Spanish Eyes, English Words

When people ask me how I got into writing, I always say I really got into writing when I moved to Spain. That was because I got so fed up of getting conflicting advice from the Bar Stool Experts, I decided to track down stuff for myself and then spread the word to others.

It would surprise you how many other writers about Spain started out that way - they may have been teachers, sales people, chefs, business people or whatever in their pre-Expat incarnation, but a lot of them got started on writing about Spain because they were frustrated by the lack of reliable information about life here. Dave Bull - pictured here with me - sold pies for a living in Brighton, but now he's owner and editor of All Abroad, one of the Costa Blanca's brightest expat magazines.

However, I always wanted to be a writer - lots of people say that too. And people of a certain age, those children of the 1950s and 1960s, were told by teachers and parents to forget about it and get a 'proper job with qualifications,' so most of us did. Then in the early 1990s, I was diagnosed with a combination or Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus - or, as my consultant termed it, Rupus! Within a frighteningly short time, it was clear I was never going to be able to do a 'proper job' again.

I had a dark period when I had an acute attack of  'Why Me?itis.' I was depressed, angry and frustrated that, at the age of just 42, I was never likely to be productive again, and actually work for a living. My consultant, bless him, spotted the danger signals and sent me along to an Arthritis Self Management Course. I have to say I was very sceptical - I don't do opening up to strangers and looking on the bright side in public and that sort of stuff, and I figured that's what the course would be all about. Fit thirty-somethings who'd had nothing worse than a broken fingernail telling those of us for whom getting out of bed each day was a major and painful operation that it wasn't as bad as we thought it was.

How wrong can you be? Thankfully, I was very wrong. Our group leader, Janet, had been living with arthritis since her teenage years, and she was now in her late 50s. She gave me the most relevant and important piece of advice I think I've ever had in my life. It was this:

'Don't focus on what you can't do when you have arthritis. Think about what you can do, that you couldn't do before, for one reason or another.'

Not rocket science or earth-shattering, but pretty sensible advice from someone who's gone through the same stuff. So, when she got around to me, and asked what I'd always wanted to do but couldn't, the old chestnut surfaced again - I wanted to write for a living. Janet - and the rest of the group - said there was no reason I couldn't do that. And dear reader, I married him! Oh sorry - got carried away there - wrong story. But you get the picture. Well, Janet wasn't contented with talking the talk, we had to walk the walk, and in my case, walking the walk meant writing something, since no writer ever made a living without putting pen to paper, or fingers to keypad.

So, I wrote this poem - it was the first thing I'd written since I'd left school, and it was so well received, I made it my mission to earn my living as a writer, seeing I couldn't do it any other way. So, if you want to blame anyone for what you're reading here, blame Janet, not me. She started it!

A Visit to the Consultant

'And how is your arthritis?' My consultant asked today.
'Well, now you come to mention it - it's getting worse every day.
Can I play the piano with these swollen fingers?'
'Yes dear, you can - I'm sure.'
'Oh thank you, Doctor, that will be nice - 'Cos I couldn't play before.
Whenever I take my dog for a walk, you should hear my poor knees crack.
If I gave my body to medical science, I reckon they'd give it right back.
And I have an alcohol problem, Doctor -'
'Really, what's the trouble?'
'My wrists are so weak, I can't lift the glass if I pour out more than a double.
Last night I spilled my brandy - my hands were ever so sore,
But it's okay, I managed to lick it all up, before it spilled on the floor.
Last time when you said take more exercise, were you serious, or did you jest?
By the time I've struggled into my tracksuit, I need to lie down for a rest.
And I can't get on with those big pink tablets -
Couldn't you make them more sweet?'
'Not really - you're supposed to dissolve them in water,
And use them to soak your feet!'
'Oh, is that the time - I must be off - you must have more patients to see,
And as long as I can laugh at my problems, I'll get along famously.'

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'There are two men in my life, to one I am a mother, to the other I'm a wife.' Those of a certain age might recognise those words from the popular 1970s commercial for Shredded Wheat - you know, the Brillo Pad lookalike cereal that is supposed to be good for you but tastes disgusting. Well, the two men in my life are now going free to a good home - or even a bad one, as long as I never again have to go through the embarrassment they caused me yesterday.

The day started off very well - the last day of our motor home rally wrapped up with lunch at our favourite Chinese restaurant in Punta Prima. After getting home and unpacking the motor home and doing the washing, I had about half an hour before I needed to leave for Algorfa to help with a charity market. I asked Tony if he wanted to come with me, but after watching me unpack the van and do the washing, the poor lamb was exhausted, so I set off on my own.

Everything was going well, and everyone was enjoying themselves and emptying their pockets in a good cause, when a friend said those words no wife or Puppy Mummy wants to hear: 'Sandra, the Police are taking Paddy and Tony off to the slammer.' So, off I headed, wondering what the devil was happening. The charity Zumbathon had just kicked off, so I had a nasty suspicion that maybe Tony had got a little bit over excited at the sight of so many scantily clad young ladies bouncing around to music, but that wouldn't explain why Paddy was also under arrest. He's not even interested in lady dogs, having been relieved of some of the most important bits of his anatomy almost a year before.

I sprinted across the Plaza de Espana, hoping my friend was mistaken, but no, there were Tony and Paddy, flanked by two of Algorfa's finest Policia Local. And despite the festive atmosphere in the square, none of them was smiling - not even Paddy, who is the happiest dog I've ever known.

I caught up with them just as they arrived at the side door to the Ayuntamiento, and I made myself known to the officers in question. Then I asked Tony what the devil was going on. Apparently, he'd decided to walk Paddy down to the village to surprise me. Well, he did that alright - although shocked or stunned would have probably better described my state of mind than surprised.

Anyway, when Paddy saw all the people in the square, and heard the music, he speeded up. Unfortunately, Tony didn't. His two speeds are Slow and Stop - there is no position in the Piddock gearbox for Excited Puppy. It could have been worse, of course. Tony didn't land on the deck, but he did crash into a wall on the end of the lead. When the irresistible force of an 81 year old doing three times his normal speed meets an immovable object like a wall, the effects can be unfortunate. Tony was All Shook Up, and not in an Elvis Presley kind of way. So, he did what he thought was the sensible thing, and sat down on the grass in the square to get his breath back.

The helpful Spanish people who witnessed this thought he'd fallen down, and pulled him straight back to his feet, which made him even more shook up, then a couple of English people shoved a chair under him and asked if he had any pains anywhere. Tony said no, which was probably the wrong thing to say, because the Police naturally assumed that if he wasn't ill, but he was wobbly on his feet, he must be under the affluence of ilcahol while in charge of a minor - that's Paddy, the source of all the trouble.

Paddy being a friendly soul - some would say too friendly -  welcomed the policemen in the traditional way by bounding up to them as if he was on elastic. However, when the policemen laid hands on Tony to help him to his feet, Paddy went into protective mode, and that's when I caught up with them.

So, we went into the Ayuntamiento, and provided our names, address, phone number and car registration. Then I had to explain what had happened in my best Spanish. I did emphasise that Tony wasn't drunk - not even drunk on the beauty of the Zumba ladies - but it was clear the officers of the law didn't believe me. They asked if I had been drinking. I could truthfully say I hadn't, but I knew that as soon as this nightmare was over, I would be hitting the cava or vodka big time. In fact, it would probably be both. Anything to forget all about what was unfolding before me.

I was instructed to fetch the car, at which time the Police would decant my hooligan dog and husband into the car so that I could take them home - and leave them there. Apparently, I was still welcome in the square, but Tony and Paddy definitely weren't. So, like I said - anybody want a dog and a husband? I'd prefer them to remain together, but I'm happy to separate, as long as they are re-homed as far away from me as possible!

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Last week, I posted in a fit of pique after checking my bank account online  and being horrified at how much we'd spent during our two months in England. Then I saw someone bleating in an expat group that they were selling up because they couldn't afford to live in Spain any more. Dear readers, if I'd responded to that post, I would have been booted out of the group, and possibly arrested for hate crimes against moaning expats, so I did the sensible thing and rattled off a blog post.If you missed it, it's here, and you might want to check it out before you read on.

And it seems to have struck a chord, because over the weekend, it's pulled in over 3,000 views, and lots of comments and messages. Unusually for one of my posts that are written on a rant, not one of the commenters has disagreed with me. On the contrary, I've been flooded with anecdotes and examples of just how much cheaper it is to live in Spain. Some of these stories are amazing, and they deserve to be shared, to counterpoint the hype perpetrated by the Daily Fail and others, who seem to choose their interviewees almost exclusively from the pool of disgruntled expats who either never gave Spain a chance, or took a chance on an illegal build which didn't work out.

In our first year in Spain - from March 2008 to March 2009, I worked out our expenditure on our apartment. I included the usual suspects - utilities, insurance, bottled gas for extra heating in the winter, logs - if you're reading this, Iain Duncan-Smith, it's cold here in winter! - IBI on the apartment, community fees, and solicitor's fees relating to the property. It came out at the equivalent of £1,500 - which coincidentally, was the exact amount we paid for gas and electric in our final year in Plymouth. The Council Tax was another £1,500, water was about £400, and house insurance was around £200. Even the most mathematically challenged - and I include myself in that group - can see that the basic bills in our last year in England were more than double what we paid in our first year in Spain.

Since then, prices have gone up, here in Spain and over most of Europe, because we've all lived through Le Crisis, and it's more expensive to live here than it was in 2008, but it's still a lot cheaper than living  in England. We've got ourselves pretty well organised, and we keep one account for regular bills, and another for stuff like shopping and entertainment. By adding up all our bills for the year - now including the car insurance and car tax, because it's a regular one - we've arrived at a figure of €3,800 for the year. That's around £2,800 at today's exchange rates, and it's what we've been putting away for the last three or four years. At the end of each month, €320 goes into Banco Santander, and when the biggies come - car insurance in March, community fees in June, Solicitor's fees and IBI for the apartment in September - there's enough to cover it, without adding any extra.

The modest €320 also covers the bank fees. That - plus the solicitor fees - is the only thing we pay here that we didn't pay in England. However, if you've been paying attention - or even if you haven't, but you can add up - you'll see we're still way under the amount we were paying in England in 2007, and I haven't included car insurance and tax in that figure.

Okay,  not everything is cheaper here. Electricity is more expensive, and the bank charges, even without an overdraft, are fairly high. Then there's the solicitor's fees for submitting our fiscal returns each year. Okay, we could do that ourselves, but I'd rather pay them to do it, and know we're not going to get a huge bill because we didn't cut through every bit of red tape in the right way. And car insurance is more expensive, but then I haven't got the hassle of adding extra drivers. Furniture tends to be pricey here too, but it's not something you buy every week, or even every month, is it?

Don't take my word for it though. Let's take a look at what some of my readers have said in their comments and emails. People like Steve, who is planning to move out here, and Jake, who is already in Spain, are amazed by how much healthier they feel in Spain, and put it down to the good food, the fresh air and the lack of stress. Jake pays around the same amount of IBI per year as he was paying in Council Tax per month in the UK, where he couldn't afford to eat out, except on special occasions.

Rob from Devon was paying £600 per month rent in Devon, and with other bills, it was costing £900 a month just to 'exist.' £900 is around €1200 at today's rates - that's almost four times my monthly outgoings, and Rob wasn't living in a huge house in Devon. He reckoned his capital would have run out within 10 years - which is not good news if you're not even retirement age. Like Steve and Jake, he has health problems which are much improved since he's moved to Spain.

Even Alan, who is on a reduced pension because he didn't have enough contributions and would be around £100 a week better off if he returned to the UK, recognises that his money wouldn't go so far, and that he wouldn't enjoy the lifestyle he has in Spain.

It's not just pensioners who find it cheaper to live here though, or enjoy a better quality of life. I was talking to a local bar owner a couple of days ago, and she was telling me that back in England, they could only dream of running their own business. Here in Spain, after around 18 months here with their young family, they are in a position to expand the business, and they get to spend quality time with the children too.

Obviously, every situation is different, but it's clear that, for the majority, the true cost of living in Spain is indecently lower than in England. Coupled with the quality of life and the pretty much wall to wall sunshine, you have to wonder why anybody would even contemplate moving back to England because they can't afford to stay in Spain. The only explanation I can think of is that they must have villas in the coastal resorts, do all their shopping in Iceland, and frequent the steak houses when they eat out. Given my own experience, and that of others, nothing else makes sense.

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