Spanish Eyes, English Words

I had quite a surprise in my inbox on Wednesday. A researcher on BBC Radio 2's Jeremy Vine Show contacted me after reading this blog post on EOS, defending the rights of British expats to continue receiving the Winter Fuel Allowance (WFA). It's back in the news again, because George Osborne wants to apply a Temperature Test to the allowance. He'll take the average winter temperature of the warmest place in the UK, and if it's warmer where you live, you'll lose the allowance. The researcher asked if I'd be prepared to go on the Jeremy Vine Show and put the case for British expats in Spain. Would I ever!

I was a bit nervous, because I know Jeremy Vine can be a bit of a terrier, but as I listened to his introduction to the topic, it was clear he thought George's idea was impractical. So did Ros Altman, the former Government policy adviser and pensions expert who also appeared on the show. She called the Temperature Test idea 'eccentric,' and said it was one of those things you expected to hear on April 1st. According to Ros, more revenue would be raised if the WFA was taxed, and it would be less controversial.

When it came to my turn, I explained that it was about a lot more than temperature - houses in Spain are built to be cool in summer rather than warm in winter, and the fact that every Spanish house is built with a non-ornamental open fireplace should give you a clue on that one. As I said to Jeremy - I love name dropping, don't you? - George Osborne has obviously never been to the Costa Blanca in January or February. If he had, he'd realise the idea was a non-starter. Nick Clegg could have put him right on that one, though,as his wife his Spanish. However, the Boy Nick seems even more anxious to rob pensioners than George - he wants to stop the WFA altogether.

Obviously, people have the wrong idea about the financial circumstances of most expat pensioners, because the next question was, 'If you lose the WFA, will you have to cut back on things like eating out to make up for it?' Remembering I was on National Radio, I resisted the urge to make a two word reply. This is a family friendly blog, so I won't tell you what that reply was, but here's a clue - the second word was 'off!'

Then the communicator in me took over, and I explained that contrary to popular opinion, most expat pensioners in Spain do not live the Life of Riley. We cut down on eating out about three years ago, and so did most of our friends. Unlike George Osborne and his Parliamentary colleagues, we are on fixed incomes, which in real terms are worth less and less with every passing year.

Jeremy then made the point that as I had two homes - one in the UK and one in Spain - I could be considered a wealthy expat pensioner who didn't need the WFA. I soon put him right on that one. My apartment in Spain would fetch around 80,000 Euro - assuming I could find a buyer - and I have a static caravan in the UK worth about £15,000, so I can hardly be called Two Homes, can I?

When Jeremy asked me what I'd say to George Osborne, it was the easiest question to answer - I'd say, 'Hands off my Winter Fuel Allowance!' I was pretty chuffed with myself when Jeremy closed the interview by saying I'd made my points well. Today the Jeremy Vine Show - tomorrow the world! Form an orderly queue for autographs, and if you sell your story to the papers - 'I knew her before she was famous' - just keep it clean, please!

Do you remember the old Mary McGregor song, Torn Between Two Lovers? It's a beautiful song that does exactly what it says on the tin, so to speak.  Just in case you don't know it, or in case you'd like to hear it again, it's here, on YouTube.

The lady in the song can't decide between the two men in her life. As the words go:

'Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool/ Loving both of you is breaking all the rules.'

I have been where that lady has been, in that dark place where you must make the impossible and unenviable choice between two equally worthy men. You know that, whichever one you choose, there will still be heartbreak, because both of them are equally worthy of your total affection.

You lie awake at night, agonising over the choice, wishing you could see into the future to help you make that vital decision, because once the choice is made, there can be no going back. Hearts will be broken, lives will be irrevocably changed, and if you make the wrong decision, the fall out will be even worse than you imagined.

Dear readers, let me tell you I have lived the nightmare of that song ever since I saw the Wimbledon draw and realised that my two favourite tennis players - Andy Murray and Rafael Nadal - were scheduled to meet in the semi-final, all things being equal. As a Brit and a connoisseur of good tennis and fantastic male bodies, of course I want Andy to win. It's been 77 years since Fred Perry's last win, so most of us have never seen a British man lift the iconic cup in the air at the end of the second week of Wimbledon.

And since he broke down after Federer smashed his dreams last year, I've actually liked the guy, as well as lusting after his body and appreciating his strokes. Oh, if only I could experience those amazing ground strokes for myself .... Sorry, I got a bit carried away there - where was I? Oh yes - torn between two tennis players.

I've always admired Rafa as well. Like Andy, he's a great player with a great body, and it makes this old lady very happy just to watch him move around the court. He also has a fantastically sexy voice, and he hasn't let his fame go to his head. While he may not be conventionally handsome, I sometimes get so lost in my fantasies about a love match with Rafa that I lose track of the scores. Oh my goodness, I think I'd better take a cold shower before I continue. The keyboard's overheating, and so am I!

That's better. As I was saying, I've been torn between the two tennis playing loves of my life. How could I, in all conscience, cheer on Andy when if he wins, it means Rafa must lose? On the other hand, Rafa's been there, done that and got the t-shirt several times over, so how could I celebrate the destruction of the Dunblane Darling's dream yet again? What's a girl to do?

Thankfully, the emotional turmoil is finally ended, because Rafa crashed out in the first round. The choice has been made for me, and I can carry Andy towards the title on a wave of love without feeling I'm cheating on Rafa.

The romantic in me wants to believe that Rafa sacrificed himself to spare me two weeks of emotional trauma, but the practical side of me realises that those dodgy knees let him down again. I have Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis, so I know all about dodgy knees. Rafa and I have more in common than I realised. I wonder if he wants them massaging? I could do that!

Being back in Blighty, there's an awful lot of weather to put up with. Still, it is possible to have a picnic in bad weather - as my daughter-in-law proved yesterday. Now that Elizabeth is devoid of all tubes and talking and eating, we've decided to allow Lauren, who is just short of three years old, to visit.

Chloe, who is six going on 26, came to the hospital a couple of weeks ago. She was crying and missing 'Aunty Liz,' so we thought it was better to take her to visit, even though there were still tubes in evidence. It was the right decision, as it set her mind at rest that Aunty Liz hadn't disappeared off the face of the Earth, and would be able to take her camping again at some point in the future.

Toddlers aren't big on patience, and my daughter-in-law, Helen, thought it would be a good idea to arrange a distraction so that she, Adam and the girls could enjoy a reasonably long visit after their 90 minute journey to the hospital. You don't drive all that way for a quick 'hello,' do you?

Although it was cold, wet and miserable, Helen hit on the idea of an indoor picnic. It was feasible because Elizabeth is in a single room. Helen brought cheese and onion pasties as the centrepiece of our indoor picnic. Elizabeth is vegetarian, and Helen thought we should all eat the same, so that she wouldn't feel left out. Helen and the girls spent the morning making and decorating cup cakes, and there were plenty of those as well, along with Lauren's favourite crisps and various fruit juices.

Lauren will share anything - except crisps - so there was quite a bit of hilarity when Helen put a huge bowl of crisps in the middle of the picnic rug. Yes, Helen had thought of everything. Lauren pounced on the bowl, which was almost as big as her, and repelled all boarders. Luckily, Helen had foreseen this problem, so there was another bag of crisps in the picnic hamper.

The whole thing was a great tonic for Elizabeth, as it helped her to feel normal and part of the family once more. Serious illness can be very isolating, and the indoor picnic was a great way to bring some normality back into all our lives. You can't beat the British weather, so you just have to work around it!

Sometimes, when I log into Facebook to see what the grandchildren are up to, I come across a real diamond in the dirt, and that happened to me yesterday. As you may know, I'm passionate about Shakespeare, so I always follow up on any Bard-related links, especially if they appear to be a bit off the wall.

This one certainly fits the bill. It does what it says on the tin - it's a Shakespeare Insult Kit, and it works like this: start off with the Olde English word 'Thou,' then take one word from each of the three columns of words from Shakespeare. You now have your own authentic, original Shakespearean insult. It works very well if you make use of alliteration and choose words that begin with the same letter, but it's just as good with random words.

I amused myself for a whole afternoon, and I thought how satisfying it would be to rely on those insults next time I hit my head against the brick wall of Spanish bureaucracy. For example, next time the bank clerk tells me I can't pay a bill in cash as it's one minute past 11.00 a.m., despite the fact that I entered the bank at 10.45, I could say,

'Thou churlish, clay-brained clotpole, I entered this establishment betimes, now kindly accept the cash.'

And when Iberdrola insists I haven't paid the electric bill, even though Banco Santander insists I have, it would give me great pleasure to utter something along the lines of, 'Thou mammering, milk-livered miscreant, check thy client account - the cash is there.'

I can only see two problems with this - they probably wouldn't understand a word of it, and they may be tempted to call the Guardia Civil to cart away the mad English lady who spouts words they can't understand in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace. Still, it's a tempting proposition.

It's six weeks today since my daughter Elizabeth had her stroke, so it seems the right time to update everyone on her progress. My daughter is not one to do things by halves, as she proved yet again with the stroke. A normal stroke is serious enough, but Elizabeth had to have a brain stem stroke, which is just about the most serious kind there is. As if that wasn't enough, the surgeon who drained the blood clot that caused it said it was one of the biggest he'd ever seen.

During the first week, there were two emergency operations, and twice we had to summon the family to Plymouth, as it didn't look as if she'd make it. When we asked her consultant what her chances of recovery were, he couldn't tell us, because he had very little experience with brain stem stroke survivors. It's almost always fatal.

We also met the paramedic who treated her on the way to hospital, and he told us he didn't expect her to survive the trip in the ambulance, let alone make any sort of recovery. It was particularly traumatic for him, as he's a colleague of hers. She's on the Patient Transport Team at Derriford Hospital Ambulance Station, and she's very popular with her colleagues.

Within days of the stroke, Elizabeth was doing exercises to get her arms and legs moving, and I was surprised that the physiotherapists were working with her at such an early stage in her recovery. It turned out they were not, as they considered her to be too ill for any form of rehabilitation. However, Elizabeth transports a lot of stroke patients as part of her job, and she knew the value of getting everything moving as soon as possible.

It's stood her in good stead because now, 6 weeks down the line, Elizabeth is walking unassisted, although it's very slow progress. She's had a tracheostomy for most of the six weeks, as her throat muscles were paralysed, but that was removed on Friday, and now she's chattering away as normal. She's not going to need any form of speech therapy, and that's due to her facial exercises. Again, she started them very early in the proceedings, and I called her grimaces 'the Bugs Bunny on Acid look.'

We've taken the mickey quite a lot, because that's the type of family we are, but we've all been really worried about her. However, sitting around the bed with long faces wouldn't have done her or anyone else any good. We've threatened to write to the Guinness Book of Records, because she's been speechless for so long, and her younger brother told her it was the shock of wearing a pretty frock for the wedding that put her in hospital. Elizabeth lives in jeans and trainers, and I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her legs in the last few years.

There have been a lot of laughs, along with the tears, and when we were concerned about disturbing other patients, the staff on the neurological ward said it's lovely to hear people enjoying life, despite the seriousness of the situation. And the other patients' relatives said it was great to see Elizabeth making such progress and being so cheerful, as it gave them hope for their own loved ones.

Progress has been slow but steady, but on Wednesday last week, everything seemed to happen at once. She took her first steps, said her first words with the aid of a valve on the tracheostomy tube, and managed 48 hours without any help in swallowing. It's all a bit overwhelming for all of us - particularly Elizabeth - and there have been more tears in the last week than there were in the first week, which seems strange really.

On Friday, she was able to eat some yogurt - her first real food for five and a half weeks. She's eaten so many yogurts over the weekend I've christened her 'The Yogurt Monster.' Yesterday, she was told she could now eat a normal diet, so she demolished a cheese omelette, mashed potatoes and peas for supper. She managed to feed herself as well, which is wonderful, as it took her almost a month to even move her right arm.

Every single member of her care team is amazed at the progress she's made - it's something they never see, and the physiotherapists say that if all their patients progressed so well, they'd be out of a job! However, the inevitable depression is kicking in now, and although she's done so much already, Elizabeth still feels she has a huge mountain to climb.

She realises just how much you tend to take movement for granted, and how exhausting simple things such as taking a shower can be. She had her first shower yesterday, and she was depressed that she had to be brought back in a wheelchair. I told her that we were just glad she was still with us, and looking set to make a full recovery, and I also assured her that, as she became more active, she would also gain strength. It's a waiting game, and my daughter isn't blessed with the facility of patience. If she was a religious type, she would be saying 'Please God, grant me patience, and I'd like it right now, please.'

The future's looking good - although there's a long road ahead. Still, at least she has a future, and the love and support we've received from all quarters has been amazing. Thanks to everyone here for your good wishes. Maybe some time soon I can resume normal service with the blog, rather than just knocking out the occasional post when I have a spare half hour. I really appreciate your kind thoughts and comments - it means a lot to me.

I was quite amused by the solution Brunete, near Madrid, has found to the ever-present problem of dog mess in the streets. Their decision to mail the mess back to the owners, and the way they go about it, is nothing short of ingenious.

Not for the people of Brunete the confrontational  'Pick up your dog's mess or else' - they're much more subtle than that. Volunteers strike up a friendly conversation with the offending owners, and elicit the name of the pooping pooch. Armed with a name and a breed, they can track down the owners through the national pet data base. Then some of the valiant volunteers collect the leavings, pop them in an official Ayuntamiento box marked 'Objetos Perdidos' - Lost Property - and mail them back to the owner.

It's literally bringing their offence home to them, and if Correos moves as quickly in Madrid as it does here in Algorfa, I reckon by the time Fido's faeces arrive back at the hacienda they'll be festering frantically. It's working as well - there's 70% less dog mess on the streets of Brunete as a result of the initiative.

Like all the best ideas, it's a simple concept. Far more practical than the idea I had for cleaning up Doggy Doings Alley in Algorfa. I wondered whether the local vets could implant something to monogram the dogs' doings as they exited the animal, so that the owners could be located and fined. Mind you, my idea was the result of an extended afternoon of cava quaffing.

Anti-alcohol abuse, anti-drink driving and anti-enjoying yourself campaigners are getting their underwear in knots at the moment because J. D. Wetherspoon is set to open it's first dedicated motorway pub in the UK. To be fair, the pub won't be directly on the M40, it will be on a service road off the motorway, and Wetherspoon Chairman Tim Martin hopes it will be the first of many.

Of course, the Anti Brigade are forecasting huge increases in accidents caused by drink drivers, with the result that already inundated A & E departments will be filled to overflowing if they happen to be near a motorway. They want Wetherspoon's to refuse to serve alcohol to drivers, but Tim Martin sensibly dismisses this ridiculous request, making the point that village pubs don't ask their customers if they're driving before pulling a pint, so why should his staff act as Alcohol Police?

To be honest, the UK's laws about serving alcohol on motorways are totally outdated, and should have been scrapped years ago. In Spain and France, it's always been possible to have a glass of wine with your meal if you want to. In our travels between Spain and the UK, we've never seen a driver stagger back to a car, motor home or lorry after his leisurely lunch. That's probably because blood alcohol limits in Spain and France are lower than in the UK, and most drivers are responsible when it comes to drink driving.

People who want to drink and drive will do so whether they are able to buy alcohol on the motorway or not - they've probably got a cool box full of Carlsberg in the car on every trip. Banning pubs is depriving motorway users such as those on coach holidays or day trips the chance of a relaxing drink, just because a few irresponsible people may have a beer and then get back behind the wheel. It's using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, and it's the Nanny State in action.

In fact, the presence of Wetherspoon's on the motorways could drive down prices at service stations. The last time I bought a pot of tea on the motorway, I suggested to the Manager that they should change the name of the joint to 'Dick Turpin's Service Area' - what they were charging for one teabag and some hot water amounted to nothing less than highway robbery. I've always made sure we carried a flask since then.

And Wetherspoon's meals may be basic, but they're good value, and freshly cooked. Your Wetherspoon's breakfast won't have sat swimming in oil for hours, and it won't cost you a fortune either. I for one think putting Wetherspoon's on the motorways of the UK is a great move for travellers. What do you think?

We've been in the UK for six weeks now, and there's no indication of when we'll be back in Spain at the present time. Despite all that's happened over the laste few weeks, I'm still a 'Look on the bright side' kind of girl, and at least the extended stay has given us more time to appreciate what Devon has to offer. As we're having a spell of good weather, we decided to make the most of it and take a walk each morning before I head for the hospital in the afternoon.

Yesterday, we tried a new walk, along the coast path into Ayrmer Cove, then back along the public footpath into Ringmore - the nearest village to our caravan site. It was a two mile walk with some ups and downs on the terrain, but Tony managed it well, and it was great to be out in the fresh air, with time to just enjoy the views and stop and rest when we needed to.

As we walked, it was brought home to me how different it was walking in the UK to walking in Spain. Where we live in Algorfa, the terrain is pretty level, so we take a lot of walks, and we're always looking out for what's around us. In Spain, we see lizards sunning themselves on the walls, or running across the pavements to get out of our way. We see the vibrant colours of bouganvillea in people's gardens, admire the palm trees, and marvel at the aloe vera plants growing wild.

We take in the aromas from the orange groves - the blossom in may, and that lovely citrus smell as the oranges ripen at the end of the year. We glory in the birdsong, and get deafened by the sounds of the cicadas. It's interesting and invigorating, but it's essentially alien to the British idea of a walk in the country. Even after five years in Spain, some of the sights and sounds on our walks continue to surprise us.

Yesterday, we marvelled at the number of different shades of green on the hillside, identified all the different hedgerow flowers - pink campion, thrift, foxgloves, coltsfoot, valerian, bluebells, and lots more we either didn't recognise or have forgotten. We also conversed idly with a couple of curious cows who wandered across to the drystone wall to inspect us, which was a real novelty, as there is no livestock in our area of the Costa Blanca.

We had to find shelter from the sea breeze beneath the cliffs, but once we did, we had a real sun trap. It was good to be on the cliffs again. Devon may not have the golden sands of the Costa Blanca, but there are no cliffs at Guardamar, so it's a completely different experience.

We returned from our walk tired but happy, and congratulated ourselves that we are blessed to have two glorious places we can call 'home,' with wonderful sights and sounds on our doorstep. Life doesn't get much better than this.