I found myself last night trying to explain the concept of pantomime to a Spanish couple. They started off really intent on trying to understand this very English of traditions but by the end of the conversation I’d only managed to totally confuse them. Think about it;

They (panto’s) are based roughly around fairy tales but the script is altered to include characters or “in jokes” from the local community. It’s always a battle between good and evil and good (obviously) prevails. There is a lot of audience participation; the audience is encouraged to shout, sing and even join the actors on stage.

The Principal Girl is always young, pretty and eventually ends up with the Principal Boy.

The Principal Boy is also played by a young, pretty girl. “He” is always dressed in a costume which shows a lot of skin, and thigh length boots. To win the hand of the Principal Girl he has to ultimately be responsible for the downfall of the Baddies.

The Principal Baddie gets boo’d and hissed at by the audience every time he enters the stage and is responsible for working the audience up into a frenzy. He eventually sees the error of his ways and wins over the Dame.

The Dame is an older woman and played by a man in drag. “She” is the voice of reason and also spends a lot of time working the audience. The whole thing gradually builds, costumes get more and more lavish, the audience gets louder and louder till the finale, usually a multiple wedding.

By the end of the evening I was crying laughing and the couple I was talking to were completely lost. They kept asking the same question over and over and I couldn’t answer it…all they wanted to know  was “why”?

That tired old turkey is still running, it’s our turn to do the turkey fest tonight. The friends who are hosting the dinner have called three times to remind us it’s eight for eight thirty and I can’t help but wonder why? I know that type of meal is a bit tricky to get everything ready at the same time, but we all allow a bit of leeway…don’t we? I hope it’s not going to be one of those evenings which run like a military operation. We’ve all been there, arriving twenty minutes after the allotted time to be greeted with “oh hello, we were expecting you at eight.” You wait for the drink which doesn’t come because the dinner is being rescued and plated up, and before you know what’s happening you’re eating. At eleven o’clock on the dot the hosts start looking for their PJ’s and complain about the unearthly hour they have to be up the next morning. Ah yes, the only thing left to do is go home and wait for the indigestion to set in.

Then again they might have called three times to remind us of the time because they know some of the Spanishisms have rubbed off on us over the years. Timekeeping in Spain is a moveable feast. If we’re having friends over we’ve actually stopped giving a time because it means absolutely NOTHING. It’s not unusual for Spanish people to arrive two hours late for a dinner invitation and think nothing of it. It’s simply not a problem. We just say “come over on Saturday evening” and often don’t start cooking till our guests are here because “evening” can be any time from nine onwards.

All things considered I can now see why they’re probably getting nervous about getting twenty people with differing degrees of Spanishness to sit around the same table at the same time, to eat a meal which has been timed to be ready by a certain time. Let’s hope some bozo doesn’t telephone just as we’re about to eat, as I did yesterday in the House Of Pudlin. Sorry Susan!

Anybody who knows me will know that I don’t do planning. I tend to leave everything till the last minute and just see how things go, usually with surprising results, but that’s the way I am. I don’t plan.

I’ve just realised that since moving to J de la F things have changed. Maybe it’s the need to fit in or simply because I am surrounded by planners here (there’s no shame, people here openly plan in public), but I too have started to plan. It was subtle in the beginning, I made the odd list, just “things to do” and of course always behind closed doors. Things soon progressed and I found myself asking friends what they were doing for Christmas. I thought I had my eyes wide open and justified my new behaviour as just being sociable, as long as I wasn’t paying for my habit it was OK. Hell, it wasn’t like I was buying a daily planner or anything.

Last night I admitted to myself that I’ve lost control. I have plans for the upcoming public holiday, Christmas, Three Kings and even White Week in February. Even scarier, it’s all written in a diary IN INK. Is recovery possible? Am I destined to spend the rest of my life knowing what I’m doing? How do you un-plan anyway?

During a football match the other evening Spanish fans shouted racist chants every time a black, English player got the ball. The ensuing media fallout has been interesting because for once I can see both sides of the argument. The following day the English press was full of condemnation of the Spanish fans, and there was talk of wanting an official apology from the Spanish government. The Spanish press was asking what the problem was.

Although I personally don’t think there is ANY place for racism I’ve lived here long enough to see for myself that its part of daily life. You have to remember that democratic Spain is a very young country, and as such is still learning about a lot of things the rest of us take for granted. In the short time I’ve lived here I’ve seen compulsory education up to the age of sixteen made legal, divorce made legal, women allowed to open bank accounts or go to work without the written permission of their husband etc, etc, etc. Political correctness hasn’t even occurred to anybody yet. So, although what happened during the football match in Madrid the other day was shocking, it happened through ignorance. (One Spanish news paper went as far to say, “but how can that make us racists? When the blonde players got the ball the fans shouted “get the queer”, so if anything we were treating everybody equally.”)

I just read something on SofP’s blog which said, “pick up the nearest book to you and turn to page eighteen…” It was a bit of fun, but in doing it I suddenly noticed the amount of stuff on my desk.

If FlyLady was to come here it would be dusters at ten paces. If I’m honest I like my clutter, (please note if you call it clutter it makes it OK, only FlyLady prophets call it mess). Living in an old house means clutter adds character, but living in a small, old house (though perfectly formed) means there aren’t the places to stuff the clutter anyway. So here are the essentials which adorn my desk as I write. N.B. Minimalists may find the following disturbing.

Laptop computer: Used to watch the news, watch DVD’s, listen to the radio, listen to CD’s and all the other net stuff.

Land phone: The most basic model available but still looks like the flight deck of concord. I don’t know how to use any of the functions because I don’t want to.

Cell phone:

My appointment book for work:

A freezer bag:

My wallet:

“The Echo” – Minette Walters:

“El Diario De Bridget Jones” – Helen Fielding (translated into Spanish by Néstor Busquets)

“Maybe The Moon” – Armistead Maupin

CD’s – “Queer As Folk” soundtrack, “Il Divo”, “Ojú”, “Songs In The Key Of Life” (mostly put back into their cases)

Moroccan pot: Contains all those things which might make the place look untidy.

Large clock in oak case:

Bonsai tree: Looking sick

An orchid: Looking healthy

Lamp: Oak spindle

Figure of a Japanese fisherman:

Cup of coffee: Hot

Cup of tea: Cold

I have no idea what the freezer bag is doing on the desk, so in an attempt at Neo Minimalism I will bin it. There, tidy now.

The recent events in The Netherlands are constantly on my mind. How can the people of probably the most liberal country in the world be doing this?

On the news this morning I watched an American soldier execute a man.

I’ve just heard that Margaret Hassan has also been executed.

I don’t belong in this world.

…Well he is actually, but that Would spoil the cheesy link, but he is my brother.

I had a call from my brother on Friday to ask me to do some translating for him. As we talked I got the impression the translation stuff was just an excuse, I felt he just wanted to hear a friendly voice. He and his wife moved to Spain a couple of months ago and I’ve purposely taken a step back to give them some space to settle in and sort themselves out. During the call on Friday I asked him how they were *really*, and it was when he started going overboard with enthusiasm that I knew something was wrong. I said I’d call him back on Saturday with some thoughts on the translation we wanted, giving me some time to think things through.

Very early yesterday I called him and said I’d be over to pick them up and bring them up here for the weekend. He said all the “right” things about it being too much driving etc, but there was a spark in his voice which told me it was exactly what they’d like to do. So, it’s now Sunday evening and since I called him I’ve spent twelve hours driving and feel a bit beaten up, BUT I was right. After a few hours it all started to come out, they feel lonely and overwhelmed by the move. Anybody who has moved away from their family and friends will know the feeling, we’ve all been there. It’s an odd feeling, a bit like losing your history in the move. I think you reach a point where you need to say to somebody, “oh do you remember when…?” So that’s what we did. We spent yesterday afternoon strolling around the village aimlessly, chatting. Last night we spent hours sat at the kitchen table telling tales and eating great food (thanks Paul), but most importantly we laughed a lot.

It’s good to talk.

Something’s changed. I don’t know how or why, all I know is that I don’t like it.

As kids we all watched cartoons. There was always a moment in those cartoons where something scary happened and the hair of the frightened characters shot up at right angles to their head. I always called it “scary hair”. Well, for the last two or three weeks I’ve been waking up every morning with scary hair. Even my days back in the 70’s as a punk (which by the way didn’t last very long because my mother insisted I was a clean and tidy punk), I couldn’t get the scary hair look. That’s just reminded me of Glad. Glad was an excellent punk, she did nothing in half measures. Her scary hair stood about six or eight inches tall because she used wallpaper paste on it. Her hair was SO stiff that her party piece was to snap off the odd spike like an icicle, but I digress… I thought my scary hair days were over. I want boring, flat stuff back!

Mood:    & nbsp;   &n bsp; Pensive

Weather:    & nbsp; Beautiful

Reading:    & nbsp; “Duende” (Jason Webster) which is crap, and “Bridget Jones” (in Spanish) which is odd.

Listening to:  Scissor Sisters

It’s going to be a beautiful day. I watched the sun rise into a completely cloudless sky. I moved my desk to the window for the winter, so as I type I can feel the warm sun on my face. I’m going to make time to get out for a long walk later.

Speaking of walking, I smiled to myself last night while reading VodkaB’s blog and her escapades in the wilds of Hong Kong while doing the AYP. Students from The Other Mr. Andaloo’s school are doing the same thing, though I’m sure on an easier level. A few weeks ago they went off for a weekend hike which brought them close to this village. One of their tasks was to cook an evening meal within certain constraints. We were just settling down for a Saturday evening at home when the phone rang, it was one of the students. She said they were all in a bar here in our village and would we like to join them for a drink. When he asked, “but aren’t you supposed to be roughing it tonight?” – she answered, “well, the rules say we had to cook a meal, it didn’t say we had to eat it so we’re having dinner in this bar”. I like that, that’s initiative.

It’s been too long again since my last post. At least this time it wasn’t just laziness, I’ve been busy doing things around the house, managed to get a bug and my internet connection has been up the shoot again.

The new kitchen table and butchers block arrived last week. We bought raw pine so we could stain them the same colour as the kitchen cabinets…easier said than done, but decided in the end that different colours gave more character. That’s one of the great things about having a really old house, when “projects” don’t quite work you just call it rustic character. The next job was to strip the dark stain from the chair legs. Whoever did the stain did it really well because it took all day Saturday to do ONE chair.

We’d just decided to call it a day and have a glass of wine before cleaning up when the phone rang. “Hi, is that Andaloo? It’s SofP here.” My chin hit the floor! To say I was gob-smacked is an under statement. After eighteen months of writing to each other it was fantastic to actually talk to her. I love talking to people who keep you on your toes, when you never know where the conversation is going to go, and that was exactly how it was with Susan. WOW she’s sharp! I look forward to many more chats, eventually face to face.

I’ve been feeling a bit miserable lately. I’ve got some kind of bug which affects the ears and throat. They’ve announced on the radio that this bug is running through the area and not to go to the doctors but to get antibiotics from the pharmacy. I don’t like doing that so I’m sitting it out to see if it will sort itself out. Ughhh.

I’m doing the dance of the internet service provider yet again. My connection has been SO slow that sometimes there hasn’t even been enough go-go-juice to open a web page. I called them (Wanadoo) and they blamed Telefonica. I called Telefonica and they blamed the weather. They claim the rain has got into the control box at the bottom of the village and we just have to wait for it to dry out. I offered to go down there with a hairdryer but the irony was wasted.

In no particular order, and for no apparent reason.

Trick or treat: I find it really hard to believe that in all the places I’ve lived it’s here in the Land That Time Forgot that the kids do the Halloween thing. We had one crowd of kids knock the door on Saturday and another lot last night. Having NO experience of the trick or treat sugar fest we weren’t sure what to do, so we just shouted “bugger off” through the window. Sorted. I’ll probably be looking for advice in time for next year’s fest.

Blokes guide to curtains: All the windows in Palacio Andaloo have shutters apart from the sitting room. Although curtains aren’t needed because nobody can see in we wanted to put some up just to add a bit of colour. Friends said we needed help with buying fabric, doing the maths and putting them up. We waited for the help and eventually decided to go it alone.

So, believe me it’s not that difficult. All you need to get through this are;

Curtains

Scissors (wire cutters can work, but not recommended)

Hoover (essential)

Needle

Cotton

Spirit level

Pencil

Gardening gloves

First buy the curtains. Width doesn’t matter, just buy at least two packs. Length doesn’t matter either because they will be the length of a small country. Put the loop things over the pole thing and with your pencil mark the point where the curtains meet the floor. Take the curtains off the pole thing and lay them on the floor. Using the long plastic hose of the hoover make a pencil mark a bit of the way up from the pencil mark on the curtains. Using the spirit level to get a straight line, cut the fabric. Repeat with other curtains. Hoover curtains to get rid of the cat hairs they’ve picked up from the floor. Turn the bottom bit over till it reaches the pencil mark denoting the point where the curtains meet the floor. Put on the gardening gloves. Sew the turned over bit to the long bit (You will not find thimbles in your kit, but gardening gloves work just as well). The sewing bit doesn’t matter much because let’s face it, who looks down there? Hoover the cat hairs off again. Put the loop things over the pole again. Finished.