AUGUST

ARE WE IN AN EPISODE OF THE WALTONS?
The holiday month is here and after July’s super rant I’m exhausted. With rising temperatures (and no teaching) we decide to let go a little. There is, of course, still work to be done, but to pick sun-warmed black figs straight from the tree and bite into their jam-like sweetness is sublime – until, of course you look down at the half still in your hand and see several squirming little white wriggly things or shiny, tiny beetles shouting ‘Bugger off, these are our figs!’ The oranges are still green but perfect, the mandarins likewise. We ate the cherries in February, in contest with the birds, and were delighted by their sweet juiciness. The apples are ripening but we didn’t spray them and now they are full of ‘bichos’. The white grapes that hang beneath festoons of pale green leaves are delectable and it’s good to share them with friends.
BUT, just as it’s time for supper, the tennis club switches on its sound system, the loudspeakers of which are angled straight at our house and at such high volume that you can hear the beard growing on the elderly announcer’s chin as he encourages everyone to rise for the pasa doble, the merengue, the bachata, followed by a quick salsa round the floor before a brief rest when a piercing squeak rents the air as the MC adjusts his microphone to proclaim a game of Bingo – it is now two o’clock and still 29º and the perspiration running from my hair into my ears has dislodged my ear plugs – ‘Guau! Que bien!’ (Wow, that’s great!) everyone yells and so we are further entertained by cries of ‘Uno, dos, diez, numero tres … and so on.
AND if it’s not the tennis club it’s the marching bands with their trumpets, drums, cymbals, songs, much laughter and jolly banter.
‘Are you all asleep?’ they cry at three in the morning as they stomp around the streets. ‘Well, we’re here to wake you up!’ Never mind that we’ve been working hard all day, who cares?
By now we have come to believe that we don’t actually own this house but only work here. By ten o’clock each evening we are so exhausted that we usually fall asleep before the end of a much-looked-forward-to movie.
G’niight John boy.
G’night Ma.
Zzzzzzzz ….

JULY

THIS AIN’T THE WAY LIFE’S MEANT TO BE …
I thought living in the country would be a good move. Wholesome food, fresh air, peaceful days spent quietly pottering in the garden, taking a cooling swim on those hot days, sweeping up a few leaves here and there … maybe a little light weeding, nothing too strenuous …
BUT what with the dogs, the chickens, the pigeons and the frogs, we now have feral cats and their kittens underfoot. And talking of chickens … I’m thinking of denouncing our neighbour for cruelty – mainly to us. His half-boiled feather-coated fowls can be heard feebly clucking, as they sweat in 35º, too heat-exhausted to budge off their perches and too dispirited to lay any eggs. The smell of overheated poultry is abysmal and so strong it permeates the washing on my adjacent line so that we are subjected to unkind remarks -‘What is that smell?’ whenever we venture out.
Trees have leaves and these leaves fall off and have to be swept up. Some trees also have fruit that has to be picked – or picked up as in the case of our enormous carob tree. This involves spending days suspended from various (unreliable) branches, bashing down the dark brown pods (which smell like poo) before they fall painfully, if not fatally, onto you or your guests’ heads. This is followed by hours picking them up again and taking them to the Ecoparc.
Pine trees have needles that get into everything but mostly the swimming pool where they have to be endlessly fished out with a net. These majestic trees are also host to the ubiquitous processionary caterpillar. Blind, they travel in long lines, nose to tail and should you be touched by one of their hairs (they are continually shedding them into the air and onto the ground) the resulting rash could send you into anaphylactic shock. Dogs can be blinded or killed outright. The council actually come round with flame throwers, particularly enterprising in the drought season, and the smell of roasted caterpillar doesn’t make you want to create a new recipe. Where the hell am I living? Then there’s the Nispero with its delicious fruit (remember the recipe for Bellinis from last year). This tree has leaves that defy belief. Huge, brown and crackly, they have been specially designed so that brooms cannot sweep them up.
Ants are interesting little creatures and very determined to get into the house by any underhand method they can devise. A stray crumb or two in the kitchen and two seconds later they are being carried at high speed across the counter to one of a thousand garden destinations.
Wasps build nests – anywhere. Whilst doing a little light pruning in the shrubbery I was stung no less than eight times on one hand six on the other. Jumping spiders are another joy and, if you look at them through a magnifying glass, you will see they have crab-like pincers that can give you a very nasty nip indeed
Then there is the constant sweeping, dusting, fanning oneself, jumping into the pool, picking the pine needles out of your cozzie, cooking lunch, eating it, trying for a siesta while one or other of the neighbours has yet another birthday party or an any excuse to shout and laugh like Mexican bandits.
Still, there’s the holiday month of August to look forward to … ay caramba!

JUNE

June scorched in with temperatures rising from a chilly 20º to 30+º almost overnight. I seem to recall this happened last year. Off with the boots and on with the sandals – let’s think beach, new books, diets (the ones you meant to start in January but didn’t), Pimms, exotic cocktails (the Nisperos are ripe don’t forget they make wonderful Bellinis), bare legs, short hair and back to blonde. The long summer nights are back with concerts in the park, outdoor dining and the Palau de la Musica open air cinema to look forward to … Valencia we love you.
Back in the kitchen I must warn you: DON’T put the oven gloves in the oven with the meat when you’ve invited people to dinner because when your guests arrive, sniffing appreciatively, preparing to say: ‘Mmmm, something smells good!’, you will be disappointed, as it can only be followed by ‘Oh, er, what IS that smell?’. It is nothing short of amazing how quickly this small mistake can clear a room. The smell is execrable and can linger for days.
On the other hand, DO make sure all buttons and zips are secure before entering a classroom full of young male students ….
NB: Dear Ed. I know you’ll be tempted to insert a rude photo but think of my reputation – and my wish to keep it).

IT'S IN THE POST
When considering posting a birthday card to a special person it’s better to throw it in the street rather than post it in a box (if you can find one), where it could be picked up by a pigeon who just might be flying past the recipient’s address. Wisdom of Ed.

STUDENT CHRONICLES:
When pressed into service at a moment’s notice to cover for a sick colleague, we rise to the occasion and do our best. A male business class of pre-intermediates (from 30-45) is not, then, a challenge but an interesting exchange with people not otherwise encountered. We do, after all, have a course book to guide us, and experience to help us through any difficult moments.
Why then are the other tutors all smirking as I walk past them to my class? Why does one of them give me a ‘thumbs up’ and a sympathetic smile?
open the door, reminding myself that nothing can be worse than ten surly, gun-toting military policemen who’ve been ordered to learn English by their commanding officer, and prepare for one and a half hours of achievement.
They look a nice bunch. They’re smiling. I introduce myself and we begin.
ask the gentleman facing me at the other end of the table his name
‘Jose’, he says, ‘or ‘Pepe’, if you prefer, or sometimes people call me ‘Guillermo’ and my mother calls me ‘Juan’ because …’. The others are laughing, so I smile and say: ‘Pepe is perfect’. The others give me their names and then decide to change seats. They laugh. I rearrange my list and then Pepe asks if I’d like to change seats with him. Just to be fair. I am forced to laugh because they are so charming.
The lesson commences and I do my best to keep them on course. Time flies past in a good-humoured way and we reach Module 8: Animals and their usefulness in the modern world. We read a little and laugh some more and then, with five minutes to go, Pepe says: ‘Barbara, a question, please? In Spain the sheep go ‘ehrrrh, ehrrh, ehrrrhhhh’ is this the same for English sheep?’ The others watch me expectantly and I realize this is a test I cannot possibly fail. ‘A good question Pepe, because there is quite a difference. English sheep go ‘Baaaa, baaaa, baaaaaa’, particularly the black
The other tutors are waiting. ‘Did you actually manage to teach them anything?’ they want to know. ‘Of course, they now know that ‘sheep’ is an uncountable noun!’ Well, it’s a start.

APRIL

DOs and DON’Ts
DO take care when asking a bunch of armed Military Policemen to think of two places where they could use the words ‘up’ and ‘down’. I was thinking of stairs, they … were not.

DON’T paint your nails with clear nail varnish you bought in 1986 while wearing an angora sweater and thinking you can drive to your destination while it dries. Well, you can’t and it doesn’t. Old nail varnish stays tacky for at least three hours and picks up dust, fluff and dirt from places you wouldn’t believe possible. The result is dishonesty and deceit. Yes, it’s the new thing. Absolutely up-to-the-minute. Really. Invented by Paris Hilton, I believe – you know, ‘tacky nail varnish’ ha, ha .… the sad thing is I refuse to throw it away because it’s half full and we all know I’ll forget and do it all again, history repeating itself.

NEVER WORK WITH CHILDREN OR ANIMALS
I have acquired three new students called Maria. BAD ENOUGH. But Maria Uno has a canary that sings at top treble throughout our lessons and will not shut up. As the Spanish are the title holders of the noisiest nation on earth, this means nothing. Maria Dos (nine years old) has a very small puppy called YoYo that resembles a white powder puff. As I write helpful notes on my whiteboard its nose follows each word with total fascination (I think a bit of substance abuse from the marker could be going on here) much to the merriment of Maria. Do I find this amusing? No. I don’t. The dog must die. And the canary. Now, let me see, so far that’s pigeons, chickens, dogs …. And Maria Tres? Is perfect – so far.

REFLECTIONS ON WATER
Should water be clear and sparkling? At Casa Est the tap water comes in varying degrees of brown. Should water be brown? We think it’s probably iron. This, of course, is borne of a solid English optimism that forces us to believe the best. It’s probably quite safe to drink – I expect.

STUDENT CHRONICLES – quote of the month
During a lesson on giving a personal description, I asked Paula for a sentence including two adjectives. With flair and confidence she said: ‘I am short and white with a blonde jacket’. It took me a while to explain why this was wrong but I think we’re straight now.

FEBRUARY / MARCH

COUNTRY MATTERS
What are the odds of living next door to a pigeon fancier and a chicken keeper three times in one’s lifetime? I do not have these statistics to hand but at a guess I’d say once was a misfortune, twice, jolly bad luck but thrice has to be a conspiracy. In England, opposite our cottage, we endured Julius, a retired Naval Commander whose dream, on leaving the Service, was to buy a farm, raise horses and keep chickens. Horses, yes. Chickens, no. Then, just down the lane there was George, who bred racing pigeons – and kept chickens. The Queen’s mother, he once told me, had invited him to see her own flock and they even organized a race (here I assumed he meant ‘pigeons’ although it wasn’t entirely clear) – and laid a bet, no doubt. Pigeons, if one must keep them, should be locked away in isolation. They are smelly, noisy, dirty and disgusting. Chickens aren’t much better but at least they produce something useful and when you’re tired of them you can eat them. So, after moving to Valencia what do I find but that the flat we have bought is next door to a person with chickens and illegal chickens at that. Imagine our horror then, on moving to the ‘campo’, when we discover our nearest neighbour keeps chickens and pigeons – who poo in our pool and warble down our chimneys. I think desperate measures may be called for.

A WOOF, WOOF HERE, A WOOF, WOOF, THERE …
I realize I’m beginning to sound like Old MacDonald but it seems that, apart from the winged ones, we have inadvertently moved to Dogsville. When people think of the English they think ‘dogs’ but it is now my belief that the Spanish may just have the edge. In England, at least, we make them behave but the Spanish let them bark and don’t seem to mind a bit. H bought a dog whistle in March and has successfully trained one third of our neighbours’ ‘mascotas’ – except for ‘Trotsky’, who is a serial barker and totally immune to whistles, yells and threats. He may have to go the way of the pigeons and the chickens.

IS IT A BIRD, IS IT A FROG? NO IT’S ….
Dunno. At sunset ‘things’ in the garden make this single-noted fluting, answered by other ‘things’ and no amount of searching through the shrubbery has revealed what they might be. Whatever they are they have amazing staying power and can keep going till dawn. I have resorted to earplugs as between the barking and the fluting, the clucking and the warbling I think I may lose what wits I have left.

STUDENT CHRONICLES:
Quote of the month:
Finished with our rather boisterous discussion on what’s sexy and what isn’t (another time, maybe) Raul told me that his wife had invited four friends to stay for a few days. He seemed quite content with this situation, even when they settled down to watch Downton Abbey (extremely popular here in Valencia) with copious amounts of food, drink and speculation (the Spanish always talk through TV programmes, movies, plays, concerts etc – some even taking their knitting along) as to whether English life could ever have been so bizarre at the turn of the 20th century. Raul made a casual observation that one of the female characters was rather ugly and was immediately upbraided as one of his guests declared she’d rather be called a bitch than ugly. Interesting.

BARBARA'S BOOK
If you are a regular reader of thisisvalencia.com you will probably look forward to reading Barbara O'Neill's excellent column about life as an ex-pat in (and out) of this fair city of ours. What you probably don't know, and I am about to tell you, is that Barbara has written a book, and jolly good it is too - it's called THE GIANT KILLERS and is currently on the Harper and Collins website Authonomy.com for all to read. The purpose of the site is to get your book read and voted on. The more votes, the higher the book is ranked and when it is ranked high enough it will be read by an Editor at Harper Collins with a view to publication.If, of course it is not snapped up by an eagle eyed agent or publisher in the meantime.

'When Elizabeth and Jack open the package they believe they are looking into a toy box. It is Jack who notices they are breathing.'

Barbara would love you to visit her page and have a read of this excellent novel, which she describes as a fantasy thriller. If you like it sign up to the site and put her book on your shelf and send her your comments....

To whet your appetite here are the cover notes:

It is the year 2150. Elizabeth Waldren, married to a man she has come to despise, is living in an old cottage on the isolated shores of Chichester harbour. Her husband, Stephen, is a geologist with a colonisation project on the planet GT4. Absent now for ten months, he has left her with his psychologically disturbed eight year-old son, Jack. On a routine survey Stephen risks entering the prohibited area and stumbles across an indigenous race, The Lhaitiri. Only twelve centimetres tall, he succeeds in capturing nine of them and, by a clever deception, transports them to Earth, keeping their existence from the project leader, Jonathan Tupperman. Angered when Elizabeth refuses to let him play with them, Jack resolves to punish her; but as he begins to understand the strength of her friendship with Ybron, their chief, he decides The Lhaitiri must die. As Elizabeth discovers that she is dealing with a life form far removed from that of Earth, she is determined to communicate. But when conversation is finally possible, so comes understanding and The Lhaitiri are faced with the true nature of the human race; with all its complexities and the society it has created for itself.

Go on go over to Authonomy.com by clicking the cover, above and read (VOTE TOO) Barbara Richmond O'Neill's THE GIANT KILLERS, I guaantee you'll be hooked from chapter one.

Gooru