Can’t pay, Won’t pay

Spanish banks – don’t you just love ‘em? Well, the ratings agencies certainly don’t, and nor do international investors. And I certainly don’t, especially after seeing the latest set of charges to hit my account. Whether it be for payments, receipts, correspondence, maintenance or whatever, they’ll find an excuse to raid your account – which wouldn’t be so bad if they actually provided an efficient service.



Returning from the UK, I discovered my annual car tax bill lying in the letter box. I dutifully trotted down to the local branch of my bank, La Caixa, to make the necessary payment. Having patiently queued for the clever machine that scans your bills and then debits your account accordingly, it was a case of the ‘computer says no’ and I was obliged to wait to speak to the bank clerk. Almost gleefully, he highlighted the small print on the invoice showing that I could only make payment at branches of Caja de Granada or Caja Rural de Granada. Silly me to think that one of the functions of a bank was to make payments for its customers.

Fortunately there is a branch of Caja de Granada just across the road so over I popped and joined the queue. The lady at the desk pointed dismissively toward the sign saying ‘Bill Payments between 0830 and 1030 hours only’ and then toward her watch showing 12 noon. Out I walked, tail between my legs.

Quietly fuming, I ambled back towards the car and by chance passed a branch of Caja Rural de Granada. I entered and yet again joined the queue, trying to ignore the (by now familiar) sign stating the hours for bill payments. I handed the invoice to the young assistant who immediately deferred to her supervisor. He looked me up and down, and then walked over.

‘Would you like to pay this now, sir?’ he asked. ‘Yes please’ I replied more out of politeness than expectation. ‘That’s fine.’ Somewhat taken aback, I handed over my credit card. ‘Sorry sir but you cannot pay by card.' ‘Why not? I could have sworn that I spotted the word Bank above your door.' ‘We only accept cards issued by our bank but there is, for your convenience, an ATM machine in the lobby. Please be aware, however, that your bank will charge your account for a cash withdrawal……’

A Balancing Act

Birthdays, especially for the young, are normally anticipated with great excitement. However the imminent fourth anniversary of my VW Golf was not a time for celebration - it meant that the dreaded ITV (the Spanish equivalent of the MOT) was now due.

A pre-emptive inspection of the car revealed that the tyres were suffering from the same problem as my pate - premature baldness - and so a visit to the local garage beckoned.

The last time I had been there was to have a flat tyre plugged, after which I had slipped the grizzled fitter an extra 5 euro note in order to ensure speedy service in future. Upon arrival it was obvious that he recognised me as he was holding out his palm in anticipation, despite the fact that there were no other cars present. The man, who looks as if he could have auditioned successfully for two of the leading roles in the film ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly', persuaded me to part with my hard-earned cash to purchase a full set of new tyres.

'Did you get them balanced?' asked la Jefa, once I was back home. 'Er....no, I forgot' I spluttered unconvincingly, not having a clue what she meant. 'Well, you'd better go back then'. Fearing the admonishment of 'Er Indoors over that of the horny-handed mechanic, I trudged sheepishly back to the repair shop. 'The tyres do not need balancing and in any event we don't have the kit to do it', I was bluntly informed.

I was left with a dilemma. Not wanting to go home empty-handed, what should I do? After dismissing the idea of lying to the wife (apparently my lips twitch even when attempting the most insignificant of porkies), I suddenly remembered that there was a VW concessionaire only a few hundred metres away. I arrived to find a showroom full of gleaming brand-new off-roaders but no staff. Whilst I was contemplating a free upgrade of my Golf, the manager appeared off the street holding a steaming cappuccino.

'How can I help?' he enquired. 'Apparently I need to have my tyres balanced' I replied. 'Unfortunately we don't have the equipment to do that - we always refer our clients to the tyre specialist just down the road......'

Applying for a job at UBS

Now, I may be a little long in the tooth but I am giving serious consideration to applying for a job at UBS, that hitherto most respectable of Swiss Banks. After all, on the surface, I appear to have all the right attributes - a public school background with a degree from a top university, a qualified chartered accountant, and a CV which includes relevant work experience at a couple of investment banks.

Moreover I am more than capable of losing a couple of billion dollars of other people's money.

Sadly, having just read the lengthy tome that is the UBS Dress Code (see link below), it would seem that I may lose out despite being widely regarded by my peers as a something of a fashionista (as my profile picture will attest).

UBS Dress Code: The Bankers' Guide to Dressing and Smelling like a winner

Whilst I could no doubt comply with certain requirements: 'You can wear a watch to the extent it does not threaten not safety', 'Your figure should not suffer from the way you wear your underwear', and 'Do not wash, nor ever iron, your shirts yourself', it is likely that I would struggle with others: 'The jacket must completely cover your posterior', 'Shoulders should have natural proportions', and especially 'The tip of your tie should under no circumstances enter your pants'.

In light of recent events, UBS appear to have missed a trick by omitting the following:

• Don't lose your shirt (or that of the Bank), but if you do
• Don't keep it under your hat (or trouser the proceeds).

Smoking Ban

At the beginning of this year, the Spanish government introduced a new anti-smoking law. Now call me cynical, but based upon their previous attempts to ban the popular weed from public places, I was anticipating that I would not notice any change. How wrong could I be?

Bars are no longer allowed to opt out and indeed they run the risk of draconian fines, should they permit their punters even a quick puff in the urinals (so to speak). The ambience is now one of Anis and BO rather than stale Ducados (and BO).

But perhaps the tide is changing?

The other day, as I popped out onto the terrace of a local hostelry for a licit drag, I took this photo which suggests that one of the regulars has found a way around the regulations. Or was it the hand of that great smoker in the sky?

Nepotism in the NHS

A few weeks ago, as I was hobbling on crutches into our local NHS hospital for a spot of rehabilitory circuit training, I took a wrong turning. Suddenly I found myself walking down what seemed like an endless corridor with only a few zombie-like waterbottle-carrying members of staff, some broken beds, and the pungent odour of boiled cabbage for company.

Struggling past the challengingly-named Maxillofacial, Orthotics and Endocrine units, my new hip was in need of a rest. I spotted a vacant seat in an adjacent waiting room but thought twice about sitting down when I discovered that I had just entered the 'Discharge Lounge'.

Fortunately a wheechair was at hand in the nearby 'Department of Portering' outside of which was, in true Nu-Labour style, a board with the names and photographs of smiling senior members of staff. It was interesting to note that, other than Ian Manager, the names were John Supervisor, Andy Supervisor, Graham Supervisor, Peter Supervisor and Phil Supervisor.

It's good to see that nepotism in the NHS is alive and kicking.

Spanish Caravan

I have returned to Andalucia following my recent surgery to discover that spring has sprung and that the smell of orange blossom is all pervading. The snow on the mountain tops, which has a strange brown hue as a result of southerly winds blowing in sand from the Sahara, is starting to melt and the heat of the summer is surely not far away.

Ah, Spanish summers. Fiestas, jazmine, flamenco, gazpacho, figs, chilled vino rosado, long lunches and even longer siestas, hot sleepless nights, and ........ tourists. Perhaps I should consider hitting the road this year.

And I think I've found the ideal vehicle for someone with my current infirmity. Small, yet perfectly formed and with a built-in entertainment centre, I can even stock up whilst driving down a supermarket aisle. Perfect for life in the slow lane.
 

Send in the Clouds?

I have an confession to make - I love clouds (no sniggering at the back, please). From the humble Cirrus and Cumulus to the more spectacular Mammatus and Lenticularis, I love them all.

And I am not alone in this respect as the 25307 (soon to be 25308) members of the Cloud Appreciation Society (http://cloudappreciationsociety.org/) will testify.

For the sceptical amongst you, here is a short film I have put together with photos of the Sierra Nevada mountains taken from the ringside seat that is our house.

If you go down to the woods today

When you’re budgeting for your holiday in Spain, what items of expenditure should you factor into the equation? Flights, accommodation, and food and drink are probably at the top of most people's lists. Maybe also a hire car and some extra cash for souvenirs and last-minute gifts.

But how much should you set aside as a contingency for those little unexpected costs? Well, if you’re planning a BBQ in the countryside, you may wish to re-think your figures once you've read what happened to this unfortunate but rather naïve Brit abroad.

Click here to read article

The Best a Man can get

I am currently stuck in the UK for a period of enforced R&R - recuperation and rehabilitation - following a hip replacement, and cabin fever is starting to set in.

My day seems to consist of popping pain killers, injecting my stomach to prevent DVT and nostalgically tucking into Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney pies whilst hopping around on crutches in a shell suit and a rather elegant pair of surgical stockings. The only respite from the confines of my padded cell is when a sympathetic neighbour takes me to the local Tescos and I race through the aisles on the complimentary mobility scooter, terrorizing other shoppers.

I also have to report that I have joined the ranks of young mothers, students and the unemployed in becoming addicted to day-time TV. Waking up to Holly Willoughby may be no bad thing but I am embarrassed to admit that I have become a dab hand at solving 9 letter anagrams in less than 30 seconds and spotting a bargain at an antiques fair. Moreover I now know how to turn my attic into cash in order to fund the wedding dress of my teenage gypsy bride and the DNA test of my allegedly illegitimate child.

And, perhaps worst of all, I have recently found myself reciting the straplines of various advertisements under my breath. Is this really the best a man can get?

A Stroll in the Park

One of the joys of living in the mountains of Andalucia is being surrounded by spectacular scenery and having a wide variety of flora and fauna on your doorstep. Whether your preference is for deep ravines, babbling brooks, orange groves or soaring eagles, everything is readily accessible and indeed often within easy walking distance - unless of course, like me, you are lazy, infirm or suffer from vertigo.

Here’s a video I took earlier whilst out with the dogs.

White Van Man

Those of us who live in southern Spain can almost set our watches by the various horns of the white van men who ply their trades in the small inland villages. The sleepy narrow streets come alive throughout the day to the sound of men offering bread, vegetables, fresh fish, frozen food, gas bottles, and even knife sharpening services. To the uninitiated, all the horns sound the same but to those with a trained ear each horn has its unique timbre, pitch and resonance. In my case, I rely upon our faithful Border Collie who barks when he hears my favourite baker in the distance.

 

Alfonso is a jolly little soul who bakes his bread in a neighbouring village before setting off across the valley to distribute his fresh baguettes. The strong alcoholic fumes emanating from his van suggest that each of his deliveries to the local hostelries is accompanied by a complimentary tipple.

 

When he discovered that I was from the UK, he insisted that I teach him some English. To date, almost three years later, he has mastered precisely 4 words – bread, roll, white, and van. Whether this is down to my lack of pedagogical skills or his permanent state of inebriation, I know not.

 

What I do know is that he has now been struggling with word number 5 (wholemeal) for the last 12 months and I am fearful that total command of the English language may elude him. In fact, his recent greeting of ‘Salam Alaykum’ suggests that his head has been turned by the seductive charms of the Moroccan lady who lives around the corner.

 

As retribution, I may be forced to move my custom to his arch rival, the implausibly named John of God.

Xmas and the Helicopter

It’s now December and the festive season will soon be upon us. The skies are blue but temperatures have plummeted at night and the wind cuts to the bone. The snow capped mountains of the Sierra Nevada are a tempting sight for us skiers.

The other year the kids bought me a remote control helicopter as a Xmas present. Resisting the temptation to open the box on Xmas Eve, I woke up like an excited child the following morning to prepare for the inaugural flight.

The first signs were not promising – inadequate altitude and insufficient/excessive acceleration coupled with incompetent aeronautics – so I decided to move out of the safe environs of the sitting-room and into the thrill but dangers of the street. The blades rotated at speed, the vertical take-off was magnificent and the helicopter soared……… backwards. I suddenly realised that unless I took immediate action my new toy was destined for a tragic watery end in the Mediterranean so I ditched it and the helicopter made a less than graceful landing on a neighbour’s roof.

I cautiously knocked on his door. Now, I may know a few Spanish words but ‘Apologies for disturbing you on this most holy of days but my spanking new remote control helicopter has gone into a tail-spin and appears to have lodged itself on your rickety corrugated asbestos roof’ tested me to the limit. Without batting an eyelid, Francisco proceeded to place a ladder on his upper terrace and climb onto the roof. He returned a few minutes later, helicopter in hand, and rather disappointedly asked ‘Is this it?’, clearly having expected to find a full-scale model.

As we descended, I noticed the rather large cannabis plant on his patio. Perhaps this explained his relaxed frame of mind.

The Shadow of Franco

It’s strange how certain songs bring the memories flooding back. I was in the car the other day, cogitating (or looking vacant as La Jefa would say), when over the radio came the flamenco rhythms of Paco de Lucia on ‘Entre dos Aguas’. This was a number 1 hit when I spent a blissful 4 months with a family in Madrid during my gap year, many moons ago.

Officially I had been employed as a live-in English teacher to their 5 sons but in reality I simply became another member of the family. The father was a prominent banker, whose rounded physique and ruddy complexion hinted at a rich enjoyment of the better things in life. He proudly showed off his 'private English tutor’ around the financial cocktail circuit of Madrid. Sadly however his pidgin English while introducing me to his boss – ‘Thees man, he is very impotent in Spain’ – suggested that I should pursue a career outside of teaching.

This was 1974, a year before the death of Franco. We spent many an evening arguing about ‘El Generalisimo’ whilst quaffing copious quantities of brandy. I even detected a tear in his eye when he showed me some home-made films of Franco visiting his in-laws’ estate for a weekend of hunting. The father was most definitely pro-Franco but a conservative rather than a Falangist. Whilst recognising Franco’s failings, he was fearful of what would happen to his beloved Spain after the Caudillo’s demise - crime, separatism, and unemployment being his greatest concerns.

To this day Franco and his legacy remain somewhat of a taboo subject in Spain and old wounds between neighbours and even within families remain raw. The ongoing controversy over the opening of the suspected grave of poet and dramatist Garcia Lorca (and other mass graves) serves as confirmation.

How to Quit Smoking

I am, for my sins, an inveterate smoker. It all started as a teenager when I wanted to impress a girl: the relationship failed but I remained hooked.  I have tried every which way to give up - nicorette patches (sore arms), nicorette gum (aching jaws), even acupuncture (punctured ego) - but nothing has worked. I even thought that our move to Spain may act as a fresh incentive to quit until I discovered that cigarettes cost less than half of the price in the UK. Moreover, whereas in the UK, I am treated almost as a social pariah, over here I am considered normal. But maybe I have found a solution.

The lugubrious Maria runs the local Estanco, a small supermarket with a licence to sell cigarettes (the Spanish government still keeps a tight rein on the sale of tobacco). The other day I popped in to buy a pack.

The conversation proceeded something along the lines of: ‘20 Fortuna Light please’ ‘We’ve run out’ ‘When is the next delivery?’ ‘Today’ ‘What time?’ ‘12 noon’ ‘But it’s already 1.30’ ‘Yes, the man’s late as always’ ‘What time does he normally come?’ ‘It varies’ ‘Shall I come back this afternoon?’ ‘Yes’ ‘What time do you suggest?’ ‘Whenever’ ‘How about 5 o’clock?’ (small stores in Spain normally close for siesta between 2 and 5) ‘I will be closed’ ‘When do you re-open?’ ‘About 6’ ‘OK I’ll be back at 6’. ‘I thought you said you were coming at 5’  ‘But you said you were shut’ ‘Yes but you only have to ring the bell’.

It’s enough to make you give up smoking. In fact it’s enough for you to give up the will to live.

A Haven for the Hypochondriac

For men of a certain age, waking with a tingling in the nether regions may initially provoke a nostalgic frisson of excitement but, when the tingling morphs into a constant dull pain, paranoia sets in – is it a hernia, maybe prostate problems or, even worse, the dreaded testicular cancer? Such was my dilemma at the beginning of the year.

After several sleepless nights and much soul-searching, I plucked up the courage to phone the Centro Diagnostico in Motril and book an appointment. The Centro, of which there are several throughout Andalucia, is exactly what it says on the tin – a diagnostic centre full of up to date medical hardware including PET and MRI scanners. For a (very reasonable) fee, you simply check yourself in, have the relevant scan/test and you are then given a comprehensive report with images to pass on to your GP or Consultant. A great idea, especially for us hypochondriacs.

Oh, for the record, my tackle is still intact but the scan showed that my hips are shot. The Centro is not simply a haven for the hypochondriac after all.

To Catch a Thief

'There is nothing in life so cruel as to be blind in Granada' - Francisco Alarcon de Icaza

With its Moorish heritage and the magical backdrop of the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains, Granada is a beautiful and evocative city. It is defined by its hills and by its history, from the steep narrow cobbled streets of the Albaycin quarter to the magnificent Alhambra Palace.

Although considered safer than many tourist destinations, it does alas suffer from its share of low level crime.

A couple of years ago, as we were enjoying an alfresco dinner, a dishevelled drunk grabbed La Jefa’s mobile phone from the table and ran off down the alleyway. Yours truly, full of bravado, leapt to his feet to chase after the man. The spirit was willing but the flesh weak as my legs went from under me on the city’s notoriously slippery pavements.

I picked myself up, dusted myself down and, undeterred by the barely disguised mirth of our fellow diners, set off in hot pursuit. My cries of ‘Stop Thief’ went ignored by the locals enjoying their tinto and tapas in the warm evening air. It was only afterwards that I realised that it was their lack of English rather than lack of sympathy for my plight that stopped them from coming to my aid.

Against the odds, I eventually caught up with the perpetrator, admittedly probably due more to his inebriated state rather than my athletic prowess. Then it dawned on me – what do I now do to retrieve the mobile? The answer came in the form of one of the many sub-Saharan immigrants who sell their wares on the streets of the city. ‘Let me help you’ he said, grabbing the man by the scruff of the neck and planting a Glaswegian kiss on his forehead. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ I mused as the man fell to the ground. My good Samaritan prised the phone from his hand and gave it to me before disappearing into the shadows.

I strode purposefully back to the restaurant, mobile proudly held high, milking the applause of the locals who had been watching the chase with bemusement. ‘Don’t tell anyone but I think I’ve torn my hamstring’ I whispered to La Jefa as she supported me back to the car.