PENSIÓN LAGUNA or: WHAT I LEARNT FROM WATCHING MY NAME IS EARL

PENSIÓN  LAGUNA

or:

WHAT I LEARNT FROM WATCHING MY NAME IS EARL

In a previous post, I mentioned how I was now commuting a total of 200km to work and back every day.  Now, this might not seem much in a country with a good public transport network, but in my part of the world, the nearest bus stop is 10 miles away, just as near as the motorway.

In normal circumstances, this would be no problem either – if I had a normal working schedule but unfortunately this year and next year I will be combining work with an evening Master’s course, making public transport a non-starter. 

As for my own vehicles, why not use them for the commute?

I have found a better solution, Pensión Laguna.

Pensión Laguna is a cheap flophouse, yet it has air-con, phone and laptop charging facilities and, in some places, free Wi-Fi. You can even leave your possessions in the free, secure, storage round the back. It is not the most comfortable sleep, but it will do and it is near the local Metro stop. It does not offer breakfast, but it is located near some good cafés and shower facilities are available nearby.

Let me now talk a little about Earl. In his previous incarnation, ever-opportunistic Earl is in the club bar of a golf course when a golfer comes in and orders drinks all round. He has just hit a hole in one! In order to secure a regular supply of free beer and snacks Earl and his associates then spend all of their time and not-inconsiderable ingenuity and inventiveness making sure that the golfer hits a hole in one every outing.

What he doesn’t realise is that he’s ruining the golfer’s life, and if even if he did, he wouldn’t care. The poor golfer becomes so obsessed with golf that he loses his job, his girlfriend, even his dog and ends up sleeping in his car.

Has the penny dropped?

I’ve started to sleep in my car. Please do not think that I am complaining, looking for pity. This is a temporary expedient and not because I’m homeless – I’ve already written about my house and how special it is. The car is paid for, as is the BMW motorbike I use around town and to get to and from the village a couple of times a week.

The problem is that here in Spain we are, to quote Mrs. Thatcher “being squeezed until the pips squeak”. As a public employee, I have seen my salary drop by 15% in the last two years[1], I have seen my income tax rise, petrol prices soar and VAT skyrocket. The daily commute is just not an option.   

I am keeping my head above water- just. Many aren’t. A lot of families have lost their jobs and their homes. Nowadays it is not uncommon to find three generations living crammed hugger-mugger into the grandparents’ flat with no other income than the grandparents’ pension, meagre or otherwise.

This, along with the black economy, is why Spain doesn’t seem to be doing too badly, yet the situation is so bad that soup kitchens can no longer provide enough hot meals for those who need them.

Official figures project that by 2014 there will be 6m unemployed in Spain (the country’s total population is less than 48m). To qualify for unemployment benefit, applicants must have worked at least 18 months and as time passes the benefit diminishes until after two years, I think, it simply disappears. The black economy might put bread – and little else – on many tables, but those who work in it are exploited. Even many workers in the official economy are exploited, finding themselves doing unpaid overtime and in constant fear of losing their jobs if they don’t.

Can you imagine, dear reader, a situation in the UK or USA where one in eight of the total population were unemployed? Would society be able to cope?

Still, things could be worse. We in Spain could be in a situation like Greece[2] where families are taking their children to orphanages so that at least they will be properly fed[3]. Can you imagine voluntarily giving up your children because you are no longer able to feed them? Can you imagine the crushing shame? Can you imagine how soul-destroying it must be for you, an adult, to admit that you are as helpless; indeed, more helpless than the child you are tearing from your side?

This is inhuman. But let’s return to Earl. Earl and his friends used their not inconsiderable skills to deceive a golfer; they presented him with a false image of himself, an image that exaggerated his greatness, his skills, his abilities. He paid for this in two ways. He paid his deceivers and those around him in beer, euphorically squandering his money on those leading him to his undoing. Even worse, he paid with his own future as he unquestioningly accepted this improbable illusion of freedom and power. For a while everyone was happy, but then the bubble burst. The borrowed time had to be repaid. The free-beer drinkers moved on, leaving behind a resigned husk of a man, convinced of his own helplessness, unwilling and unable to fend for himself – an unloved down-and-out.

Could we regard this particular episode as a completely unintended allusion to the EU and its destructive relationship with the PIGS[4] countries? Or perhaps we are just talking about an amusing, inventive American TV series. Karma is indeed a funny thing

---

[1] But I am one of the lucky ones. I still get – a reduced – Christmas bonus and, more importantly, I still have a job

[2] Indeed, things still might get that bad.

[3] Not something the Spanish EU-centric media really likes to mention.

[4] Portugal, Italy, Greece and Spain – a rather endearing acronym invented in Germany.

RAIN

In his song, “Rain”, John Lennon celebrates a meteorological phenomenon that most just see as an inconvenience to a greater or a lesser degree.

As in most things, I am with John.

It has just been raining here in the Sierra. Autumn has arrived. The parched earth will now start to come back to life. The smell of damp earth drifts in through my open windows, bringing back too-far-off memories of living in England.

Damp and mouldering decay are the two smells that transport me straight back to my home city, Liverpool. Paradoxically, decay and rot celebrate life and regeneration. That which decays must first grow and that which rots feeds new life. In the midst of death we are in life.

All over Britain we can see examples of mouldering buildings and blighted land being given new life. Victorian Britain is undergoing a resurgence, yet I am not quite sure if this is aesthetically and spiritually a good thing.

The abandoned Albert Dock, Liverpool. 
Photo from Liverpoolshop.com

I would contend that the best way to experience Victorian gothic is when it is in a state of decay. I spent a lot of my youth exploring abandoned buildings, large family houses with rambling overgrown gardens, deserted railway stations, still factories, cavernous, empty warehouses… Such places let your imagination run free, I would even suggest that given the Victorian penchant for Gothic, the Victorians themselves would have appreciated the romanticism of their run-down glories.

Birkenhead East Float Sept. 2007. Image: 

http://www.dipity.com/tickr/Flickr_birkenhead/ 

Now as I think of it, the state of Victorian architecture over its lifespan reflects the British zeitgeist. As the British Empire and pride in it crumbled and mouldered, so did our 19th-century architectural heritage.

As the irreverence and satire of the 60s and 70s poked fun at the 19^th-century stuffed shirts of Victorian Britain, Victoriana became ugly. I remember my mother having bonfires in the garden, throwing onto the pyre mountains of mahogany furniture that no-one wanted or loved. All of us over a certain age will remember the wholesale demolition of Victorian buildings, ranging from back-to-back hovels to exquisitely-decorated public buldings

The restored Albert Dock today

 As Britain regained its confidence in the 1990s and 2000s, we suddenly rediscovered our heritage and began to appreciate its beauty. This has led to restoration projects throughout the country. Let’s hope they expand and continue, bringing more truly wonderful buildings back to their former splendour, even if this does mean that people like me will lose the physical spaces where imagination runs riot. At least the buildings, well quite a few at least,  will survive.    

ALL I HAVE IS A PHOTOGRAPH – CARPE DIEM

Recently, a photograph of a group of young people came to my attention.

We see a group of teenagers waist-high in a field full of wild plants holding various musical instruments. Somehow, the scene is reminiscent of 1960s photo shoots. I don’t know why, but it reminds me of the Pink Floyd during their psychedelic period when Roger (Sid) Barrett was indeed shining like a diamond.

The Fleeting Immortality of Youth
Apologies to the copyright holder(s): I do not know where this picture is from

This, however, is not the main thrust of this post. My aim is to comment on the momentary truth that the photo celebrates; we should never forget that the camera never lies – or at least before Photoshop it couldn’t lie so easily.

But, what does this photo really show us? 

A moment, perhaps, THE moment, in these young people’s lives. It is a moment when everything and anything is possible. Reality is suspended in the aspic of optimism and supreme self-belief. Are they going to be the next supergroup, or are they just a pretentious gang of kids waiting to go to university? Or both? Or neither? Which will become an addict of legal or illegal drugs? Which will indeed become influential in tomorrow’s society? Which will throw it all away? Indeed, will they end up in ordinary houses with ordinary, boring jobs?

Probably a couple of days after the photo was taken, there were at least two arguments leading to enmities which will last well into middle age. Probably the fellowship dispersed, its members going off to their several universities. What they believed to be eternally unbreakable bonds slowly weakened and stretched until they became almost imperceptible, invisible. Present but not really tangible. One day the only link with that summer day will be a Christmas card sent to  a parents’ address or a fleeting coffee, the result of a chance meeting.

Thus do the charmed circles of all adolescents weaken due to indifference or lack of contact and fade into memory. It happened to me. It will happen to mine.

However, while our children are members of such a magical fellowship and while they still believe in their geological permanence, we too should celebrate them. We should encourage them and we should never sneer with our world-weary knowledge. Envious experience whispering to us that soon the fellowship, like most fellowships, will atomise.

We need to remember our own teenage immortality and the subsequent immortality of our fellowships. Such fellowships never really fade away; they simply shift onto the next group of youngsters, down the line from adults to elder brothers and sisters to their more junior siblings. Like Buddhist souls, they migrate from one host to the next.

Next time your children want to talk to you about their own charmed circle, listen. Understand . Encourage. Ask about the circle. You might well be outside looking in, but invisible bonds tie you to the circle. The bonds of love that tie you to your children.

A protective wing
Original Art by an original talent

They are young and innocent – even when they are at university life still hasn’t begun to erode their perception of themselves as minor gods. Your children want to share their lives with you. Don’t lock the door and firmly bolt it with the “experienced” condescension of  adults. Wedge it   wide open with the enthusiasm of the child that you were. Remember; when a door closes it blocks movement in both directions. 

Don’t lock yourself out from your children with your supposedly superior knowledge and cynicism. Save the cynicism for the adult world. You might find that when you try to open the door you have closed, someone has changed the rusty, immoveable lock that you so trusted to protect yourself from your own fears and disillusions. Now it is you who cannot pass the threshold. You have effectively banished yourself from a profound part of your children’s lives.

As parents, our greatest ambition should be, externally at least, to surrender willingly to the grey ordinariness and boredom of a normal life outside the home. Inside you should keep these two silent, stealthily corrosive spectres at bay so that our children can, however briefly, caress immortality.

We do not just pass on our genes. We pass on, in a more subliminal form, our dreams. Usually, for purely pragmatic reasons, we are no longer in direct touch with this magical world where an afternoon in a field is of cosmic importance. This does not, however mean that we should deprive the shooting star of youth its blaze of beauty, glory and certainty.

Our task is to watch and wonder at this moment of sublime beauty and triumph. And, of course, remember it ourselves and lay down the memories that our children so lovingly and unselfconsciously give us.

THE HUMBLE TOOTHPICK ENIGMA

As far back as Neanderthal man, humans had realised that sometimes we needed more than just a grubby fingernail to remove a stubborn sliver of roasted mammoth from between the teeth and so the toothpick was born, probably pre-dating the toothbrush or toothstick by millennia.

Starting as probably nothing more than a piece of twig, toothpicks have evolved with humanity, reaching their artistic and aesthetic zenith in the 16th century, though this one might be more recent. Indeed there are references to golden toothpicks in the 16th-century Spanish  Picaresque novel Lazarillo de Tormes where a starving squire is said to leave his house every morning with a toothpick in his mouth as if he has crumbs between his teeth when he hasn’t eaten anything. 

The above example is for sale on an antiques website. But would you clean your teeth with it? After so many generation of foul-breathed, rotten-toothed, users, you really would??

As I discussed in my entry on design and the Nutbrown elephant pie funnel, design in toothpicks has also become more functional. Now toothpicks are sold literally by the hundred. They are excellent material for children’s handicrafts and will help make any child’s creativity and imagination soar.

They are wonderful for spearing olives and other similar amuse-bouches. Here in Spain if you ask for a tapa of snails, the waiter will also bring you a dozen or more toothpicks so that you don’t have to suck and slurp away at the spicy little molluscs[1]. For spectator and diner  alike, toothpicks are more elegant, but less shirt-stainingly fun.

Note the artistic toothpicks

However, the elegance of toothpick use quickly fades when we approach with trepidation its original, its ancestral use. The enthusiastic digging, probing and sawing that seems to accompany the accomplished toothpicker’s finest efforts is not one of my favourite sights – or sounds,  but a least this is just hygiene and is easily forgiven.

This second toothpick-related activity, however, mystifies me and always has.

Image from:  http://punintended.com/what-the-hell-are-toothpicks-for/

Can anyone tell me what is so cool about having a little bit of wood dangling from the side of your mouth or connecting your gums to your nostrils? 

And why is it more common among young and old men while those of us fortunate enough (at the moment!) not to belong to either group seem to eschew the habit? Some might suggest that they are a means of trying to give up smoking. Others claim that like chewing gum they are acting as a type of adult oral comforter. All I know is that it looks damn silly and that in my house the toothpicks will remain firmly ensconced in the kitchen and will only be used for spearing food, not facial orifices. 

---

[1] I have never tried them – and do not intend to!

MY NUTBROWN ELEPHANT PIE FUNNEL

Now here’s an old chestnut: If there was a fire in your house, what would you save if you could only take one thing with you? Well, first I’m going to do a sneaky cheat. I’ll assume that the stuff my children have given me over the years is for some obscure reason in my car boot.

Image courtesy of ebay.com

What I would save is my “NUTBROWN PIE FUNNEL” made in England, registered design number 860828 (the one in the image, for some reason has a different design no.). You put it in the middle of your unbaked pie with the outlet (in this case the trunk) either above or at the same level as the top of the crust. It channels the steam from the interior of the pie to the exterior without breaking the crust. This job can also be done simply (and boringly) by cutting through the pastry to let the steam escape.

Made in the 1950s, I bought it in the early 80s in a flea market in Liverpool. What I love is the fact that in the not-too distant past, designers actually had imagination and humour. I love this pie funnel. I have seen open-mouthed penguin pie funnels and Eiffel and Blackpool Tower pie funnels, but they do not show any real imagination on the part of the designer. Not really.

For me, my elephant pie funnel is a cut above the obvious. It is both fun and functional. It is not as functional as the unadorned clean lines of an Eiffel/Blackpool Tower type funnel and perhaps it is ever so slightly more difficult to get the bits of pie off. So what? It is definitely more fun.

In today’s world of streamlined JIT manufacturing and cheese-paring efficiency, such a pie funnel would be a designer item. I imagine that it was manufactured at a time when form followed function and decoration followed form. Today in design less is more. Unfortunately functional streamlining is also emotional streamlining.

If there are no extra, special, individualistic details, then there is nothing to relate to emotionally in the object itself. Perhaps that is why we accumulate so much stuff and will eagerly buy the latest iGadget when the one we have still works perfectly.

We are sailing through a Sargasso Sea of stuff. To guide us we have Jack Sparrow’s wildly-spinning compass. We watch as the formlessly uniform kelp churns momentarily at our passing.    

We consume stuff like Elvis consumed hamburgers: constantly chewing, never finishing, never satisfied, always ordering the next burger. Killing ourselves with our excessive demands. I read somewhere that Elvis ate constantly because he never saw an empty plate. An empty plate indicates satiety, satisfaction. Our lack of emotional attachment to the stuff we own means that we too are never satisfied. If everything we own is smooth and shiny, what is there to hold onto? How can I grasp it emotionally? How can such an object really be satisfying?

My Nutbrown Elephant Pie Funnel brings joy and amusement to the (now not-so) everyday activity of baking a pie. This is a perfect example of an article designed to add to the aesthetic and emotional enjoyment of both cooking and eating food. It is strange to think that such a small, simple object can have so much emotional power.

It is hard to imagine that the design chappie at Nutbrown had any idea when he designed my elephant that he was shaping emotions as well as pottery - adding to the pleasure of living. Is the hallmark of good design the ability to instensify the experience of using an object? I think it is more. Apple do this latter perfectly. Modern design impresses intellectually, materially. Earlier design, however, inspires true emotional warmth.

We need more elephant pie funnels. We need more home cooking. We need more Home. We need to concentrate more on our family and friends. Everything surrounding good food and good cooking brings us closer together. That is why I would save my Nutbrown Elephant Pie Funnel from a house fire.

THE NIGHT I SOLD MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL

Not so long ago I saw the latest film version of DorianGrey, about which I only remember the marvellous Victorian sets and architecture.

The film sparked a debate between my erstwhile partner, MCR, and me about the existence or not of the soul. My stance was that I have no soul and do not particularly want one. What would I do with this immortal, intangible parasite dwelling within me? Apparently it has nothing to do with my conscious self and is of no possible use or profit. Indeed, if it exists, what do I care if it suffers in torment after I die? It isn’t me![1]

MCR argued that we all have souls. To settle the matter I immediately offered to sell mine to the Devil in exchange for green traffic lights all the way home. We got them. No matter how fast or slowly she drove, the lights always went green as we approached them.

MCR was rather concerned at this turn of events. For my part, I was mighty annoyed. I should have asked for the winning combination for the next big lottery roll-over.

Still as I didn’t sign the contract in blood, perhaps I still have a chance…  

---

[1] I hasten to add that I am a wonderful person: kind to animals, babies and old ladies etc. Therefore, if I have a soul and if the soul is indeed me, with my sensations and memories, can I please have a place in the Muslim heaven with its attendant virgins? Also, if the person in charge could find his (obviously it’s a he!) way to providing me with a goodly supply of Bombay Sapphire gin, Fever Tree tonic water, ice and lemons I’m sure we could come to some arrangement. It would be rather like the Raj, I imagine.

WHAT I LEARNT THIS SUMMER (3)

So far I’ve talked about shared experiences with my daughters and friends. Let me now talk about those I’ve shared with my son, EM-E. I share a passion with my son for motorbikes and cars. He is a fully qualified mechanic and is on his way to becoming a competition motorbike mechanic, studying at . And me? I just love fast cars (Fords, preferably) and bikes (anything except the increasingly unreliable BMWs with their plethora of Chinese made parts.).

It’s a bit more difficult to spend time with EM-E due to the fact that he spends most of his time studying motorbike mechanics in  Barcelona. When he comes back he has to catch up with all of his friends and family so he has to spread his time widely. However, we did spend a few days together in the house in the Sierra doing stuff in the house.

We didn’t go out much. Instead, my son used his knowledge about electricity and mechanics to install the TDT and to re-wire part of the house. I paid him back in home-made scouse, oxtail stew and Cornish pasties. In the evenings we watched DVDs, listened to Blues, drank beer and generally talked bollocks (beer, pies & talking bollocks: three of the four most important elements in the daily life of a red-blooded English male!).

Most of the time was spent indoors, talking about the past, the present and the future. My son sees his future away from Seville. I hope he manages to get a job in GB at least for a couple of years before deciding what he really wants to do. This was a time of bonding between us. As he grows older, I see that my son is ever more worthy of my respect and admiration. He has made most of the same mistakes that I did, but sooner. He has recovered from them more quickly and he has begun to sort his life out more efficiently.

This is in great measure thanks to his mother, my ex-wife, who never gave up when I despaired of him. She has been the real rock of his existence and the foundations of his present and future success. I have contributed my small share, but she should take most, if not all of the credit. I’m just amazed and thankful that he wants to be with me and that he appreciates the time he spends with me as much as I do.

At present, my ambition is to share some motorbike travels with him, be they in Spain or in Europe. My greatest ambition would be to tour GB with him, roughing it, over several holidays. Let’s see if it happens.

We also managed to fit in a barbecue on the patio – nothing fancy just sausages, brochettes and crisps. Night time on the patio is a truly evocative experience. I light it at ground level so that no-one (except cats and other small animals) get dazzled. Sitting in the warm night listening to the crickets and other creatures rustling around in the “garden” beyond the patio while food, drink and talk circulate around the table beneath the star-dappled sky is a true privilege. And what elevates this privilege to something even higher is good company. If you have that, you are rich beyond measure.

The Emperor’s New Clothes: through the Looking Glass.

Just like the rest of Humanity, I enjoy a good film and like it says in Arabic on the ceramic cartouches quoting the Koran on the façade of Pedro I’s palace in Seville: “Nothing is perfect but God”. 

A Photo of the palace copied from  http://lucylucia.blogspot.com.es/2011/07/sevilla-day-three.html 

Sorry to repeat the quotation from one post to the next, but I’m not perfect, you know.

We are not going to discuss the non-existence of God or the contrary here, but I do want to discuss perfection in films – or the lack of it.

I want to make it perfeclty clear at the outset that I am not one of those pimple-squeezing killjoys who pore over films frame by frame to find mistakes – anachronisms, continuity mistakes or whatever and then spoil everyone else’s enjoyment by pointing them out on You Tube. I find no pleasure whatsoever in smugly showing on the Internet that the colour of our hero’s tie changes twice during a conversation in a restaurant. There is actually more to life than pimple-squeezing and cinematic nit-picking.

Once my attention has been drawn to the colour-changing tie, I find that the next time I watch the film I am waiting for this moment with a horrible fascination. It spoils the enjoyment of the whole movie. It is like trying to avoid staring at the hairy wart on the side of a salesperson’s nose as s/he explains the intricate details of a certain product – details you’ll never hear as you’re too busy trying not to look at the wart. And it is all the fault of the You Tube rabble of I’m-Smarter-than-the-Director nerds who have less creativity than the dust bunnies behind my setee. Probably they are frustrated film makers themselves who never made it into film school.

This is just plain mean-spirited stupidity. I would like to see these people try to control a budget of millions, a cast of hundreds, plus hundreds, if not thousands, of behind-the scenes technicians. I would like to see these people try to deal with all of the unforseen problems that arise while making a film instead of drawing our attention to a minor, split-second flaw in a dynamic work of art. I doubt if half of these people can even spell correctly.

So now to my own gripe. How many times have we seen battle-scarred soliders, world-weary cops, down-and out bums or just plain poor people with shoes whose soles are brand new??? That is what I find annoying about quite a few films: seeing the soles of the actors’ shoes and noticing that they are immaculate.

These shiny-soled shoes or boots that have supposedly seen months of tough service in Iraq, on the streets of LA or wherever, do annoy me slightly. They draw my attention away from the action and dialogue. They do not provide me with a “ha-ha, gotcha Tim Burton (for example)” moment and I’m pretty soon back into the swing of things. But they do niggle.[1]

With so much money riding on any film, it is obvious that there are a lot of tests and protocols applied to a movie project before it even arrives at the production stage. My advice here is: why not provide the actors with the shoes they are going to use on set and require them to wear them in the months running  up to the shoot (no pun intended), during rehearsals etc.? Therefore, when it comes to filming, the shoes are not so obviously just out of the box. Why not put this in all contracts as a standard clause? I hope Hollywood takes me up on this and pays me handsomely. I hereby formally offer my services as Footwear Erosion Continuity Technician to each and every studio. I might even extend my services to include the post of Tie Chromatography Comptroller!

[1] Even worse, there is a Spanish TV series, Águila Roja set in 17th-century Spain – a sort of Spanish Kung-Fu – where absolutely everyone, even beggars and serving wenches in filthy taverns, wears beautifully clean and pressed clothes. Perhaps, they might sport a slight smear of dirt on one sleeve for authenticity. So much for historical accuracy. I don’t watch it, I can’t watch it.

WHAT I LEARNT THIS SUMMER (2)

In my last “What I Learnt”, I talked about my house. In passing I mentioned spending time with the family. Today I’m going to continue in that vein.

As well as going to the beach for a couple of weeks, I also spent about a week here with two good friends – one, MB, is the husband of a cousin and the other, JS, a friend of his who I hadn’t seen for quite a while. My two daughters were also with me, although the oldest was only there for a couple of days as she had to prepare for her university ERASMUS year in Warsaw.

Anyhow, what did we do? Eat drink and talk bollocks, both serious and not-so-serious bollocks – but bollocks just the same. We also did some tourism, visiting a Knights Templar church and castle in Aracena. The literal and figurative high point of our tourist activities, however, was a visit to the beautiful mosque on a hill overlooking a village called Almonaster la Real. The mosque is divided into three aisles and each of the pillars different to the rest; some are brickwork, some are Roman and others are just conveniently-sized chunks of granite which, if they are not sufficiently high, are set on taller bases. As Mohammed said, “only God is perfect”. This is a truly human building built not to impress, but to welcome, to enfold those who enter into its unassuming atmosphere of calm.

This is no huge edifice. It is a small, intimate space which is now occasionally used for Catholic and, even less frequently, for Muslim prayer. Set atop a hill with what I assume is a Renaissance bell tower that you can ascend at your peril[1]. It has obviously been a sacred place for millennia. Even today you can sense that somehow you are closer to creation than normal. It is a truly inspiring place. It inspires you to just to be – nothing more – just to be. You feel that at that moment you are truly alive; there is no need for adrenaline or any other stimulant. You just let the awareness of your own momentary existence and that of those with you  permeate you.

That, apart from a visit to Seville la nuit to take in the places it would have been far too hot to visit during the daytime, was the sum of our tourism. During the hottest part of the day most of our time was whiled away in the house and when things got cooler we were up on the patio or down at the village park with its amazing views over the Sierra and bars serving ice-cold (-2ºC) beer.

Re-examining these days, I must conclude that a simple lazy holiday, a weekend break or indeed time at home can be as satisfying as the best of vacations. Whatever your taste in holidays or free-time activities, the greatest pleasure will always come from sharing it with people you love and appreciate. If the emotional atmosphere is right, a small mosque on a hill can provide more pleasure and deeper sensations than a huge cathedral or a white.knuckle ride in a theme park. It depends on whether you are in tune with those around you and whether you see it with not only your eyes but with your heart and with the eyes and hearts of those around you. My thanks to MB, JS as well as my daughters VM-E and JM-E for the wonderful experiences we shared this summer.

---

[1] No health and safety here, thank you very much. Just a notice denying all responsibility if you-re foolish enough to go up the tower. the notice is, obviously,  placed next to the seductively inviting spiral staircase. I suppose it would be a very Romatic place to commit suicide – if you are into that sort of thing, but unfortunately the tower is not high enough to guarantee a satisfactory outcome.

WHAT I LEARNT THIS SUMMER (1)

So, let me tell you about my house. It’s in a small village in the hills 100 km from Seville, which is where I work.

My ex-wife and I bought it over 20 years ago. It was a hovel. It had a dirt floor, one window, one plug, one (cold water) tap and a toilet next to the front door. The greatest amenity it had was a thick, rusty, 6-inch spike in the wall next to the toilet to hang the toilet roll on. What else it had was potential. From day one, the house was more than just a piece of property, it was a project, a hobby – a tabula rasa upon which to impress our own values, emotions and ambitions. The house is in the first street of the village, so it backs onto a hill, of which I have a very modest portion, shared with various tribes of cats and planted with a few olive trees, a couple of almond trees and a lot of weeds.

Almond blossom time.

This is no “Driving over Lemons” romantic drivel. First my father-in-law and I spent about 7 years’ worth of weekends just to get the house barely habitable. As we did it all ourselves, there isn’t a straight line anywhere to be seen in what is now the living room but each square foot of wall has a story to tell. I suppose that you could say that between us, we designed the house. It is unique. One example of how we grew the house is that of one of the walls in the living room. Originally it undulated like a wave, with a difference of almost two feet between its crest and its trough. Our solution was to build a wall in front.

A warts-and-all view from where I write, looking towards the  famous wall.

This resulted in a recessed display cabinet and a space large enough between the old and the new walls for us to drop bikes, bedsteads, beer bottles with messages in them, etc. inside before finishing the job.

Later we added an upstairs to make quite a spacious house.

Dusk: the view from my bedroom

 The contractor used the left-over materials to build a small patio. This is a great place to be in mornings and evenings for breakfast or dinner.  This summer my children and I have dined out there quite a lot. Yes, I know this does sound romantic and a bit upper-middle-class, but please remember that the house is fruit of 20 years’ hard work and it still is hard work. Neither am I particularly well-off. Moreover, I promise that no red wine was drunk to accompany delicious local cheeses brought to us by Diego the local Communist goatherd or some other such colourful local character of the sort that seem to abound in ex-pat-Brit-in-deepest-rural-Spain books. Nor did we sample olives and capers with frosted glasses of Tío Pepe before the main course.

Eating out on the patio is just par for the course here, not the preserve of the rich. I live and work here. I’m not on holiday. But… would I swap this seemingly idyllic Mediterranean lifestyle for a house and a similar job in England? If it weren’t for my children, you wouldn’t have to make the offer twice. I’d be back to GB like a shot.

What is a real privilege, wherever you are, is the ability to spend quality time with your family. If possible, you should work on a common project whose different stages can be satisfactorily, but not too easily, finished over a couple of days. With luck such a project will never really be finished in its entirety, so everyone can continue to contribute. No contribution to the project is too small to be insignificant. All contributions have value – even rusty old bikes lurking Poe-like behind walls, mouldering quietly as they recall happier days and, perhaps, young ladies’ bottoms.

That is what and why my house is.   

TOTAL RECALL: TOTAL POO

I am a huge fan of Arnie’s films from the 80s and 90s. Who can forget the berserk look he had during his fights during the Conan films? Or the tongue-in-cheek humour and self-deprecation to be observed in most of his roles?

When he crossed over from the dark side to become an all-American hero in films like True Lies it was obvious that his best days were over and when the Terminator became a good guy, well we knew that the reign of the King was drawing to a close.

However, let’s look at the original Total Recall. As soon as we hear the opening music, we know we’re in for a great Arnie film. I remember seeing it for the first time in an open-air cinema in July in Seville and enjoying (almost) every minute. I hated, and still do, the scene where the air supply to the mutants is cut off and we see a little girl swan gracefully and forlornly towards the huge decelerating fan. However, this scene excepted, the film is great fun, a true roller-coaster of violence, special effects and tension.

Last night I went to see the new version. It was Total Poo. From the outset, it was trying too hard and too consciously not to be a remake of the 1990s original. The result was that we were served up a rather unappetising mixture of Blade Runner aesthetics, somehow emulsified with elements of The Singapore we see in Pirates of the Caribbean at World’s End. Aesthetically derivative, it was also visually confusing as morceaux of I Robot action (and plot) and The Fifth Element cityscapes battered the eye. Too much was going on. There was too much, literally vertiginous, architectural detail, with bits of cities floating in the air. Why? If, in the present day we are trying to conserve as much energy as possible, I just don’t believe that in the not-too-distant future huge amounts of energy will be wasted just so that we can live in Troy-like palimpsest cities with one version built above the other. I suppose that the argument is that as the cities cannot extend into the badlands, they have to expand upwards. Never heard of skyscrapers, huh?

How much energy would an anti-grav car need anyway? A lot more than your average family runabout of today I reckon.

And, why can’t the badlands be recovered? Apparently they are just a surrpetitous tube ride away. We never actually discover how London is protected from whatever nastiness lurks in the badlands. You travel there on a secret train wearing a gas mask that is totally unnecessary once you get off. Perhaps people in the future fart more on trains than they do now due to their synthi-food. Perhaps they all have BO. I can think of no other explanation.  

And why does the BFU want to overrun Australia? Life there seems just as nasty as at home. And all this crap about The Fall that connects the two countries via a tunnel through the centre of the Earth which is also a symbol of the BFU’s oppression of its colony? Come on, what’s that all about? If they can build that, why can’t they clean up the farty atmosphere in the London badlands? 

Come to think of it, why don't they clean up the farty atmosphere of the badlands of today's Londnon?

The film is grim. I wasn’t convinced by the plot or any of the characters. Even Bill Nighy was uninspired. It tries immensely hard not to be anything like the original and in that it succeeds admirably. The Arnie film is great cinema. This version is Total Poo.