A curtain of falling water is a most attractive feature to grace a garden – but when that feature is obviously leaking from the first-floor kitchen then its beauty is rather limited.
Entry into said kitchen was also entry to a sizeable paddling pool, surrounded by electro domestic items that do not do well in standing water. Displaying remarkable technical knowledge, I turned the water off at the mains and then, with even more technical ingenuity used the dust pan to scoop up the flood and deposit it in the sink.
The problem was our water heater and, as this is gas fired, I always have an added element of fear when things go wrong with machines of this sort, so we turned it off.
Unfortunately, with the heater turned off and the water stopped so that it did not continue to pour out onto the work surface, we were then without any water at all, except that we had in bottles. As it was the weekend (of course) the idea of getting anybody out without paying a king’s ransom to get them to the house, was unthinkable.
A weekend without water, except for that in bottles. We did discover that the outside garden tap was still operational and so Toni traipsed up and down stairs to bring water in buckets to use for essentials. Cleaning one’s teeth and washing one’s face with water from a bottle of mineral water might have an air of the exclusive and indulgent about it, but it is practically, um, difficult. And I prefer not to talk about the practicalities of the toilet!
Monday was a day for phoning around and finding someone, anyone, to come to the house and work the technical magic to get the bloody thing operational again. Hopes were raised, only to be dashed, but eventually we found someone who promised to come out the next morning.
He came, he did his stuff and asked for 400 euros! It is at this point that I should mention that our house is rented. You would therefore be justified in asking why we were doing anything about something that was clearly the responsibility of the owners, and not, emphatically not, the concern of the tenants. To ask such questions, merely shows hat you do not rent accommodation in this part of the world!
God knows, Estate Agents do not have a good press, in these parts they are held in even less esteem than The Press and Politicians! If you can imagine such a thing.
To say that our estate agents have been less than helpful is a woeful understatement – they are militantly unhelpful. Anything that you might think would be the responsibility of the owners, here isn’t. All they do is take the monthly rent and do virtually nothing to justify the rake off that they get.
In a twist to the usual tale, our estate agent is actually the owner of the house that we rent, but it is done via a Company that we are supposed to assume is an entirely different entity, but the owner of the estate agency is also the director of the company. We find ourselves in an almost Dickensian situation where the poor estate agents tell us that they are hamstrung by the demands of the evil company – which they also own!
Even though we know about their machinations there is little that we can do about it. The contract we signed indicated that we had responsibilities (a bloody sight more than the bloody estate agents) towards things like sinks, toilets, taps and the heater that one would usually assume is the responsibility of the owner. Assumptions do not pay bills, and the 400 euros is gnawing away at my very being – that is 25% of the cost of buying a new heater!
But, enough of moaning about legal thievery. Let one story stand for the whole despicable lot of them. When we first arrived in the house, we obviously checked things to make sure that we were getting what we were paying for. In the kitchen we noticed that there were fitted kitchen cabinets, but, when you opened them the lack of shelves limited their usefulness. When we told the agents that there were no shelves in the units, they simply shrugged their shoulders and did nothing! Unbelievable, but an unbelievability that applies to many other stories about the callous disregard of estate agents in this part of the world. 400 euros! The more I try not to think about it, the more I do.
We have just had a phone call from the company that sent the guy to fix our heater. It appears that the guy got his figures wrong when he made out the bill for the VISA machine and transposed two figures, so that we have underpaid. They want their extra money. I wonder if they would have been so eager if the sums had worked out in their favour? Doesn’t the parallel meaning of “Let the buyer beware” referring to the seller, obtain in this case? I am sure that it does, but I don’t think that I am going to be the beneficiary of the mistake. It somehow makes the paying of the money even more difficult to take!
At least the sun is shining and I have done a little light sunbathing. We are both taking ‘Sol’ capsules, bought from one of the supermarkets, that are supposed to aid tanning. The capsules contain carotin and copper and various vitamins and are quite cheap so we have decided to give a month’s worth a go. They are not artificial tanners, but are supposed to ‘aid’ the process. I have taken a picture of my skin against a sheet of white A4 typing paper and I will take another photo at the end of the test period. I will have been out in the sun during this time, but the depth of tan will be the key to success.
While I am regarding this as little more than a half-joke, Toni – with his proverbially white skin – has rather more invested in this experiment than I. Perhaps all that the capsules do is focus the mind, and that directed thought will ensure exposure and therefore a tanned skin. We will see- but as the price of the individual capsules is about 13 cents, not much is invested in the success!
Next week, Opera, La Boheme – something to hum and cry along with. Our production in the Liceu (if it is the same as the one I saw last) is rather showy, but good fun. I have two criteria for success for a production of this opera: firstly, I want to see people actually eating real food in the Café Momus scene; and, secondly, I have to cry at the end. Usually this is a cast-iron delight, whatever the production (as long as the voices are half-way decent) and there has only been one true disaster of a performance in my experience where “Your tiny hand is frozen” aria was greeted with stony silence at the end! I left before the first act had ended. I expect much better on the 14th of the month when I go to my isolated seat in the stalls.
Last month the scheduled performance of Tannhauser had to be Covid-cancelled, so I have been having opera-deprivation symptoms and, let’s face it, La Boheme is something you can wallow in.
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