Of banks and men

I hate the first words of the day. I hate when you have to fire up rusty neurones whose creaking dryness chafe thought and blunt response time. I might have been talking nineteen to the dozen in Spanish the night before, even dreaming in the language, but those first words in Spanish have to be walked off the plank of my tongue; prodded by a sabre. I often apologise for my strong English accent first thing in the morning by saying I’ve forgotten to put my Spanish teeth in that day, but in truth my sleepy tongue just can’t quite push the vowels to the front of the mouth which is the Spanish way.

I went to the bank this morning and was met with a very complicated queue, which could almost be described as a double helix with the added complicaton of chronicologically gifted Señoras waiting on chairs outside the queue, free radicals to my GCAT. I was confused and wasn’t sure if I was looking at a queue or not.

I was faced with an Decision: Speak up, ask around to find the end of the queue or leave and come again another day.

Just as I was leaving, I remembered that this might be my last chance to deposit my money before I go to the UK for Christmas so my hand was forced

“Are you in the queue?” I ask an old man, stuttering out my thick English vowels.

I was not understood the first time so I had to quickly check my translation for errors and try again. Again my accent was as obvious as Dolly Parton’s tits, and just as offensive to the senses.

Apparently the queue began behind him so there I stood, counting and reciting the Spanish alphabetin my head, a trick to get my Spanish working that I learnt to do ten years ago before any Spanish tests I had. Apparently it’s still as effective now as back then because the cashier completely failed to understand me and when he finally heard a version of the same two words he understood he gave me a patronising “very good”.

Like I say: I hate first words

Only last words are harder to come by

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ElGuiri, Spain, Spanish, queues

Con hielo

That it wasn’t until I came to Spain that I’d ever really felt the cold will be seen as quite an irony by the poor lost British souls who wash up on the shores of El Guiri. The temperatures in the sun can fluctuate as much as ten degrees within 24 hours. The the bitter cold of the night is very different to the bone warming sunshine of midday it is the complete inability of the buildings here to hold on to any of the heat that strikes you as soon as the sun disappears behind the hills. During my rational moments I realise that this inability is an feature, a most welcome one during the long months when a powerful sun smears across the sky dripping heat across the landscape.

I’m looking forward to well managed heading of a colder climate to be feel. To be in a cosy room with central heating and fitted carpet watching the cold world unfold beyond the windows and not to spend all day with the sting of cold air on the face and hands or cold tile underfoot. Meanwhile we wait for the huge electricity bills the electric heaters and their warm breath on your neck herald*