods, lamellibranchs, belemnites and all sorts of other fossils large and small. I particularly approved of trilobites. I thought they looked cute. The first trilobites turned up some 520 million years ago and died out at the end of the Permian or about 250 million years. So the lifespan of all the different sorts of trilobites was 270,000,000 years.

There were a bunch of people before Homo Sapiens but the first Sapiens turned up in what is now Africa about 200,000 years ago. So trilobites lasted 1,350 times as long as people have existed so far. Stromatolites, by the way, make trilobites look like youngsters. They've been on Earth for 3,500,000,000 years and if you're not impressed by things you can't beat with a stick then jellyfish are around 500 million years old and elephant sharks are maybe 400 million years.

We've just had a couple of rounds of elections in Spain. The cambio de cromos, the dealing, has only just started in several areas. In Madrid the stupid internal wrangling of left wing politicians means that the conservative Partido Popular will probably get the leadership of the City Council. They can't do it alone though. In fact the PP governed Madrid, without break, from 1991 to 2015 and this time round they got their worst result ever. Nonetheless, with partners, they can govern. One of those partners is Vox, the fathead right wingers who have won their first representation at local, regional and national level this year. The outgoing mayor of Madrid is called Manuela Carmena. She actually polled the most votes in the elections but with all the permutations possible she can't pull together enough coalition votes to stay in office. Carmena put in place a scheme called Madrid Central. It's a programme to clean up the city environment. Bike lanes, pedestrianisation, not letting in the polluting vehicles etc. In the first month there was a 38% drop in Nitrogen Dioxide, 15% drop in Carbon Dioxide in Madrid with traffic flow down by 24%. And what does the potential new PP mayor say? - he will go back to less strict restrictions based on priority for residents and that he will concentrate on the problems that matter most to Madrileños such as clean streets and conservation. The Vox man said "starting tomorrow Madrid Central is over".

Those trilobites survived at least one mass extinction event, maybe two, before the one at the end of the Permian got them. There are various theories about the extinction from massive volcanic activity to a surge in microbe numbers but whatever it was it caused a destabilisation of the atmosphere and so the climate. Apparently after the Permian one it only took a couple of million years for the planet to bounce back though. To re-establish some sort of normality.

The general consensus is that there have been five big extinctions so far: late Devonian, 375 million years ago, 75% of species lost, end Permian, 251 million years ago, 96% of species lost, end Triassic, 200 million years ago, 80% of species lost, end Cretaceous, 66 million years ago, 76% of all species lost. I've heard that some plastics can take 1,000 years to decompose. As I said the trick with geology, the trick with the planet, is time. Currently humans, as a species, are a tiny blip in geological time. If fossil fuel type pollution started with the Industrial Revolution then people have been affecting the atmosphere for about 290 years or 0.145% of our time on Earth. It does seem a bit stupid though to purposely speed up the dash towards that next extinction event.

Home and away

There's a strangeness about being home and yet being a foreigner.

Last week I asked the lad who served me coffee how his birthday celebrations had gone. He'd told me his plans the last time I was in. I got the full story. Later, in the same bar and in the same session a different, and new to me, waiter asked me if I wanted another coffee. He asked in broken English - to him I was just another foreigner.

There were a lot of political meetings running up to the local elections. I went to one of them and the prospective, now elected, candidates were lined up against the wall in a show of solidarity at a political rally. A couple of them greeted me by name. We knew each other because I'd taught them a bit of English. I'd actually worked alongside another of them several years ago.

Alfredo, the barber, nods through the window - he cuts my hair and I didn't get his daughter through her B1 English exam. And so it goes on and on with example after example of knowing both Spanish and British people in Pinoso.

We've been here a while. If a road in town is sealed off, and they often are, I know how to skip around. If I need knicker elastic, tracing paper or knitting needles I know which shop to use - actually nowadays I'd probably go to the Chinese shop but I'm sure you take the point. There are new things to learn all the time. We're as local as local could be and yet we are still foreigners.

I walked past one of the three British run bars in town and there were a bunch of young (to me) people outside. They were talking estuary English. My father, who was so politically incorrect that I probably wouldn't speak to him nowadays, if he were still alive, used to describe people speaking languages other than English on the streets of England as jabbering. I wondered if he would think the same of our very noticeable presence on the streets of Pinoso?

We Britons are obvious here. Most Spanish people I meet presume I know next to nothing about Spain. I'm not surprised. From what I can see the majority of my compatriots have very little idea of the country around them. I don't mean in the sense of filling their car with fuel, buying bread, getting a drink or paying the electric bill. They are perfectly well able to get on with their lives but culturally, linguistically, geographically and historically they are clueless. It's a choice. I have never worried myself too much about football yet I know people whose very existence would be much meaner without the beautiful game. Lots of Britons here are much more "integrated" than me but there is another group who continually surprise me with how little they know of the place they have chosen to immigrate to. It's that choice though; they have chosen a sort of voluntary isolation.

He hasn't been on at me for a while but there used to be a Spanish bloke who read and commented on this blog. He blamed me for the hubris that lots of Europe lays at the door of we Britons but he also took me to task for my British perspective on things. That's true. I do. I must. Just in the same way as his viewpoint would be a Spanish one. Our backgrounds are coded in through years of experience. I remember, years ago, in Cuba. I forget where we were, Trinidad maybe or Cienfuegos. We were beginning to get the idea that everything in Cuba was in short supply even if you had dollars. "Do you have alcohol other than rum?," we asked. "Of course, for tourists we have everything," said the owner. I missed the irony. "Okey dokey, she'll have a red wine and I'll have a beer, please." The man came back and put down two rums - "Here's the beer and here's the wine," he said. It's often not a good idea to presume that you've got the measure of a place.

The Spanish health system, the medical system, traffic law, the voting system and the way that parliament runs are exactly similar to the UK. Well they are in broad-stroke yet they are completely different. The British first-past-the-post voting isn't the Spanish party list D'Hondt method of proportional representation. Actually even the mechanics of how you vote, crosses on paper and lists in envelopes is different. The effect is the same though and both produce democratically elected governments. Externally verified end of secondary schooling GCSEs are not the same as the internally marked ESO, the certificate recognised as the successful completion of obligatory secondary education, in Spain. Both have a similar purpose and similar recognition by employers or higher education establishments too. Nearly everything has a different equivalent from electricity bills to the etiquette of using a knife and fork.

All of this is because someone commented on one of my blog entries. The one about washing up. I could write the blog with any number of perspectives. I've generally written it based on the things that happen to us or around us. I've wondered about making it more current affairs and I've wondered about doing the sort of information pieces that I used to do for the TIM Magazine. In the end though I decided to stick with the mundane and everyday with references to those wider issues as I bumped into them. The entries are often too wordy but, in general, I think I'm happy with it. I'd be interested in any views you may have about the blog in general though.

Washing up

I've never owned or used a dishwasher. I still wash up in the sink and I follow the routine that I read on some poster on the wall of the fifth form classroom I used at school. I got my first ever OAP payment today so fifth form was quite a while ago. The poster advised to rinse as much junk off as I could with cold water then to fill the sink with water as hot as I could stand. A good dose of quality detergent. Glassware first, plates and dishes next - washing the cleanest first - and working through to the pans and oven-ware. Cutlery when I pleased. Use common sense and change the water when it becomes necessary was the only other guidance on the poster. Useful poster I thought. Much better than the Wilkinson Sword one about how to shave. Until technology invented the Gillette Mach 3 a few years ago wet shaving was always a very bloody business for me.

I don't spend a lot of time watching Spaniards wash up and I presume that, nowadays, most of them use dishwashers. They still advertise Fairy Liquid on the telly though and I know from the ads, and from seeing Penélope Cruz washing the murder weapon in the film Volver, that Spaniards probably don't wash up like me. I suspect that they think that washing up in a soup of detergenty food filled water isn't a particularly good idea. They seem to rinse and wash under a running tap using one of those sponge scourers loaded with detergent.

This revelation came to me as I was brushing up the white mulberries from our path using the British pile and shovel method I described in a blog ages ago. Ah, the exoticism of a life abroad!

Cats

We've just had a few days in Tangier. I'm sure that, in my youth, when Simon Templar went there, we used to say Tangiers. Anyway whatever it's called the city we went to is the one in Morocco, just opposite the southernmost tip of Spain at Tarifa. Between 1923 and 1945, it was a city jointly administered by Britain, France and Spain as an International City. I'd had a vague hankering to go there since I read a Spanish novel which was set in Tanger (Spanish name). So, when I saw a flight from Valencia for 12.99€ one way (even after all the usual Ryanair tricks and ruses it still only cost 40€ there and back) it was a done deal.

One of the several things we noted wandering around Tangiers were the cats. There were hundreds of them. Some were skinny, some were clearly unwell, some looked like cared for pets. Whatever their status they were left to their own devices. It's not the same in Spain. Spanish street cats stay well away from people whom they don't trust at all. As a general rule Spaniards do not approve of castrating or sterilising cats. They see it as something cruel and unusual. The Town Halls have vague sterilisation schemes, supported with paltry amounts of money, but the main forms of cat control are disease and motor cars. This means that there are plenty of wild cats in Spain generally to be seen at dusk skulking around the communal big bins in the street. I wouldn't like to give the impression that cats are not kept as pets in Spain but they have nothing like the same status as dogs. If a family does have a cat it's often a sort of half pet, half domesticated, fed from time to time, if there is anything left over, but generally expected to fend for itself, pet. There are pampered cats too but there is nothing like the same division into cat people and dog people here that there is in the UK for instance.

We've got a couple of house cats that we've had for a while: Beatriz and Teodoro. We've had other cats before only one of which has survived to old age. These two we got from a woman, called Irene, who runs a cat shelter and re-homing scheme called Gatets sense llar, which translates, from Valenciano, to something like Homeless Kittens. Bea and Teo came to us at a very young age so our house is their home. They have their territory centred on the house and they don't stray very far which, as we're surrounded by open country, is nice and safe.

We're not far from a farm and, in time honoured tradition, the farm has cats. Farm cats are not coddled; they have to be self sufficient. They are constantly flea, tick and worm infested and, of course, hungry. We put out food for our two and so we become an easy source of gourmet dining for the farm cats. They invade our garden. We chase them off. We're not very good at it. We're a soft touch especially with the cats that are a bit more approachable or trusting than others. It's happened too many times now that a cat begins to trust us and we take a liking to it. We start with scraps and left overs and then work up to feeding it on a regular basis. After a while we abuse its trust, give it a name and, when it's not looking, take it to the vet for de-paratisation and a quick sterilisation. On one occasion we did that for a cat, Gertrudis, only to find that she hadn't trusted us enough to introduce us to her two hidden kittens until they were well grown and in need of a solid meal.

The farm cats are a sub colony of another group that lives across in the village. This means, that unlike the cats that have grown up with us from kittens, these cats call a range of places home - our house, the bin by the farm and a couple of bins on the other side of the road that separates us from the main part of the village. There is also a woman in the village who is a softer touch than us and feeds dozens of cats. Taken all in this means that the cats are prone to pop across the road for a chin wag, for company, for sex and to see if there is anything tasty on the menu.  One day as they cross they don't make it and we never see them again. There are lots of other theories about how and why cats disappear, from being taken by owls to being poisoned, but I'm a big believer in the the motor car catslaughter theory.

So, recently, two small, basically white, cats have taken to calling. Our cats don't like them but the stand offs have been low key. We followed the well worn route of scraps to regular feeding. It became obvious that one was pregnant and we didn't send her packing. She ignored the prepared nests of cloth and paper and had the kittens by the fence, hidden by thick foliage, whilst we were away in Tangier.

"We'll have to adopt them," said Maggie as she busied herself with leaving for work this morning. I hope she doesn't mean all of them as in all of them. That would be five more which I don't see somehow. Best not to think about it for a while.

Food habits

Patricia and Jason have just opened a new Bed and Breakfast business here in Culebrón - the Sunny Vista Casa Rural. They've done a really nice job on it too. It looks great. As a double celebration, for both the opening and for Patricia's birthday, the owners hosted a party. Never ones to miss out on a knees up Maggie and I turned up at around 3.30 pm, in the middle of Spanish lunchtime, when most locals would be eating at home. Later I was both surprised, and pleased for the Batram's, that so many of the villagers put in an appearance.

Forty some years ago I had a Spanish couple stay with me in Peterborough. They flew into Heathrow so I took them for a pub lunch in Windsor. "You'll have to try British beer," I said, to Jaime. He literally spat it out. "It's hot," he said, "like broth." For the rest of the holiday he would only drink lager. He never complained about the taste of that terrible, 1980s, fizzy, British lager but he did complain about its temperature over and over. Oh, and he was nearly as peeved at all the spicy food we ate like English mustard, horseradish, chilli sauce, curry and brown sauce. More recently my pal Carlos took a holiday in the UK. He and his family enjoyed themselves. Carlos was really impressed with the concept of pies and he thought gravy was a splendid invention. They couldn't understand why there was no bread on the table though - there nearly always is in Spain. He said they had to ask over and over again. We all have our ways.

Back at Sunny Vista I was talking to someone alongside the table loaded with food: quiche, potato salad, coleslaw, ribs, cocktail sausages, crisps, nuts, salads, burgers, enormous prawns, chilli con carne and lots more. Several of the Spanish neighbours were there too, plate in hand, eyeing up the food. I explained a few things - sausage rolls for instance - but I thought most of it was obvious enough. I realised afterwards, when someone asked me if there was any ham (Spanish type ham), that they thought it was quite an exotic spread. They were as lost as I am when friends in the know order up lots of Indian side dishes and I have no idea what they are.

Food is a common topic of conversation here. Spaniards like eating and generally have a poor opinion of British food. When I'm asked, by Spaniards, about food in the UK I used to rack my brains for the traditional foods, the sort of stuff that I ate when I was a lad, the sort of stuff that my dad liked. Shepherds pie, apple crumble, bangers and mash, steak and kidney pudding, trifle, cauliflower cheese, corned beef hash, Irish stew and the like. But that's not really what Britons eat nowadays is it?  We eat food from everywhere.

We Britons have been happy to plunder the world for food for ages. Chicken chasseur, Wiener schnitzel, sashimi, goulash, paella, souvlaki, chana dal and the rest are there on the supermarket shelves. Finding a Vietnamese, Lebanese, French, Greek, Mexican, West Indian or Italian restaurant is child's play in the UK. The student Spag Bol and the Thai green curry are just another recipe in the "Come around to dinner," cookbook.

Indian food, for instance, is hugely popular amongst Britons. My guess is that your average, middle class Indian, living in Mumbai, wouldn't recognise the food on offer in most UK High Street Indian restaurants. Indeed, whether it's a High street restaurant, a Waitrose ready meal or a Jamie Oliver recipe the food with an Indian name is really, very much, British food. It's the same with the rest. Even if chilli con carne were Mexican (it's from the USA isn't it?) then the British version would be British. That's probably why a full English is so disappointing in Torremolinos.

That's not true of Spanish food - Spanish food is till largely something that past generations would recognise. Not that I'm suggesting Spain is some isolated culinary backwater. Spain has lots and lots of Michelin stars and there are gastrobars in any town with any population. Domino's, McDonalds and KFC are everywhere. Most Spanish youngsters seem happy to eat pizza and pasta till the cows come home. Generally though, away from high class restaurants, the multinational fast food chains and cosmopolitan cities Spanish food has maintained its traditional flavour.

And that's why there was so much Spanish attention to the food on offer at Sunny Vista yesterday.

Looking for an easy life

Ages ago quite a famous teacher of English here was being interviewed on the radio. The reporter asked him how long it took to become bilingual. His answer was the sort of answer you don't want to hear, particularly if you've just bought one of those "Learn Arabic in three months" or "Swahili in ten minutes a day", type courses. He reckoned about 3,000 hours or about four hours a day, Monday to Friday, for nearly four years. As he stressed that was study type study not just listening to the radio or reading magazines. He did have faster methods which, surprisingly, involved spending money on his courses, materials and schools.

The interviewer went on to ask how many of this bloke's students had become bilingual. To be honest my neuron deficient brain doesn't recall exactly what he said but it was some hideously low number - 10, 20, maybe 100 - out of about 25,000 students. He did go on to say that only about 2,000 had crashed and burned; absolutely incapable of picking up the most basic stuff. He reckoned the vast majority abandoned learning when they'd reached a level they were happy with, be that beer ordering or engaging in a heated discussion about environmental politics.

I recognise what this bloke is talking about. I've been trying to learn Spanish for ages but it's years since I've done any real study. I can't remember the last time I sat with a text book trying to memorise verb tables or understand maybe disjunctive pronouns or demonstrative adjectives. I still pretend to be trying to learn things. I often write down a new word that I've read or heard, I read books in Spanish and go to the cinema to see films dubbed into Spanish. My Spanish is alrightish but sometimes I can hear the mistakes I'm making as I fail to make myself understood and I sometimes don't understand. I still shy away from conversations if I can.

Recently I've become very aware of my inability to pronounce the R with sufficient vigour for most Spaniards. They hear the equivalent of "Is this chew weseived?" when I'm trying to say "Is this chair reserved?". Spanish is a language where the link between the letters and the pronunciation of the word is inviolable so the wrong sound in a word can cause profound difficulties. English speakers are used to dealing with inconsistent pronunciation. We read that some ancient band was happy to record a record without any psychological angst at the changed pronunciation of two words spelled the same. Pronouncing so, sew and sow the same (but not if it's a sow) doesn't lead to disbelief amongst the population of Bradford. Spaniards though do wonder how reed and read and red and read can be word pairs. What we perceive as a very close reproduction of the Spanish word can, at times, be almost incomprehensible to a Castilian speaker.

Anyway, unfettered by work I thought it was about time to put a bit more effort into my Spanish. I've found someone willing to exchange some Spanish for English and I'm paying someone to correct my conversational Spanish. It won't work of course. The language hasn't magically seeped in in fourteen years and it won't this time either. Just like the interviewee said what I really need to do is to put in some graft but I'm a bit off hard work so that won't be happening. I don't suppose it'll do any damage though.

Hair tearing and garment rending

I was grumbling about being chased by the tax office here who say I didn't pay enough tax in 2014. I was particularly galled that I had paid an accountant to do the original tax return and now I'm having to pay a second accountant to sort out the job that the first one did. Sometimes the label professional doesn't seem the most adequate for the people we buy services from, like architects and lawyers, or for the civil servants/local government officers who process the documentation supplied by those so called experts.

Anyway the accountant bloke who's trying to sort this out for me went to the tax office. The tax office were unwilling to accept my P60s in English. They had to be translated by an officially qualified translator. Figures vary but of the, roughly, 300,000 Britons resident in Spain about one third live in Alicante province. So what chance do you think there is that the P60 is an unknown document in an Alicante tax office? And a P60, it's not a wordy document. Basically it's two figures. Amount paid and tax deducted. So, the fact that the tax official wants an official translation is the stupid posturing of an idiotic bureaucrat. I didn't have a lot of option though. I paid the 65€.

The crux of this mess is that Government Pensions – army pensions, police pensions, civil servant pensions etc. - are included in some double taxation rules between Spain and the UK. They are taxed in the UK. They have to be recorded on the Spanish tax declaration in a specific way. The documentation to support my claim that I have paid my taxes had to be sent to the tax office by today to avoid a penalty and the accountant needed my signature. He told me that he'd spoken to the boss of the tax office and she had said that it was unlikely that the P60 would be enough proof. The suggestion was that I should get a certificate to say that a Teachers Pension is a Government Pension. I phoned the UK to ask for such a certificate. They don't exist said the woman in the tax office in Manchester. There's a manual, a manual which we share with Spain, about double taxation and which lists the UK Government Pensions. Anyone in a tax office in Spain dealing with double taxation can look in the Spanish version of that manual. She gave me the link to the UK manual and, true enough, there's a list. Again I might have to question the professionalism of the Spanish tax people. Of course it could be that I'm the only person with a Teachers Pension amongst those 100,000 immigrant Britons.

So, as it stands. I've paid the first accountant. I've paid the second accountant. I've paid the translator. The chances are that the Spanish tax people won't accept the evidence. The British tax people say there is no further evidence.

That's why rending of garments comes to mind.

You got the SP, now the results

Just in case you're interested the socialists, the Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE), had a good election. They gained 38 seats and now have 123 seats in the lower house of parliament (they also won the upper house). On the other hand the conservative Partido Popular (PP) had a disastrous day. They lost 71 seats down from 137 to 66. Anyone want to give me odds on the survival of their recently elected leader?

On the left Unidas Podemos (UP) dropped 29 seats to 42  and on the right Ciudadanos (Cs) gained 25 to 57. To the shame of Spain and Spaniards the ultra right party VOX went from nothing to 24 parliamentary seats.

Another eight parties won representation in the lower house. Most of them have a regional flavour - Catalans, Basques, Valencians, Navarrese etc. The biggest of these, with 15 seats in the Congress, is Esquerra Republicana de Catalunya, ERC, which is headed up by a politician who is currently in prison for his part in the dodgy Catalan referendum.

There are 350 seats in the Congress so 176 seats are needed for a majority (minority governments can be elected but only if, in the investiture vote, they get a majority either through abstentions or through one off support). The right: PP, Cs and VOX, even lumped together, can't get anywhere close.

For the head of the PSOE, Pedro Sanchez, to get the 176 seats he needs to be President the only (reasonably possible) single party that could help him do that is Ciudadanos because they vacillate around the centre ground sufficiently to be philosophically compatible. Even though the pundits say the chances are icicle in hell there could well be lots of external pressure to push for that unlikely pairing.

The natural bedfellow for Pedro and the PSOE is Unidas Podemos but, between them, they are short of the magic number. Add in the other independent groups with similar philosophical leanings and the alliance is still one short. So Pedro needs to talk to some of the independents to get there and that is dodgy political ground. The alternative, and a real possibility, is that he will try to go it alone as a minority government in which case he will have to horse trade over every single initiative.

We shall see.

Just to round things off the elections yesterday were national.  The local elections come next month. The political "constituencies" for the General Election are the provinces but votes are collected on a municipal basis. So, just for information, Pinoso voted like this: PP and PSOE had a dead heat with 1,013 votes each, Cs got 839, VOX 503, UP 501 and Compromis (a Valencian group) got 56. The animal rights party got 39 votes. That's a good result for the PSOE in a town which is traditionally PP for the General Elections.

We also had elections for the regional government here in the Comunitat Valenciana. There are 99 seats in the local parliament so it's 50 seats for the majority. The PSOE (and its local version the PSPV) got 27 seats, PP 20, Cs 18, Compromis 18, VOX 10 and UP 8. For the last Valencian administration the PSOE, Compromis and Podem (local version of UP) formed the government. They could do the same again after yesterday's results.

2019 General Elections in Pinoso

I don't get a vote in the General Elections here in Spain. Nonetheless I popped out to the three polling stations in Pinoso to have a bit of a nosey. I took the photos as soon as I arrived and I only stayed a few minutes just to see what numbers were like. The polling stations looked busy to me though it was mid morning, a good time, especially as the church had just chucked out.

This lot of elections are the thirteenth since democracy was restored in the late 1970s and the fifth set that we've been here for. We've lived under only three of the, so far seven democratic presidents.

Anything is possible, results wise, and coalition wise but it's likely, according to the polls, that the socialist Pedro Sanchez will be returned to power as the head of a coalition with left wing Unidas Podemos and possibly some of the Nationalist groups. There is even speculation that the socialists could form a coalition with the right of centre Ciudadanos party. Who knows? It's much more likely though that Ciudadanos will throw their lot in with the conservative Partido Popular, headed up by recently appointed, Pablo Casado. His chances of becoming president are increased if the racist, homophobic, peddlers of populist myths, Vox, (Hello Farage and Brexit fans) burst onto the political scene as the polls suggest and then support the PP.

We also have regional elections today for the Valencian Community. I don't get a vote in that either.

Getting down

Spain is full of fiestas. Fiesta is an idea that we foreigners living here begin to get a glimmer of but which most of us never quite understand fully. It's not just a street party or a carnival. A proper fiesta is based on traditions, sometimes traditions based on beliefs. Fiestas are a collective expression of a community; it's not about somebody organising something and other people watching. Fiestas are commonplace, often nearly ignored by locals yet usually loaded with symbolism in the clothes, dances, music, songs or other manifestations such as language and bonfires. Recognising, and altering, those symbols is something often passed from generation to generation. Fiestas are periodic and repetitive - with the same basic things happening year after year.

There are, within towns and cities, fiestas and fiestas. Some are only fiestas in name because they were designed by tourist boards or trade associations. They don't fit the spirit of the definition above. They can be big, they can be enormous, but they do not, necessarily, represent the spirit of a community. You'd have to ask a local to be sure but I think that, for instance, San Juan in Alicante is one of those seminal fiestas. If you go and watch the parade it's impressive but the real San Juan is not in watching - it's in participating. In getting into a barraca and eating, drinking and dancing with your friends, in sitting around a bonfire with people you met at school etc. It's one of the reasons I like the Easter celebrations in Spain - the Church may think they're religious events but I think that they are much more an expression of a community. Here in Pinoso I think Santa Catalina is like that, in Valencia the Fallas and in Ciudad Rodrigo the encierro at Carnaval. There are thousands of others. I should say that in these days of mass tourism some of the fiestas may lose some of the spirit of that description. I know a couple of Valencianos who think that Fallas is just one huge commercial inconvenience nowadays aimed at tourists. The Wine Horses in Caravaca struck me as one enormous booze up and people have said the same about the Bando de la Huerta in Murcia.

In fact it was to the Bando de la Huerta that we went yesterday. A bando is usually the sort of thing that the town crier reads out, a proclamation. Town Halls here still pin bandos to their noticeboards. As an example in December last year the town of Yecla issued a bando banning the collection of wild plants, like holly and ivy, connected with Christmas. In this particular case, so Wikipedia tells me, the bando is a programme, often with a critical political message, for the fiesta written in verse. Huerta is the key word here though. The dictionary definition I knew, before living in Murcia, was market garden but it's a lot wider than that - it means the fertile, irrigated land of Murcia (and Valencia). It's the countryside, the agricultural land.  From that quick look at Wikipedia it seems that the Bando was originally a festival organised by rich people to mock the peasants in the countryside with their funny habits and clothes but, nowadays, it's a celebration of the traditions and customs of the countryside and the wealth and harvests that it produces.

We've been around this area for ages and it's the first time that we've been free to go. We didn't stay long and we didn't participate. We just watched some of the parade and we were even a bit late in arriving to see all of that. Apparently Pinoso had a group in the parade and we missed them for instance. One of the reasons we were a bit late was that we couldn't find anywhere to park. The city centre was closed off, cars were parked, and double parked, everywhere. Obviously everyone wanted to get in on the act. Outside all of the bars there were piles and piles of men and women drinking and talking and wearing waistcoats and "traditional" dress. Very odd to see young men with modern haircuts, piercings and tattoos consulting their mobile phones, beer in hand, wearing zaragüelles, a type of big, baggy, white boxer shorts and often alpargatas, the shoes we Brits call espadrilles. In a way that's where the fiesta was. In just the same way that it was in the Floridablanca gardens where a barraca, a sort of temporary HQ set up by a peña, one of the neighbourhood or interest groups that participate in the fiestas, was in full swing and oblivious to the passing parade as they served traditional and typical Murcian food and where there would be folk music, displays of bygone days and the like. We could see the fiesta around us, everywhere but we didn't really get involved.

Just to say that the Wikipedia article about the Bando is about 10 pages of A4 long so there is lots more to know about this event if you're interested. Bear in mind too that the Bando is just one of several events happening in Murcia this week as a part of the Spring Festival.

Life in the slow lane

There aren't many self serve checkouts in Spain. They have them at Ikea, the scan your goods, push in your credit card type and they have some at Corte Inglés though I've never seen them in use. At Carrefour they used to have self serve but they changed to a single queue system - Checkout Number fourrr please.

Generally then supermarket queues are stand in line, stuff to the rubber belt, the person at the till scans your items, you put them into a bag and then you pay, maybe scanning your loyalty card in the process. You can still buy plastic bags at the checkout but most people don't.

Consum, probably the largest supermarket in Pinoso, works exactly like that. I'd gone for my usual 30-40€ worth of every second day shopping. There were four of the six tills on the go, the deputy manager was on one till, the women from the deli and fish counter were up too. All the tills in use were busy. The days of the ten items or fewer queue are long gone.

I stood in a queue. I was behind lots of baskets with a few items. Over on the next till there was one load already on the belt and a couple unloading a big trolley load onto the belt. I hesitated. The paying so often seems to take people by surprise. Scenario; I know I'm in a supermarket queue, I know I'm going to have to pay for this but when they ask I'm going to be surprised. Now where is my purse? Oh, no, I'll use plastic instead of cash. Loyalty card? Oh yes, now where is it. Oh deary me, I can't seem to find it, oh, I can use my ID number and so on. Even then they are not contrite, they don't load their bag as quickly as they can. Oh, no. They put the card away carefully, have a quick gander at the till receipt and then slowly begin the last of the packing so that you can't get to your things which are now piling up alongside theirs.

I decide to risk my luck with the trolley instead of the several baskets. A lad steps in behind me. He just has Coco Pops. I let him by. The woman with the trolley does all the stuff above, all the looking for her purse and failing to pack speedily. She also adds in tinkering on her mobile phone to open the application that holds a record of the discounts she can claim and her "monthly saver cheque." It takes her a while to find and open the app. She wants the stuff delivered and there's a bit of a conversation about a suitable time. There is also trouble at the next till. Something isn't scanning properly and the woman on my till seems keen to get involved. She abandons us a couple of times to help out in the next aisle. One of the other management staff joins in. We stand patiently in line.

It's good being a pensioner. Time to burn and with a sanguine view of life.

Red Letter Days

The wettest April since Noah took to boating according to some news reports. We had Easter tide guests. We were confined to barracks. The Easter parades were cancelled. Sight seeing was off. We presumed the shopping centres would be closed for the bank holidays.

We Brits here in Pinoso seem to call bank holidays, Red Letter Days. I presume that's because the holiday dates are printed in red on paper calendars. I'm going to call them bank holidays because that's what I've always called public holidays. National Holidays are the same all over Spain. Most people will not work on those days but that doesn't, necessarily, mean that they will work fewer days in the working year. The Spanish logic is that bank holidays are not actually holidays, they are days when you don't work. So only the extra non working days need to be included in the holiday calendar. If, for instance, a National Holiday falls on a Sunday, like Christmas Day 2016, it will not be shown as a bank holiday because it is already a non working day. On the other hand Saturday is a working day so if Christmas Day were on a Saturday, it would be shown on the calendar as a day off and you wouldn't have to work. If you have a job that doesn't require you to work Saturdays there would be no extra day to compensate. There are up to ten days of National Holiday each year but usually only eight or nine of them are used because the others fall on Sundays - it varies from year to year. Additionally there are two days chosen by each Region. As we live on the border between two Regions, Valencia and Murcia, that sometimes catches us out. Last, but not least, the local Town Hall sets a couple of days off. Traditionalists, with a paper calendar stuck on the fridge might find that the one produced in Pinoso, in Valencia, shows as many as four holidays different to one produced in Abanilla, Murcia only a few miles away.

Yesterday, coming out of the the flicks, I was surprised to find the shopping centre, where the cinema is, open. Open on Easter Sunday? This morning, Maggie had arranged to show some people a couple of houses. She's heard Britons talking about how it's illegal to work on holidays and she was worried that the local police would drag her away in chains as today is a regional Valencian holiday.

I've written about this before but here it is again. I'm going to talk about Valencia. So, in general, in the Valencian Community commercial hours from Monday to Saturday should be fewer than 90. Businesses have to display their opening hours. Businesses can open up to eleven Sundays and bank holidays according to the annual timetable published by the Generalitat, the Regional Government of the Valencia Community. On those eleven dates the timetable is completely flexible and the hours are not included in the usual 90 hours per week.

For 2019 the designated Sundays and bank holidays are/were 13 January (for the sales), Palm Sunday (for lots of tourists), Good Friday (for lots of tourists), Easter Sunday (for lots of tourists), 23 June (two holidays fall close together), 7 July (sales), 12 October (which is a Saturday when two holidays fall close together) and, in the run up to Christmas and Three Kings, the 6 (Black Friday I think), 15, 22 and 29 December.

Some businesses can open when and as they like provided they fall into at least one of the following classes. That the business occupies less than 300 square metres and is classed as a small to medium enterprise. That it's a bread shop or a paper shop or a petrol station type business - the list includes things you'd expect like cakes bread, flowers, plants, magazines, newspapers, fuel, flowers, plants and prepared meals. Convenience stores can open when they like (there's a definition). Shops in places where people are travelling by land, sea or air have free rein to open when they like as can shops that sell mainly cultural products. Businesses set up to provide services to tourists are also in the list. The big exception, the one that keeps whole swathes of shops open, at least during some parts of the year, is one that allows any shop to open provided it is in an area deemed to have a lot of tourists. The Generalitat says what the areas are.

So there's the reason the shopping centre was open on Easter Sunday. Last Friday, Good Friday, we could have taken our guests to the Aljub Shopping Centre down in Valencian Elche. On the other hand if we'd foolishly extrapolated our Valencian knowledge to the Murcian Nueva Condomina shopping centre we'd have found the doors bolted on both Friday and Sunday despite Murcia having 16 Sundays and bank holidays on its list of exclusions.

Got that then?

To facilitate proof of conformity

I've got a bit of a tax problem. It started just before the Easter break. The Spanish tax people seem to think that I lied in my 2014 tax return. I didn't. Well, so far as I know I didn't. The whole process is going to be one huge pain in the backside. Part of the ritual of bureaucratic torture that the Spanish state inflicts on its citizens with a monotonous regularity. In the years that we've been here we've bumped into it time after time. We immigrant Brits complain about Spanish bureaucracy and so do Spaniards. Britons complain about British bureaucracy too and I suppose that Ghanaians complain about Ghanaian bureaucracy. I think the difference with the Spanish system is that it is unassailable, unflinching, unmoving and unrepentant whereas the British one is just long winded. The British version is, was, much more open to question in the case of dissent.

The Spanish process starts in one of two ways. Either there is hardly any information. A bill or a fine or a notice that requires Holmeslike deduction to work out what it's about. Much more common though, and this is the case with the tax letter, is that the notification is written in pompous and overblown language using words that nobody uses, a language designed to highlight the difference between the erudite state apparatus and the lowly and colloquial citizen.

Over the years, and without giving it much thought, I can cite examples. I appealed the charge for mains drainage because we don't have mains drains. Appeal denied was the response. No explanation. They did say though that it was a firm ruling that could not be contested.

When I asked our Town Council about changes to the junction by our house they simply didn't reply. I can give you a list of other processes that have been thwarted with the same tactic.

A long, long wait is another common ploy. It took just over two years for the reply to our appeal against being overcharged for our local land tax. To get a building inspector to visit to rubber stamp the paperwork after some major building work took just over eighteen months. There is a four year "statute of limitations" on tax matters, which is why I've got the tax letter now, only two months left or they'd have to forget it. Honestly, 2014? Does it really take five years to get around to checking my piddling tax return? And I have ten working days to reply - or else. I suppose I can expect the same process next year for 2015.

Even if my tax declaration is as honest as I think it is I predict that there will be some administrative wrong that has to be righted. The whole rigmarole will be distressing and will cost me time and money. I will probably need official translations of my P60 and however it turns out I will have no redress. They will never say "Whoops, sorry about that".

It does all become quite wearing.

¡Costaleros! - ¡al cielo con el!

Easter in Spain is spectacular. Every town has its own Easter. The floats, religious carvings, rolled along, or, much more impressively, borne on the shoulders of men, and nowadays women, along time honoured routes. Some people are in it for the religion, some for the culture, the tradition, or maybe it's just an opportunity to collect bags and bags of sweets. Some of the processions are joyous, some are military, some verge on the bizarre whilst others are organised chaos. I've not seen many, maybe twenty different towns, a few famous ones on the telly and whilst each is similar none is the same. But I'm not out on the streets now. I'm not listening to a plaintiff saeta sung from a balcony or watching mantilla wearing women or bare footed Nazarenos. There will be, almost certainly be no silent and unlit streets and no black hoods as Thursday becomes Friday when death is the order of the day. All because it's raining.

There are associations that fund raise and work all year for Semana Santa, for Holy week. We were in Jumilla this morning and we saw two very ordinary garages where people were preparing religious statues for their outings. In the Museo Jesús Nazareno about a dozen people were working on the floats, arranging flowers, fitting candles, hoovering and generally smartening up whilst lots of well wishers and lookers on came and went.

It was drizzling when we went for lunch but when we came out the streets were awash. We checked Facebook and there was the message to say that the processions had been cancelled. All that work wasted. The opportunity to process gone. I suppose as well as the potential damage to the statues, their clothing and the float in general there is also a potential danger of runaway floats or of statues carried on shoulders crashing to the ground as the carriers lose their footing. It seems a terrible shame though and I really feel sorry for all the people involved.

We hoped that it might not be raining in Pinoso but a Twitter message said no for the 8pm outing. There is still the vaguest possibility that the Cristo de la Buena Muerte will be lofted skyward as he leaves the Parish Church in the darkened streets of Pinoso at midnight tonight followed by hundreds of people carrying candles but I'm not that hopeful.

The title is something like: Bearers - to heaven with him! It's a cry to the people carrying the "Christ of the Good Death."

I'm pleased to say I was wrong. I went out for midnight and the procession was on. Leaden skies but no rain. As it turns out it was a temporary truce. The rain came back with a vengeance and all of the Good Friday processions in the area were cancelled. On Saturday morning it is still pouring down