the lady spanishes

In the misery of a cold, wet Manchester day, my daughter Lisa left a depressing message on Facebook.

''What are we doing in this bloody miserable country?'' she asked despairingly. ''Can someone give me reasons not to move abroad, please.''

Family, friends and making a living were the most popular responses received by Lisa and when you have two sons still at school, that is a BIG, BIG consideration.

My local community here in Spain recently said a tearful farewell to an English family as they headed back to the UK after seven happy years on the Costa Blanca.

The main reason they returned to their roots is that their 15-year-old daughter had been pining for an English education and had understandably found it difficult to build a social life in the ageing expat community.

Yet even though Mum and Dad struggled to make a living while they were here, they loved the Spanish lifestyle so much that I reckon they'll be back once junior has passed her A-levels - and leave her to her own devices at university.

When it comes down to choosing theoretically between living in Britain or Spain, I reckon most Brits would choose the sunshine option. Until they consider the thorny question of employment, that is.

To me, Spain wins on virtually every front - but unless you have your own means or a decent pension, then my advice is to tread very carefully because there's precious little work available in these crisis-wrecked times. Even for Spanish people.

As for missing family and friends, no problem there. They can always come out to visit. After all, it probably takes longer to drive from north London to Birmingham than to fly from Gatwick to Alicante or Malaga.

Personally I reckon the best thing about modern-day Britain is that it's 1,500 miles away. But that comes from someone who is fortunate enough to have sufficient savings to keep going without having to work.

So where does Spain have the edge on Britain as a place to live - and vice versa? There are, of course, two sides to every story. Or in some cases any number of sides, as I discovered when I asked other exiles for their thoughts via forum comments.

To my surprise, the UK won 'Britain is best' votes in areas like the job market, midsummer weather (in other words, Spain is too hot in July and August), home healthcare, keeping homes warm in winter, tap-water quality, utility company choice and service, natural scenery, faster legal processes, broadband speed, TV, Sunday opening. And of course shopping.

Britain also scored for reliability, particularly when it comes to things like power cuts, which are part of Spanish life. I'm still cursing the electricity company for costing me a freezer-load of food back in 2008, when my kitchen was flooded following a power cut while I was away.

Not to mention the time they cut me off without warning because my bank was not holding sufficient funds to pay my direct debit to them. But that's another story (which you will find elsewhere on this blog if you dig deep enough!)

I can also confirm from personal experience that the service in UK banks and stores is vastly superior to the couldn't-care-less attitude of many clerks and shop assistants out here.

As one person put it: ''I hate waiting in a queue for an hour at a bank because the cashier is chatting to every Pablo, Pedro and Jose about their *abuelos/hermanos/gato/perro etc. Then it gets to your turn and. . . SIESTA TIME. Cashier is now shut!''

Whereas British business outlets invariably put the customer first, prepare for a long wait in Spain if the clerk or shop assistant's mobile rings while you're being served. Because the chances of the caller being told curtly ''I'll ring you back'' is virtually nil.

My local vet is a lovely young man who is unusually good at multi-tasking but suffers from acute 'mobile attached to the ear' syndrome. When I took one of my cats to his surgery for a checkover, his phone rang just as he called me into the treatment room.

''Un momento,'' he said, taking the call from a pal. During the next 15 minutes, chatting throughout to his mate, he checked the cat, treated her, put her back into the cat box, ushered me out into the reception area and then signed some papers for a delivery man who walked in as I waited to discuss the bill. Ultimately, seeing my face growing increasingly crimson, he mouthed the words ''14 euros'', took my 20 euro note, rang it up on the till, gave me change and whispered a swift ''hasta luego''.

As I closed the door of the surgery behind me, Julien was ushering in the next patient and its owner…still talking on the mobile that may one day need removing surgically from his ear. Because not everyone is going to be as patient as I was.

Having said that, I have walked out of a Spanish shop more than once because a staff member has put a phone call or private chat of serving me. Unbelievably, it is often the boss who snubs you - the person with most to gain or lose. Such economic suicide is rare in the UK but so typical of the 'mañana mañana' Spanish mentality.

Having said all that - and factored in the menace of the myriad mosquitoes of midsummer - Spain scores highly on so many fronts that it really is no contest which country has the most going for it. Particularly if you are looking to retire out here and able to live off your pension and savings.

Obviously the sunshine and healthy air tops the lot. But then there are other aspects like the quality of life, cheap eating out (if you avoid the tourist rip-off joints), inexpensive housing, the third lowest crime rate in Europe (though you could fool me with all the handbag snatching and pickpocketing that goes on in the Costas), the fiestas, the family-orientated culture, the gentler pace of life and the golden beaches.

Oh, and I almost forgot the pharmacies, which sell prescription drugs without a prescription - something I have personally found very useful. (And no, I am not a junkie!)

Spain also got the thumbs-up for superior public transport and less-congested roads. But sadly there was no mention whatsoever of motorbikes.

Why motorbikes? Well, my Lisa's fella Rob is a motorcycle training instructor and if they ever did come out here with the kids (I wish!), he'd be looking to open a training centre wherever they decided to settle.

Much as I would love to see them on my doorstep, I haven't the faintest idea how he'd do that. Come to think of it, I don't even know the Spanish word for motorcycle. 

THE girl at the Easyjet bag-drop desk was anything but helpful.

My boarding pass stated specifically that I should go  there to organise the ‘special requirements’ I had requested online when I booked my flight from Alicante to Manchester.  But the bag-drop girl was having none of it. “You are in the wrong place,’’ she insisted, pointing to an office window where several people were busy haranguing the lone occupant.

I duly joined the queue and waited a few minutes, during which time the line reduced by a whole person.

Becoming increasingly anxious, I looked at my boarding pass again. It clearly stated I should go to the bag drop, so I wandered back to the Easyjet desk and joined the queue of people waiting to check in. By now I was becoming a little agitated.

Here I was, in an extremely embarrassing position, seeking wheelchair assistance for the first time in my life. I felt so guilty, but equally relieved that I did not have to join the logjam of passengers funnelling  through the crowded security checks.

It was a busy Friday evening and it crossed my mind that I should forget the wheelchair and make my way to security with my hand luggage as I had always done during the five years or so I had been living in Spain.

Then I recalled all the hassle of having to unzip my bag and remove my ancient laptop for separate checking, Not to mention shuffling and shaking along the line as young, chicos and chicas tut-tutted at this old dear with Parkinson’s Disease who blocked their rush to the duty-free shops.

The bag-drop girl I had spoken to earlier spotted me in the check-in queue. Shaking her head at my defiance of her instructions, she left her desk and strode over. “Madam, you cannot get special assistance here. This is the bag-drop queue. I told you must go to the office I pointed out to you earlier.’’

I could feel myself falling apart and the girl sensed it too. Suddenly I felt her mood change from irritation to sympathy and realised she was not the impatient misery I had first taken her for. 

She ushered me back towards the wheelchair office where, as luck would have it, the queue had vanished.

The next 10 minutes were an emotional time as I came to terms with old age. My frailty in such a trivial situation confirmed to me that senility and ill-health really were catching up with me and that my independence was under threat.

Over the previous few months I had been finding it increasingly difficult to handle the rigours of air travel. I didn't actually FEEL old at 69, but even without the limitations of Parkinson’s and angina, I was finding it a real struggle to carry hand luggage onto a  plane - and  certainly could not lift it into overhead racks. The problem increased  dramatically when one threw in the limitations of a dicky heart and hands that shook like a 9.7 scale earthquake. 

My ever-weakening emotions welled over into tears as I realised that the problems would only increase as I wing my way towards the  final horizon.

Most of my flights these days are to visit my family in Manchester,  where I had been finding the long walk to passport control impossible without resorting to my emergency angina-relief spray. Now, for the first time,  I could forget about becoming a damsel in distress.
Ten minutes later I was being wheeled through a quiet area of the security department to the department gate, feeling cool and relaxed for the first time in a generation.
It didn't bother me that I was destined to be the last person off the plane in Manchester.

It is nearly two years since that dramatic day I first took advantage of what I now call the the 'squeals on wheels service' I've flown from Spain to the UK at least a dozen times since then and found every airline equally friendly and helpful when it comes to doddery old codgers like me.

With my increasing health problems, stress is the last thing I want. I'd like to shake the hand of every airport assistant and cabin crew member who has helped me - but my Parkinson's has now reached the stage where I'd probably miss!

Well, at least I've still got my sense of humour. Even if it does invariably mean being the very last passenger off the plane.