Spanish Eyes, English Words

It was a beautiful, sunny Spain morning – the last of my friend Jane’s too short stay, and as we  sat sipping our freshly squeezed orange juice, and listening to Dave Bull’s brilliant breakfast show on Real Radio International, Paddy decided he needed to go wee wees.  Tony did the honours, and opened the gate for Paddy, who shot down the terrace steps like the demons of hell were after him. Then he set up a cacophony of barking and tried to squeeze his 33 kilos through a 7.5 centimetre gap at the base of the shed. (That’s just over 5 stones and 3 inches in English money, and, like a constipated canary, it wouldn’t go.)He couldn’t even get his snout through, and he was getting more and more agitated.

We were thinking it must be a rat under there – except for Jane, who is blonde and from Essex, and doesn’t think anything most of the time. She just sat there with her orange juice and Dave Bull. I was rather miffed at being dragged away from my favourite morning listening, so I suggested Tony flushed the rat out with the hosepipe so calm could be restored at Piddock Place. Only problem was, it wasn’t a rat, it was a cat, and as it flew out from under the shed faster than Lewis Hamilton with a rocket on the back of his car, Paddy chased it around the garden, kicking up gravel so high it was landing on the upstairs apartment’s balcony.

The cat managed to escape Paddy’s clutches – just like the rabbits in the orange grove – and she hurtled up the trunk of the palm tree. Paddy also tried to hurtle, but only succeeded in bouncing about 8 feet into the air, and landing on Tony’s prized troughs. Twice. Now the troughs are no longer prized and full of flowers. They are decidedly empty and un-prized. So, Tony shouted at Paddy to get off his troughs, I shouted at Tony to stop shouting at Paddy, then shouted at Paddy to get indoors. Paddy didn’t like that idea much, so he barked even louder, and the cat screeched. Through all this, Jane stayed serene and smiling, listening to the radio and sipping her orange juice. I reckon she’d sneaked some cava into it, because nobody should stay that calm in the midst of such uproar – even an Essex blonde.

I finally managed to grab Paddy’s collar, and dragged him towards the terrace steps. He of course was eager to get back to his brief encounter with the pussy cat, and in the ensuing struggle, another 3 plant pots deposited their contents on our posh two tone gravel, which was now three tone – two shades of beige fetchingly combined in a pleasing mix with potting compost. Now Tony was shouting at me to get ‘Your dog’ under control. Funny how when he was being such a good boy in Torrevieja yesterday he was ‘Our dog,’ but this morning he was my dog, isn’t it? Anyway, I shouted back at Tony, Paddy barked at me, Tony and the cat, and the cat screeched even louder at anyone who would listen. Indoors, Jane was listening to Dave Bull. It would have been a delicious irony if he’d been playing Who Let the Dogs Out? or even I Tawt I Taw a Puddy Tat, but sadly it was just Stevie Wonder singing Signed, Sealed, Delivered. It’s Jane’s favourite song, so that must have been why she was still calm while all around was chaos. Unless there was more cava than orange juice in that glass of course. Must check the bottle when I finish this.

We managed to get him indoors finally, and the cat made her escape. Unfortunately, she only escaped as far as the other side of the road, and when Paddy managed to get down to the garden again, he vaulted the railings and landed in the calle 8 feet below, fuelled by adrenalin and ready for Round Two. In the process, he knocked over another large pot, which landed in the rockery, flattening the two biggest cacti in there. By now, our garden was looking more like a bomb site than a serious contender for a medal at the Chelsea Flower Show, and Tony was still shouting. And now we had a fired up dog on the loose.

Luckily, the community gardeners were on duty, and in my best Spanish, I armed them with a handful of dog biscuits and persuaded them to go and call Paddy back, before he spotted another cat. As I expected, the combination of his favourite gravy bones and two new ‘Uncles’ to make a fuss of him persuaded Paddy to return to home, sweet home. Only it isn’t very sweet at the moment. When Tony finally stopped shouting, both Paddy and I got the silent treatment. And Jane just carried on sipping her orange juice and listening to Dave Bull. How I wish I could switch off like that sometimes, because now I know it wasn’t cava-assisted. The girl is a genius at keeping her head while all around are losing theirs. I’m going to miss her!

Like this? Read more of Paddy's adventures at my website, Sandra in Spain

So, Tony’s passport expired in January. I swivelled over whether to renew it or not, because after all, he’s 81, and if he doesn’t last for another 10 years it’s money wasted, isn’t it? But being a man, he stamped his foot and started to cry when I said he wouldn’t be able to go back to England – or anywhere else – ever again, so I relented and sent off the application form. And that’s where the trouble started.

For once, it’s my fault. You may want to circle the date on the calendar, because it doesn’t happen very often that I mess up, but I did this time. I should have taken my own advice – like I tell people on the blogs – and checked up before sending off any application or doing anything legal or important, but I had the idea in my head that the passport had to be sent to our English address. The fact is, it could be sent to either one, but I didn’t realise. Like I said – should have checked.

The Passport Office received the application on 31 January, and the first attempt at delivery was made on 12 February. Impressive, eh? Well, not quite. Now this bit is the fault of the site manager where our static caravan is situated. He was inconsiderate enough to almost sever his finger with a circular saw, at the very time the receptionist was on holiday, so the office was closed. The resourceful delivery guys weren’t deterred though – they attempted to deliver the passport – and failed, because we were here, not there. The passport had to be signed for, but the only one available to do that was the site manager’s cat, as the site was closed for the winter break. Apparently a cat is not one of the personages authorised to sign for passports, so back it went.

Several more attempts to deliver failed, and I was contacted to say they couldn’t deliver it. I asked them to leave it at the site office, as the receptionist and manager were now back, and would be happy to sign for it. However, because I hadn’t put ‘Please leave at site office, the manager and receptionist have our permission to sign for the passport’ on the form, the easy solution was not available to us. If only the cat had pretended to be the manager and signed for the bloody thing in the first place, I wouldn’t be writing this now.

So the passport went back from whence it came, to the Peterborough Office, and I spent fruitless hours on the phone, trying to rearrange delivery for while I was in England for my grandson’s christening. I was staying with a friend, as it wasn’t worth opening up the caravan for a few days. With a good idea of what the answer would be, I asked if it could be sent to that address. To my astonishment, it could, as long as my husband gave his permission. He did, willingly, and I proceeded to give my friend’s address. It wasn’t as easy as that though – it never is with civil servants. I should know – I’m married to a retired one.

Apparently, Peterborough had to call me back for the address to make sure Tony wasn’t an Eastern European human trafficker trying to hijack the passports or respectable citizens in order to import roundabout girls for the delectation and delight of sundry men. Or at least, that’s the impression I got, although who would want to import a bald, bespectacled 81 year old with a beer belly and a dodgy knee is beyond me. What’s that you say? They’d remove Tony’s photo and replace it with somebody else’s? Bloody hell – what will they think of next?

Whenever you’re dealing with the Passport Office, they say ‘Allow 3 working days for a response.’ By the time I’d twice allowed three working days, each time contacting them again and being told the same thing – Peterborough will call you for the address to send the passport to – I was in England. And that was when Tony got the phone call to say the passport was on its way. Bless him – he was so happy – until I told him that it wouldn’t arrive for me to bring it back, as they still didn’t have my friend’s address.

Three weeks later, we still don’t have a passport for Tony, so I can’t yet  book Eurotunnel for our trip back to England in late May. After spending an hour on the phone yesterday, it looks like we may be in business soon. They’re going to send the passport to us here in Spain. I just have to wait 3 working days for them to get back to me on that one …

I may be unfortunate in my dealings with the Passport Office, but I am certainly fortunate in my friends, because Dave Bull, who hosts Real Radio International’s breakfast show every weekday morning, has come up with the perfect solution. He’s prepared to loan us his own passport to get Tony to England. What a selfless action on his part. I felt a bit ungratefull pointing out that Dave was almost a foot taller than Tony, as well as being a store or two lighter, with no sign of a beer gut. Oh, and he has hair. The last time Tony needed to use a comb or shampoo was way before I met him 25 years ago. He was very fond of a shampoo called Wash and Go, and it does exactly what it says on the tin, boys and girls – he washed his hair, and it went, never to return!

Dave is a ‘Can Do’ sort of guy, and he came up with the perfect solution. I’m off to Almoradi Market to buy a wig and a pair of platform shoes, size 8 UK, Spanish size 42. Not sure what to do about the beer gut though. I wonder if the hire shop at San Luis has a bacon slicer? Worth a go!

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