What are the three Great Lies?
The answer to this question will depend to a great extent on your background and how PC you are.
When I was told the answers to this question one response was racist; one statement was nastily sexual and the last was “The cheque is in the post.”
A year’s experience of living in Spain might cause me to alter some of the traditional Great Lies. From my exchanges with the ‘right’ police who eventually took my statement about the lack of clarity (that is a euphemism which I resent having to write) about what happened to the money raised by the school Readathon, I might say that, “We will keep you informed about what happens” would have to take pride of place as a Great Lie.
Telephoning gets you nowhere; you have to turn up in person to get answers. So I did and got them – for what they were worth. The child officer I spoke to was the same one who took my deposition and he said that he had phoned the school and talked to ‘some woman’ and that now the matter was out of their hands. They had done everything they had to and any further information I needed would be found in Vilanova, the next large town down from Stiges.
I was given the address and a mumbled Spanglish description of what the building was I would be looking for.
I eventually managed to get my GPS to accept a form of the address and I was off. As usual with GPS it gets you to the vicinity and then just tells you that you “are arriving at destination on the right” and you quite obviously are not. From hard experience I have found that it usually takes a few passes to find the exact location. This is the ‘pin ball machine’ approach; you end up pinging your way between two roundabouts suspecting that your destination is somewhere in between.
On the third pass I assumed that one block of un-flat-like flats might be an official building. Amazingly, after another pass or two I managed to get near the place and found a parking space.
From the side the building was much more impressive and had three flag staffs with the Catalan, Spanish and EU flags flapping - or they would have been if there had been any wind.
This edifice was modern with the requisite acres of plate glass, a sort of sweeping concrete bridge to the entrance and no people.
There were no explanatory notices or signs so it was something of a mixed relief that I then saw giant letters spelling out JUTJATS. As I doubted that there would be a major municipal building devoted to an esoteric form of the martial arts, I assumed that there were enough letters in that melange for me to work out that it was probably related to justice in some way. In fact it turned out that I was in the courts of justice in the area.
Walking under the ‘bridge’ I did see a life form sitting behind a desk in a uniform and in front of him a caricature of a Mrs Mop who barred my way to the functionary with a toothless grin and a sweeping brush. Having skirted the harridan I then attempted to state my business to what looked like a security guard.
He was a security guard and he looked bemused when I showed him the copy of my accusation and a damn sight more confused when I started explaining why I was there. The real trouble is that Spanish lessons do not prepare you for normal everyday judicial interaction. I use the words that I have, but they do not always all more than an approximation of what I want and need to say. But, in spite of everything, I get there – eventually.
The security guard read through the entire deposition and looked as though he were a silk about to give his professional opinion. He was looking for the essential thing which makes all bureaucracy in Spain go round: a number. As all I had was the deposition which I had given in Sitges I had nothing to indicate that the paper had been transformed numerically into something now at home in Vilanova.
I think that I have agreed to go back tomorrow (in person, “Don’t phone!” I was told) and find out what (if anything) has/is/will happened/happening/happen. As the accusation was only (!) made in October the security guard (who is obviously someone of power and influence) thinks I am being absurdly eager in my expectations – but, never say that I didn’t follow through my hatreds, I will go tomorrow after my Spanish lesson.
Justice may not get done, but by god I will enjoy watching it not happen!
The answer to this question will depend to a great extent on your background and how PC you are.
When I was told the answers to this question one response was racist; one statement was nastily sexual and the last was “The cheque is in the post.”
A year’s experience of living in Spain might cause me to alter some of the traditional Great Lies. From my exchanges with the ‘right’ police who eventually took my statement about the lack of clarity (that is a euphemism which I resent having to write) about what happened to the money raised by the school Readathon, I might say that, “We will keep you informed about what happens” would have to take pride of place as a Great Lie.
Telephoning gets you nowhere; you have to turn up in person to get answers. So I did and got them – for what they were worth. The child officer I spoke to was the same one who took my deposition and he said that he had phoned the school and talked to ‘some woman’ and that now the matter was out of their hands. They had done everything they had to and any further information I needed would be found in Vilanova, the next large town down from Stiges.
I was given the address and a mumbled Spanglish description of what the building was I would be looking for.
I eventually managed to get my GPS to accept a form of the address and I was off. As usual with GPS it gets you to the vicinity and then just tells you that you “are arriving at destination on the right” and you quite obviously are not. From hard experience I have found that it usually takes a few passes to find the exact location. This is the ‘pin ball machine’ approach; you end up pinging your way between two roundabouts suspecting that your destination is somewhere in between.
On the third pass I assumed that one block of un-flat-like flats might be an official building. Amazingly, after another pass or two I managed to get near the place and found a parking space.
From the side the building was much more impressive and had three flag staffs with the Catalan, Spanish and EU flags flapping - or they would have been if there had been any wind.
This edifice was modern with the requisite acres of plate glass, a sort of sweeping concrete bridge to the entrance and no people.
There were no explanatory notices or signs so it was something of a mixed relief that I then saw giant letters spelling out JUTJATS. As I doubted that there would be a major municipal building devoted to an esoteric form of the martial arts, I assumed that there were enough letters in that melange for me to work out that it was probably related to justice in some way. In fact it turned out that I was in the courts of justice in the area.
Walking under the ‘bridge’ I did see a life form sitting behind a desk in a uniform and in front of him a caricature of a Mrs Mop who barred my way to the functionary with a toothless grin and a sweeping brush. Having skirted the harridan I then attempted to state my business to what looked like a security guard.
He was a security guard and he looked bemused when I showed him the copy of my accusation and a damn sight more confused when I started explaining why I was there. The real trouble is that Spanish lessons do not prepare you for normal everyday judicial interaction. I use the words that I have, but they do not always all more than an approximation of what I want and need to say. But, in spite of everything, I get there – eventually.
The security guard read through the entire deposition and looked as though he were a silk about to give his professional opinion. He was looking for the essential thing which makes all bureaucracy in Spain go round: a number. As all I had was the deposition which I had given in Sitges I had nothing to indicate that the paper had been transformed numerically into something now at home in Vilanova.
I think that I have agreed to go back tomorrow (in person, “Don’t phone!” I was told) and find out what (if anything) has/is/will happened/happening/happen. As the accusation was only (!) made in October the security guard (who is obviously someone of power and influence) thinks I am being absurdly eager in my expectations – but, never say that I didn’t follow through my hatreds, I will go tomorrow after my Spanish lesson.
Justice may not get done, but by god I will enjoy watching it not happen!
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