It has come round in half the time that it
would have taken in Britain: the last day of the woefully short Easter
Holiday. I shouldn’t grumble as my
holiday has been extended by an extra day by the school taking one of the days
that they can choose. But it is still
far, far too short. And the long slog
towards the end of June begins.
The day for me began with an almost swim: I
almost decided to go to the pool but there were things to do and you know how
it is. So I didn’t.
One of the things to do was financial and
that meant that I took out a large sum of money from my bank in the morning
and, because of circumstances beyond my individual control, put it back in the bank
in the afternoon. At least I tried to.
Banks, as I have always maintained in this
country have taken the place of the market square. Where do people meet and chat? Their banks.
The old folk come in for a socializing talk with the tellers and to make
sure that their money is still there.
People come in with sheaves of bumf and take an inordinate time sifting
through their documentation and getting their papers stamped (always a good
thing in Spain) or signing each page of endless photocopies from the bank. The queue for the single teller never seems
to get shorter and everyone in front of me seems to be putting the affairs of
the whole of the Eurozone in order by the amount of time that they take.
So it was with a sense of depressing
familiarity that I entered my bank and stared mournfully at the congress of
humanity that had decided to visit at exactly the same time as me.
As I had a wodge of money to put in I
thought it expedient to wait in line so that I could give the whole amount to
the teller and let them do all the work of checking that the amount I said was
there was, well, there. No movement for
minutes so I decided to risk the machines.
I know from past limited experiences that I
can feed money into my account as well as take it out. And I knew which one of the three machines on
offer in the central bank was the one to use.
I had previously had my bankbook renewed in the morning when I took the
money out so I was well prepared to put it all back again.
I fed my bankbook into the appropriate slot
and the machine grudgingly authenticated it and (in English, because it is well
trained) it asked me what I wanted to do.
Each request was displayed on the screen
and each finger touch was accompanied by an inordinately loud beep. I got through to the feeding of the machine
with my cash when I hit a problem. The
machine can cope with 40 notes at a time and I was trying to feed it 100! So the whole process had to begin again with
my feeding the thing with batches of 40 notes.
Each time the machine rejected one suspect note (a note I might add
which came from the same bank just a few hours before) and therefore after
three separate transactions and a whole orchestra of beeps I finally retreated
with two of the notes still in my hand but the vast bulk of the cash safely in
my account.
I tried to ignore the baleful looks which
my retreating back had to endure from those hapless souls who were waiting for
a machine, but their reflections in the window of the bank will haunt me! God alone knows how long I was stuck there
but Toni was virtually dancing with impatience before I finally emerged
blinking into the cloudy, patchy sunshine.
Recuperation took the form of a double
teabag pot of tea and an astonishingly expensive turron muffin – one can’t help
feeling that such an establishment is first in line for closure when the crisis
grips further.
And my tea was exceptionally weedy.
It was served in what looked like a tiny
Chinese inspired cast-iron teapot in which the tea bags had been placed inside
a metal filter which ensured that they barely touched the hot water. I extracted the completely redundant filter
(they were tea bags after all) and poked them about a bit in the water and
eventually got an ecru coloured beverage and that, believe me, is better than
most attempts at our impossibly complicated national drink!
Lunch in the Maritime: which for me was
quail broth with butter beans followed by half a dozen fat prawns finishing
with whisky tart (swimming in it my dear!) and iced coffee. The red wine and Casera goes without saying. Not bad for €12 and much better service than
you get during the weekend.
Although the day started dull and cold it
did brighten up a little and even allowed me half an hour on the Third Floor
before comprehensive cloud cover forced me indoors.
This gave me the opportunity to look at my
timetable for tomorrow and decide that the work that I have not done yet didn’t
need to be done then either so I can relax and enjoy the opera this evening.
This is another opera that I do not know
so, as I have not done my homework about it, there is a plain sheet on which
the experiences inside the Liceu can be writ large!
I have decided to risk leaving the house at
6 pm for an 8 pm start. It is only half
an hour or so into the centre of the city from Castelldefels but this is rush
hour and I consider (perhaps rashly) that four times the normal length should
be enough.
The one good thing about traffic jams in
this car is that when I stop so does the car.
If anything needs feeding like lights, or radio or whatever this is
taken from the battery which has been charged up by previous driving. The stop/start approach of petulant lines of
traffic is perfect for my type of car with a hybrid engine which does all the
irritating staggering on the battery.
But the delight of some sort of idea of economy does not make me relish
the trip into the city at the unkindest part of the day.
To which the reasonable response is why not
do this journey by bus or by train.
Alas! If only! I have no intention at my venerable age of
taking the “nit” bus, where the Catalan for “night” does give some sort of
indication of the vermin who usually fill such a conveyance. And the trains stop running by the time that
I come out of the opera house. It is a
far better thing to have a car available so that one can get home as easily and
quickly as possible – and certainly when the next day is the first day of a new
term!
I have just had yet another call from
Toyota asking if I am satisfied with my purchase of the car. This must be the sixth such call which shows
concern with customer satisfaction verging on the paranoid. It is certainly much more than Peugeot ever
showed which is part of the reason that I am no longer driving one of their
cars!
The sun looks as though it has shone as
much as it wants to for today so I should go and get showered and ready to go
off to the opera – but first I must try and find my opera glasses which I think
I will leave in the car for future performances.
My ideal is to go to the opera by train and
then stay in the city overnight and come back at my leisure the next day. The cost of accommodation is little more than
the cost of parking the car in the centre of the city and it makes for a much
more pleasant experience. The
inconvenience of having school the next day makes this plan impractical at the
moment, but there will come a time!
Irene is still keen on setting up a school
and, after going through some documents and coming across old statements by
dissatisfied teachers who had been connected with The School That Sacked Me, I
can understand her urge.
It is wickedly wrong that a school so
clearly unfit for purpose as that one should be allowed by the authorities to
continue. From regal disregard of the
health and safety regulations to the bullying attitude of the owner and her
general unprofessionalism everything about the place calls for somewhere better
to be established to drain her pupils away so that they can have a proper
education. And nothing is done! A school that has been accused of stealing
money raised for charity – nothing is done!
Enough! I don’t want to relive
those times!
Focus on finding the opera glasses and
looking forward to a last evening of musical pleasure before the alarm goes off
at 6.30 am tomorrow bidding me drive off for a new term.
Actually there is one thing that I need to
find before I go to the opera: my start of term tie.
Each first day of term I don my Munch tie
which has a vivid version of “The Scream” printed on it. This is clearly the
most expressive and accurate of all the ties that I wear - with the possible
exception of the one which has Homer Simpson strangling Bart as a tastefully
repeated motif on one of my other favourites!
Ties for teachers!
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