Life and times of Duquesagirl

My Mum and Dad were a holiday romance and they met in Lloret de Mar on the Costa Brava. My Mum went on holiday with her girlfriends and she met my Dad when he was working in one of the hotels there. (Their relationship is still going strong 30 odd years later)

My Dad had moved to Lloret because he really didn't want to be a farmer which at that time was probably the only career available to him if he stayed in his village. He escaped with his friends as soon as he could, sure that he could make a better life for himself.

After meeting my Mum he had to do his national service so my Mum upped sticks from the UK and worked in Barcelona as an au pair so they could see each other when he had leave. Eventually, after he finished his army time and after I was born, my parents made the decision to move to England where, at that time, there were more opportunities to improve their life.

This meant that my summer holidays were always spent visiting my Abuelos in a tiny little village in Badajoz. The village population was not too small but small enough for us to be noticed whenever we arrived in our UK plated car. This was not a place used to foreign visitors so it always caused a stir when we drove through the little narrow streets.

As we usually spent the first few days of our holiday driving through Spain (and sometimes France too) I used to get really excited when we reached the outskirts of the village and saw the old defence tower which loomed over the village. (The only part of the 15th century castle remaining) I knew that I was about to have a good few weeks of total and absolute freedom, playing with my Spanish friends who also visited their Grandparents for the summer.

My Abuelos lived on the far side of the village with campo as far as the eye could see out the back of their modest, traditional Spanish house. The house was fairly small and in my younger years didn't have a real bathroom. It was definitely back to basics. Me and my sister used to take baths in a bucket out in the back courtyard and it was not unusual to have a donkey stick his head through the window of the outside toilet whilst in there. The walkway through the house was often lined with buckets filled with the biggest, reddest tomatoes I had ever seen from my Abuelo's farm and from the kitchen beams hung cured meats all at different stages of the process. They cooked all food with liberal amounts of olive oil made from their own olives grown on the farm, all done on a small 2 burner portable gas stove, hooked up to a gas bottle and all meals were served up with lots and lots of French bread bought fresh from the small shop down the road which also doubled up as someone's living room.

We usually ate around the small table just off the central walkway which was also the living room. No big sofas, just a couple of worn out leather high backed armchairs and 3 or 4 traditional Spanish wooden chairs with woven wicker seats. In the winter the table would have a heavy cloth draped over it and my grandparents would sit there with the cloth draped over their legs and underneath the cloth would be a tray of hot coals to keep them warm. Definitely no central heating there! But, as I usually visited in the summer, it would be a light lace one instead with plastic over the top for easy wiping.

Coming from England, with a nice warm house with all mod cons, (like an indoor bathroom), living there for the summer was very different but also an adventure for me and my little sister Maria Paz.

At the end of the road there was a small water pump where people would come and fill up containers and where the farmers would stop to pump water for their thirsty donkeys. The roads around the village were, unsurprisingly, filled with droppings from the donkeys. No poop-a-scoop big enough to manage them you had to watch where you were treading, especially in the evening!

My Tia Matilde, before she was married, worked for the local priest and nun and lived with them in their large grand house at the centre of the village and we spent a lot of time visiting with them. Their house was amazing to play in. They had a classroom where they taught Sunday school and Maria and I would play school teachers and put each other in detention. They also had a sewing room where the local women would sit and embroider cloth for dresses and shawls. We tried our hands at this but much preferred to use the room when it was free so we could roller skate and sing our hearts out. The acoustics were great; unfortunately our singing was not, as covert video evidence proved, thanks to my Dad!

During siesta time, Maria and I had the run of the village. All our friends were sleeping and the place was a ghost town. To us, it just wasn't normal to sleep in the middle of the day. After a few years of visiting, one of the more entrepreneurial locals decided to open a swimming pool which was open all day and that's where we usually spent the hottest part of the day.

Like most Spanish villages there was a central plaza which was surrounded by most of the bars in the village. Puebla del Maestre had a circular dance floor in the centre of theirs which during siesta time we turned into our very own roller rink. It also had a large permanent stage for the bands to perform during Relicias and other fiestas. The Spanish take their parties very seriously and don't do things by half!

In the evening, the village came alive. Everyone, and I mean everyone, came out dressed in their finest. By 11pm the village was buzzing. Tables and chairs covered every spare inch of the plaza and waiters raced around taking orders for drinks and tapas. Everyone knew each other and people table hopped regularly.

Us kids just disappeared for the night. Our parents only saw us when we wanted money for sweets or a drink. We would wander around the village in large groups, stopping by the sweet shop opposite the quaint little church and buying frigo pie ice creams and "chicle". On occasion we would dare each other to walk to the cemetery located just outside the village where there was no street lighting. It was a freedom that I didn't get back home living in a city.

Those summers were idyllic and I was very lucky to experience them. Some things have changed in the village since then. The cars are more modern, a bathroom has been installed at the house, and most farmers use motorbikes to travel to and from their land but the village still stirs if a foreign car arrives and still comes alive during the summer months and most importantly, the young people visiting their families still get to experience the freedom they don't get in the cities they normally live in. I hope that can continue but the population has halved since I used to summer there as each new generation moves away to find work. It’s a sad situation and unfortunately one that is happening across the board in remote places in rural Spain.

I love my life in Spain, however there are some things I miss. One of those things being 24 hour Tecscos, shopping in peace at midnight when most of the normal people (and their children) are tucked up in bed. Bliss! However, here in Spain I shop at Mercadona, and always, it seems, when entire 3 generation families decide to have a catch up in the aisles.

Now, I hate food shopping and I approach it with military precision. On a good day I can be in and out in 10 minutes flat but sometimes it feels like I am a contestant in the Krypton Factor obstacle course. I know what I want and I know where it is, but there are some challenges in the way. 

The most important thing to remember when attempting a Mercadona Madness shop, is that everything has it's place in the cart. Milk cartons should be stacked at the front end, followed by cans and other heavy items. The rear of the trolley softer, lighter items like bread and yoghurts. (There is a method to this madness which I will explain later.)

So here goes, a run through of my typical weekly shop........

First obstacle is the fish counter. I slalom with my trolley through all the people waiting to be served. Fresh produce aisle, normally quite clear, where I stack my fresh skimmed milk high in a way that would make Dale Winton proud. (Although I would have been disqualified for more than 3 of the same item).  

Next is bread section, I lunge for the french sticks over the heads of little old ladies deciding which stick feels the best. Then I race to the cereal aisle snag myself some All Bran, emergency brake as I reach the Manilva coffee morning meeting taking up the cake section of that aisle. Clock is ticking so I make an executive decision and swing the  trolley round 180 and nip down the cleaning products aisle grabbing the multi pack kitchen rolls as I speed past. 

I make it to the drinks aisle, this always holds me up. I know I want the Heineken 8 pack, but the shelf is above my head and whenever I pull one end if the pack, only 7 are still in the plastic, or 6 or 5. Never the full 8 cans! Why do people do this??? Just buy 8!!!!! Anyway, I finally find one that hasn't been violated and continue on my quest down the crisp aisle.  Cheesy puffs, check.

Screeching round the corner I ready myself for the fresh meat section. Another slalom and I'm through with my chicken breasts. I give the pink mince meat a miss and that buys me some time. (I always thought mince meat was brown, but not in Mercadona)

I'm making good time, a bottle of Dove shower gel flys into my cart. Drat, cosmetics next, I am a sucker for them and sometimes I am wooed into stopping for a good few minutes trying out the latest stay-on lipstick. (Which when you are a singer is invaluable if you don't want to be scraping old dried on lipstick off your microphone, it's such a glamorous job, not!)

I whizz through the washing power aisle, past the pasta, home stretch now. Fruit and veg. Yes! Now, I used to buy lots of vegetables but after a few times finding plastic bags of unidentifiable mulch in the bottom draw of my fridge, I came to the conclusion that I am not healthy and never will be and gave up. Cheaper and less nasty.  I spend a few seconds trying to get those bloody plastic bags out of the dispenser without ripping them, bag up my fruit, which I do eat before it shrivels and dies, mostly. Run to the weighing machine. Bugger, I don't know the code, run back to the shelf, get the code. Wait for someone else at the machine to realise they have done the same thing and leave the queue, weigh it, grab the sticker, and I'm finished!

Now time for the final hurdle, the checkouts! The Krypton Factor obstacle course complete and time for the puzzle round. This is where my trolley organisation skills come in. In UK supermarkets the conveyer belt is usually pretty long, not so in Spain! This is a challenge anyone who shops alone like me will recognise. How to get all the contents of your trolley onto the conveyer belt before the demon checkout girl from Hell starts bleeping your items through to the packing area like she's on speed? Well people I have the answer! As explained it's all about where you put your items in the trolley. The milk goes first and lines your Mercadona bag for life, then the cans and heavier items line a second bag. The items fly through in the order you will pack them! Simple. Also, always pay by card, that gives you a few extra seconds to pack the remaining items whilst you are waiting for the payment to process and stops the checkout girl from starting off on the next unsuspecting customer and burying your yoghurts under a pile of somebody else's shopping.

Woohoo, 10 minutes flat. Food shopping done for another week. Just enough time to get that jingle out of my head! Mercadona, Mercadona. (You just hummed it, right?) 

After I left university, I was a bit lost. I hated my course so I only did one year there. On my first day back home my mum plonked a newspaper in front of me whilst I was still in bed and said "You'd better get a job then". I think both my parents were disappointed that I hadn't made the most of the opportunities they hadn't had. 

Now, grafting had never been a problem for me. I started my working life at 13 washing pots at my Uncle's restaurant on a Saturday night for my pocket money. Over the years I had a lot of crappy jobs, McDonalds being the crappiest of them all. I'd started there whilst at college and that's where I ended up after I left Uni. Now, don't get me wrong, the job was crappy, but I had a great social life with my colleagues and I still stay in touch with some of them. Most, if not all of my fellow "Crew Members" have moved on from the Golden Arches as it's usually a stop gap for people who are still studying or, like me, had no clue what they wanted to do with their lives.

Eventually, my dad took pity on me, or he'd had enough of me rolling in at 2am after a late shift and waking the house up, and he gave me a job at his company answering phones and helping the book-keeper. I lasted about 9 months! Office work was not for me.  In the end my parents realised that I was not cut out for a boring 9 to 5 and my mum suggested trying out for an entertainer position at a holiday park.

Less than a month after that suggestion I was heading off to Brean in Somerset to be a Bluecoat at Pontins.  The money was absolutely awful but that year was a blast and it set me off on my path to becoming a singer. I eventually gave up being a Bluecoat and joined my first band, Colour Code. They were a lesson in what not to do but I'd have to dedicate a whole other article on them so lets just say they were a nightmare.

Over the years I was a member of 3 different bands and I travelled the World and thoroughly enjoyed my life. It all came to an end when I was working in the UAE and things were heating up in the Middle East. My parents were not happy I was out there even though I was nowhere near any conflict and then my Abuleo became ill so I decided to take some time out and live in Spain with my Dad's family. 

It didn't last long, the curse of itchy feet and a total lack of direction in my life saw me moving on to Ibiza where a friend from the Ships was working as a magician. I dossed around there for a few months working as a karaoke assistant until I finally moved back to the UK. 

At this point I was 25 years old and living with my parents again. So not a good idea after years of doing what the hell I liked. It was tough! I got a stop gap job at a solicitors/claims management company and in my head I was going to work there until I could break into the West End or find another band. 

At this point you are probably thinking I didn't have any plans for my life, and yes, I didn't have any clear plans but my time with my first band had shown me that I couldn't be a female singer forever. We have a shelf life, especially fronting bands and at some point we end up with no work and no money. Something I definitely knew I did not want!

It was at this stop gap job that I finally found the thing that excited me and I knew I could do until I retire. It was the last thing I expected.......

Somehow, and I'm still not quite sure how it happened, I became an Accountant. Yes, an Accountant.  The stereotypical boring Accountant. I get a little glow of happiness when my Trial Balance balances. I do a little "happy dance" when I find and correct an error and all those check boxes fall to zero on my spreadsheets. I have taken so many exams and studied so hard my old professors would be shocked. I am even such a glutton for punishment that I am now studying toward the Chartered Insurance qualification.

My life has direction and better yet I still get to sing a little (just in case I get too boring.)

So, if there are any young adults reading this who feel like they don't know what the hell they are doing, trust me, one day you will find your "thing" and in the mean time, have fun! My time travelling has done me no harm and neither has my earlier lack of direction. In fact it has made me a better and more worldly wise person and I am very thankful for that.

To the parents of any directionless people, trust in them and support them. My parents did and it turned out okay. 

Years ago, when I was working on the cruise ships, I saw a film that really struck a chord with me. It was played on a loop every Tuesday on one of the ship's in house channels. It was called "Pay it forward" and it had the kid from the "Sixth Sense" in it. This kid did an experiment for his school project where he had to do 3 acts of kindness and the only thanks he asked was for those people to pay it forward to other people. 

My own "Pay it forward" happened this last year and it's pretty much changed my whole outlook on life.

It started when a couple of my friends heard of some children's homes in San Roque that were in real dire straits. They sent out an appeal for clothes, food and blankets and the response was overwhelming. When I heard about the homes I felt bad.  There I was moaning that "I'm skint" when in reality I truly wasn't. I had a job, food in my cupboard and a roof over my head. It was at that point I decided to really get involved.

Over the next few months all of us really made a difference to these children's lives. The high point for me was being able to deliver masses of gifts on Christmas Day, all of which had been donated by the wonderful people of Costa del Sol. The homes were slowly looking better and we were replacing the fridges and tumble dryers etc. Eventually, we decided to set up an umbrella charity so that anything bought for these homes would belong to the charity and if anything happened we could take the items back and redistribute. Unfortunately, the homes did end up closing in January because the funds weren't managed properly by the association running them and the children were all split up and sent to different regions around Spain. 

We were devastated. We tried to resurrect the homes, but it just wasn't possible. As we had already started to set up our charity we decided that we could still help others and continued with the process. The final red tape was completed about a month ago and our new charity, The Charitable Society of St. George, was born.

Our first big task in an official capacity was to try and do another Christmas present appeal but this time for local children from underprivileged families in the Manilva area. We linked up with Social Services and they gave us the numbers of children that fall into this category. I was shocked at how many there actually are. Just in our small municipality, there are over 300 children who need help. Reasonably, we could not collect that many presents so we pared it down to boys and girls between 3 and 12. Still 235 of them but hopefully manageable.  I did a count last night and we are still 150 presents short so if you are reading this and want to help, please let me know....

Another big project we have in the pipeline is a shop where all proceeds go to helping local people.  We have signed the lease and hopefully we can open mid January 2014. It's very exciting and also a bit scary. We are looking for stock for the shop and also volunteers to do shifts in the shop so again, let me know if you can help.

I can't tell you how rewarding it has been over the last year. To actually see the results first hand is amazing. When I lived in the UK I used to donate to Children in Need and Comic Relief etc., but I never gave a second thought to the results of my small donation. Now I see all the good that is being done and it's addictive (in a good way). Over the last year I have met so many people who want to make a difference (even if it's only small) and to be honest it has restored my faith in humanity. We see so many awful things on the TV it's nice to know there are still people out there who care.

Pay it forward is a simple idea and if everyone did it, wouldn't the World be a better place for it......

Merry Christmas everyone.xx

The clock on my PC clicks over to read 17:00. Yay, I'm outta here. I pack all my belongings, put my coat and scarf on and leave the office, eager to get home to my puppy and some dinner.

Outside the office now, my little legs struggle to keep up with the pace set by my future hubby and my friend K. But we are on a mission! The mantra in my head is repeating "get to the border, get to the border". We pass the petrol station, half way! Approach the windswept runway. Ah, hit a snag as the klaxons go off and the barriers go down. There's a bloody plane blocking my route....

Waiting for the little private plane as it slowly taxis to the other end of the runway is agonising.  I just want to go home. I occupy this time with looking around at my fellow travellers, slowing increasing in numbers as more and more of them join the scrum to be closest to the gate. I can tell who the workers are, apart from them not wearing shorts in this weather, they all have a resigned look on their faces. The tourists, all oblivious to what yet awaits them on their journey off the Rock, are happily filming the plane taking off and enjoying this little part of their trip to Gibraltar.

The plane takes off and disappears off behind the Rock. The mood in the scrum changes, like track stars in an athletic meet. We are all on the starting blocks. The policeman approaches the gate, on your marks, he listens to his radio, get set, the klaxon sounds, GO! All the workers surge for the gate, and we're off.

The runway stretches out to my left and right, creating a wind tunnel I am now an expert at crossing. Walking at a slight angle to counteract the fierce winds, my hair whipping around my face and getting caught in my mouth. Mopeds and cars whooshing past in a blur of fumes and loud buzzing.

We eventually make it to the third leg of the one mile journey, smuggler land! Pieces of cellophane fly past our faces and empty cigarette cartons collect in the corners near the Rotunda. We push through masses of people who congregate around the entrance to the shop with their bikes and pushchairs blocking our route. There's girls with big hair piled on top of their head, the height achieved by 6 packets of fags. Then the guys strapping 6 cartons around their bodies with handy duct tape they brought with them, like nicotine suicide bombers. My favorite is the girls dressed in full Lycra with rectangle bums and boobs. Eventually, we break through smugglers blockade and make it to our goal. So close.......

We look at the frontier up in the near distance and our hearts sink. There's one last obstacle to overcome. The ever increasing pedestrian queue. A recent addition to our daily adventure, but one that looks set to stay. The queue snakes back to the airport, remember UK post offices, yes exactly like that, only outside and a lot bigger. We join the back of the queue, directed there by the friendly policeman, without whose presence there would be outbreaks of fighting and pushing in.

We shuffle forward slowly, 10 minutes pass. We shuffle forward again, another 10 minutes pass. The queue slowly building up behind us, probably back to Europa Point for those poor frontier workers who's offices are further away. I pass the time people watching.  In front of me are the last class of smugglers, the little old ladies. There's 3 of them I regularly see and tonight they're here in front of me, carrying god knows how many cartons of cigarettes in their granny handbags and probably also beneath their voluminous skirts. It gets me thinking about the meaning of life and HOW ON EARTH do they get away with it??? If I know who they are and I only cross the border twice a day, how do the "ever vigilant" Guardia who are causing this very long queue, not know they are smugglers? I surmise that one of them must be a Guardia's granny, because I'm pretty sure they probably make about 20 journeys back and forth every day.

We move slowly forward again, it's been 40 minutes now and my patience is wearing a little thin. I spot 3 young men pushing in a bit before me. People surrounding them are too polite (or scared) to confront them. The red mist decends and I march up to them, lift my arm up and tap one of them on their shoulder. He turns around, finds no one there, then looks down. Glaring up I jerk my thumb in the universal gesture of "get outta here!" Surprisingly I don't get given a black eye and he meekly moves out of the queue. I think he was shocked that a 5ft nothing girl would dare glare at him like that!

Finally, after an hour in the queue, we reach the very last hurdle. Customs. Today, we have the lovely black berets assisting the local Guardia. We queue holding our bags open so they can peruse the contents. They have a good poke around inside moving my purse to the side to check if I have somehow hidden a carton behind the lipstick in my fairly small handbag. He rattles off questions in Spanish which I pretend not to understand just because I'm fairly well p*ssed off now. He gives up and let's me go.

RESULT, my goal achieved. It only took an hour and 15 minutes to get one mile......

Unfortunately, it's only Monday...I wonder what the rest of the working week will bring.