Post Haste Indeed!

 

 

 

Half a dozen bottles of more than decent Cava seemed the best way to start the preparations for my forthcoming birthday. 

     No matter that the Cava was going to be used in a Cava Sangria, I was determined to have something palatable to celebrate.  I therefore hunted around and found a website that offered half a dozen well-designed, ‘limited-edition’ bottles at a bargain price. 

     I still have the financial scars from other past ‘bargains’ online, so I took the lazy man’s safety precautions of asking Chat to evaluate not only the quality of the offer, but also the quality of the online website offering it.  Both were deemed ‘good’ and so I took the plunge and ordered it on the 8^th of October, and the supplier, OUTLET PC got to work immediately.

     I got a swift emailed receipt from the supplier and was pleasantly surprised to get an email from the delivery organization telling me that my packet would arrive the next day, on the 9^th of October between the hours of 16:00 to 18:00!  I did not, at the time that delight was warming the cockles of my heart, notice the emboldened “approximately” before the times stated.

     On the 9^th of October 4pm came and went, with no delivery.  6pm came and went, with no delivery.  And I waited.

     Eventually I consulted the delivery details and checked where my goods were.  Their website informed me that they had tried to deliver the package at 20:09.  We were in the house and we heard nothing.  The doorbell was working perfectly.  I wrote to the deliverers at 20:24 informing them that I had waited for the package and that I was in the house expecting it to arrive.  And nothing.

     The next day I checked the website again and found that they had tried to make a second delivery at 21:02.  Again, there was no evidence in the form of a receipt left in the post box, nor a ring at the doorbell.

     At this point I should add some extra information.  I know that the parcel was in Barcelona (19 km down the road) at about 8 in the morning of the 9^th.  The 9^th of October was a Friday, and the following Monday was The Day of Spanish-ness and therefore a bank holiday, thus creating a little Puente or mini holiday over the weekend.

     Now, I am not suggesting that the delivery people deliberately made no attempt to deliver the package and that the attempts to do so were listed with precision, but total unreality and that they had every intention of sloping off early to enjoy the mini break, leaving my parcel to be delivered on the Tuesday.  No, indeed I am not suggesting that.  I merely put it forward as a plausible scenario that fits the facts.

     I have now been given a new delivery date for today.  No times, but the package is on its way.  Allegedly.

     You may ask if I made any attempt to contact the delivery people to ask for an explanation, or to rearrange a delivery time.  Yes, I did.  But the communication I sent would have arrived on a Sunday and been ignored on Monday.  Also, the advice just to click the “rearrange the delivery” button on screen, did not actually exist.

    It was a case of computer-generated delivery information, neatly tabulated and timed, but existing independently from the human agents who have to make the numbers work.

     I might also add that the delivery company is Correos Express, a branch of the post office.  And Correos has form as far as fantastic deliveries are concerned.  We once found a receipt in the letter box informing us that a delivery had been attempted and failed with a time written in which was AFTER the time that we picked up the receipt.  Time travel is not a difficulty for these characters.  That was years ago, and it is depressing to see the same sort of service levels years later.

     It is now 11:10 and Correos Express (sic!) has had my parcel since the 9^th of October.

     The graphic which shows the locality of the package on their web page, the black dot of my Cava is next to, nay, touching, the clear dot of my house.

    

     So near, and yet so very far.

 

 

I'll drink to that!

 

 

Today is to be a day given over to the completion of tasks.

     A fine start, and that statement would be more impressive if it was not being written at ten past four in the afternoon, but resolve is resolve, however late the commencement.

     I wrote a list of Things To Do while having my after-swim cup of tea, a well-earned cup, considering that I was loath to get up to go to the pool this morning.  But shame (or some comparable emotion) motivated me to attempt a cursory wash and more thorough brushing of my teeth, and I was (reluctantly) good to go.  And go I went.

     A moderate swim, where all my customary exercises and lengths were completed in water that was my-friend-Carles-cold, but ideal for swimming for me.  I sometimes think that it is only in the waters of the Caribbean than Carles would be satisfied – whereas I have never really got over the shock of retreating from the clammy heat of our Mexican resort and not finding the cold, invigorating shock of British waters that I was more used to, but something more bath-water-warm!

     In a temperature of only 17C I sat and wrote, wondering as I did so whether the weather was going to be sufficiently cosy for us to celebrate my birthday, later in the month, outside - as I fully intend to.

     At my last Birthday Lunch, I have to admit that not a great deal of food passed my lips, but rather a considerable quantity of home-made punch.  I had a thoroughly good time, but I do not intend to repeat the proportions of that repast.  For my birthday this year round I have determined that the drink (inter alia) will be Sangria de Cava, and that the food will be again provided by my friend who had a pollo a last in the town centre.  He did us proud last time round, so I intend to repeat the order - and this time eat some of it.

     As the centrepiece of the meal will be suckling pig (which I will have him divvy up into individual portions) I felt that the Cava ought to be of a superior quality, even if it is to be augmented with juice, fruit, pop and liqueur, and to that end I searched through the Internet hand have found a site that offers a decent Cava at a very much more than decent price. 

     Those who do not live in Catalonia (the Home of Cava) have to understand that it is more than possible to find a drinkable Cava for less than three quid, so one is able to splash out a little and get something presentable for nowhere near the exorbitant price of Champagne.  I have, therefore, taken a chance and have ordered a limited-edition Cava (in a very nice and stylish bottle, and yes, I am shallow enough to be persuaded by design) which should be delivered well in advance of the event itself.  Even the Cointreau and Spanish Brandy are not as expensive as they would be in the UK, so one is able to be a little freer with regard to the ‘body’ of the Sangria than at home!

     And that is as far as my planning has gone so far.  Although completion of this blog is another task done. 

     So, progress is being made!

 

Liquid musing

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pool water has returned to its crystalline clarity in our local pool, but one does wonder just what “product” we have been swimming in that has been used to banish yesterday’s murkiness.  But that way madness lies, and life is too short etc etc to worry (overmuch) about such things.

     In a sign of technological spitefulness because of my forced missed swim yesterday, my smartwatch refused to record accurately my latest swim, only giving about half the meters of each length, but my internal length counter guided me to a satisfactory completion where, in spite of the evidence of the resentful watch, I think that I more than exceeded my usual lengths.

     The local pool is one of the only places in Castelldefels that can supply me with a decent cup of tea (a mixture of Earl Grey and English Breakfast) which is my reward for completing my swim.  Today, they had run out! 

     I had been prepared for this awful eventuality and took an orange juice as an alternative, but an orange juice topped up with ice cold Cava.  I have now entered that select grouping of ageing men who have alcohol first thing in the morning!  Well, not really, the orange juice was the major partner in the drink and freshly pressed too, so the Cava was more of jeu d’esprit than anything else.  Though one I could easily get used to!

    

 

I am beginning to understand that the cost of living I going to be a major problem.  Even casual shops are now costing over 100 euros.  I can still recall my parents have a serious discussion about finance after the weekly shop had exceeded five quid for the first time!  That truly was another age.

     It is difficult to think about winter when all available fans are on full strength to make the heat bearable, but with the rising cost of electricity and gas, coupled with the rise in general prices means that our minds are going to be concentrated.  Given the situations in our respective countries, I feel more secure in my adopted home of Catalonia than I would in the Conservative ridden dystopia that Britain has become.  Let us see how the future works out!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 100 – Tuesday 23rd June

Perhaps it’s fitting that the 100^th day of Lockdown is on the eve of one of the more anarchic festivals in the Catalan calendar - San Juan.

     I have put down the blinds in the living room to limit the sonic bombardment that will continue spasmodically for hours and hours and hours.

     I decided not to do a tour on my bike this evening I am going to try and emulate the sleep that I had last night that my watch informed me was better than 99% of users!  I don’t remember it being that profound, but perhaps that is the point!

     I do realise that I should have had a glass of Cava and a piece of coca (the bready hot cross bun like cake) to be traditional for San Juan, but I celebrated with yogurt ice cream!  It is also at times like this that I think about my last drink of Cava, or indeed of any alcohol if it comes to that.  It has now stretched into years.  I can’t say that I truly miss alcohol, though a nice glass of decent red wine with a meal is a nagging desire from time to time!  And I always used to like a glass, or even a bottle, of Cava.  Ah, times past!

     Today has been one of those pleasantly ‘nothing’ days where I did more recreational reading of a novel and The Guardian with a little sunbathing with of course my bike ride and swim.

     I also hoovered the stairs and I was horrified at the amount of dirt that the activity produced.  My little robots do the level surface cleaning, and I await with considerable impatience a commercially available robotic stair cleaner!

     Around me the rumbling of explosions is now almost continuous, but I sense that the campaign of noise is not as overwhelming as it has been in years past.  Perhaps it is yet another tradition that is having to cope with the limitations of the virus.

     Tomorrow is classified as a fiesta and so the swimming pool is open an hour later.  I can’t be bothered to change my alarm and so I will have the delight of waking up to go to sleep again – though the danger there is that you oversleep and you also lack the backstop of a later alarm.  I like living dangerously!

      I am now off to bed, no doubt my dreams using imagery from the First World War to work the whizz-bangs into a surrealistic narrative!

When is a drink not a drink?

 

It is always good to have a goal in life.

There exists (because I have seen in on the TV and that, as everyone knows, is a bastion of truthfulness) a non-alcoholic gin and tonic.  Who cares? I hear you all chant in unison.  And you do, of course, have a point.  Why would anyone who likes a good G&T want it without the alcohol that makes it all worthwhil?.

Well, me.

As I have had my alcohol intake curtailed by medical advice (I hardly count “one small glass of red wine” as being an invitation to anything) I have looked around for alternatives.  Luckily, my fading memories of early attempts at non-alcoholic beer, have not been re-born by trying the modern alternatives.  There was a sort of stout that I drank in Edinburgh lately that actually tasted like the real thing, and it was in larger than usual bottle as well!

So, having exhausted the delights of having cold water with my meals and alternating with Casera (a calorie free sort of pop) and equally not really liking that either.  I am in the market for drinks that actually taste like something like the originals that I am not allowed to drink.

I have not had the courage to ask for non-alcoholic wine, as my memories of that horror are still vivid and not something that I want to repeat.  And, anyway, who would have the courage to ask for something so vile in a country that makes so much of the real stuff?

There is a kids-version of Cava, but that it impossibly sweet and the bottle is naff too.

This lunchtime I asked for pimentos del padron which are green fried peppers.  Nothing out of the ordinary about that, but I had to say “sin sal” in other words “without salt” as that is another of the denials that I have to make.  As the chunks of sea salt are an integral part of the dish, to ask for it not to be there is akin to having fish and chips without mushy peas.  It’s still a tasty dish, but it’s not the same.

Like the beer and the wine and the mythical G&T without alcohol.

But, if it exists, I am prepared to give it a try.

An ongoing project of mine is to find a way to make non-alcoholic sangria (another no-no for most people in this country) but nothing daunted, I am prepared to do some research to find a way to make the stuff that I can drink.  There is a concoction of tinto de Verano or red wine of summer that had been advertised as non-alcoholic version.  That could form the base, the add fruit and then the only problem is with the brandy or similar to give a flavoured base.  I am convinced that there is a non-alcoholic brandy flavouring used in baking that would suit the bill.

It may not “work” but it should be fun trying!

If anyone out there has a suggestion to make the drink more palatable, feel free to let me know.  I am always looking to extend the non-alcoholic delights in store for me!

The Lesson For The Day

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There is nothing like being in a gathering where you are the only person who does not have fluency in the language being used in fast, idiomatic exchanges to encourage you to focus on “unconsidered trifles” (and yes, I did look it up, and I thought it was from another play than the one I first thought of, shame on me!) and then to play around with the levels of irony that you can find in and around your place setting at the dinner table.

One such “trifle” was a bottle top (so to speak), from a bottle of Cava given to me because I was British because we obviously know everything there is to know about alcohol from its manufacture, through bottle opening, to astonishing consumption.  

All the Catalans that I know are, generally speaking, moderate in their drinking habits to the point of squeamishness.  Therefore, my ability to consume more than a single glass of Cava is regarded with something approaching pitying awe - though those last two words sound like an example of oxymoron, but let it pass.  The point is that I am deferred to on matters alcoholic, especially in matters Cava-ic, so I always open the bottles.

I have to admit that I am something of an expert now and pride myself on the efficient removal of all but the most recalcitrant of corks with the minimum of sound.  There are no ‘pops’ when I uncork a bottle of Cava, merely the merest of susurrations - if that!

As I am sure that any ful kno (and I am not prepared to give the source of that deathless quotation based on the Satchmo Principle) under the foil covering the cork is a round metal disc that stops the wire holding the cork in place cutting into the cork itself.  Usually these discs have some sort of design on them and have actually become collectors’ pieces!  Sad buggers, says the grown man who still collects British Commemorative First Day Covers!  You can buy specially designed folders with special pouched plastic sheets to display your treasures!  Says the man who has tens of filled folders with pouched plastic sheets to display his FDCs.

Anyway, a colleague in The School on the Hill in Barcelona once told me that her sister-in-law collected such things and that she would be grateful if I could keep my eye open when a bottle was un-corked and, if I remained sober enough, remember to keep the illustrated disc.  I dutifully collected the discs that I drank through, as it were, and in spite of the fact that my colleague’s husband now owns a restaurant and therefore is an unending supply of little discs, I still look and almost automatically put the discs into my pocket.  And then months later throw them away.  It’s a sort of domestic rite of passage.

The one illustrated above, however, caught my interest because of its innate preachiness.

I always maintain that I was virtually unique in the teaching profession by actually listening to each and every school assembly to which I went.  I mean really listening.  Elsewhere I have noted the extraordinary “quality” of what I heard.  The content ranged from the recited (from a printed book of assembly suggestions), through out-and-out gibberish, to one exceptional Christian assembly in which the basic tenets of religion were comprehensively rejected!   

No matter what was said, there was little to no reaction because people did not listen.  Never mind the kids who adopted the defensive ‘closed ears’ syndrome in an assembly situation, but also the adult teachers who I noted were able to look with empty eyes at the speaker on the stage while at the same time giving a vague impression of being emotionally engaged in what was being said.  One of the tricks to maintain sanity!

There were good assemblies in which well-chosen examples were linked to the kids' lives that, if only they had been listening, would have edified them.  But they were in the minority.

My favourite assembly speaker was, I have to admit, one of the worst.  He was a great aficionado of the “While listening to the radio this morning . . .” and the “On my way to school today I noticed” school of assembly giving.  Whatever he talked about in his free-flowing stream of consciousness, the delivery of the punch line of his words was always the same.  The content may have been conflict in Africa, or charity in India, or the perils of drug taking, or the need to plan your studies, but the punch-line, the denouement, the didactic thrust was always, “Don’t drop litter!”   

His greatest moment came when his topic appeared to be (nothing was ever clear cut) something to do with female hygiene!  Just the way to start the day!  After ten or so minutes of acute embarrassment wondering what the hell the point was that he was trying to make in his indelicate meanderings, we finally to to the  clear, concise and gloriously out of place summary: “Don’t drop litter!”

I couldn’t help thinking of him as I looked at the disc, while speedy Catalan flowed around me: “Sin ALCOHOL”, and I wondered just what he would have produced from such a ready-made stimulus for a student audience!  Perhaps he would have remarked the sinuous, sensuous, swash capital ‘S’ taking up so much of the space, spreading itself on the pristine white as though owning it, literally crowning the bottle!  And then the prosaic sans serif of ALCOHOL in small capitals: the capitals representing the importance of the substance, but the size a reference to the insidious nature of the product: no frills, just threat; there, yet at the same time almost inconspicuous beneath the flamboyance of Sin!  And so on, until the peroration and the exhortation to be tidy!

The real irony, of course is that interpretation only works in English, not in Spanish!

In Spanish the word for ‘sin’ is ‘pecado’ - which we retain in English in the word ‘peccadillo’ meaning a little sin.  Interestingly, though probably only to me, the word ‘peccable’ meaning open to sin, also exists, but this word is more commonly used as its negative as in ‘impeccable’ and therefore forms a part of the select group of words which include ‘gruntled’, 'whelm', ‘kempt’, ‘couth’, ‘ruly’, ‘corrigible’ and ‘wieldy’.

Anyway, in English the Spanish word ‘sin’ means 'without’, so the bottle top disc was actually from a bottle of semi-sec (ugh!) Cava-like liquid, without alcohol!  It tasted, I couldn’t resist it, as disgusting as you might imagine.

I suppose, if you were feeling in the right mood of mischievousness, you could work out a whole ‘assembly’ in which the revolting taste of the drink without alcohol, linked to the free forming and sheer exuberance of the word ‘sin’ and the solid reassurance of the black capitals of the word ALCOHOL are a direct encouragement to sybaritic excess.

But, please to remember, Don’t Drop Litter, and dispose of the metal disc in a container for recycling!

Now, go and learn! 

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Accepting reality? I think not. Possibly.

I know I’m getting old!

Other ageing people point, often literally, to a selection of their aching joints, or illustrate with an airy wave of the hand a forgetful memory, or pause with what they hope is significant timing to try and find an errant word.  Not me.  Even though I act out those tell-tale signs I still spurn (as ‘twere a rabid dog) any admission of the fact that I am getting older.

But today, today was a turning point.

At lunch, the meal after the late night/early morning of the New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day family celebrations, I finally had to face the realization that the accumulation of years in my life had reached a disturbing point.

The meal was provide by the tired but indomitable mother of Toni and comprised a melange of potato, Spanish ham and egg with accompanying bits and pieces and whole prawns.  Delicious!  And to wash it all down was the inevitable (and loathed by me) Coke Zero Zero, and a bottle of water.  The real drink comprised a rather fine bottle of Cava.

As usual, for reasons that are all to explicable, I was given the bottle of Cava to uncork.  Which I did.  Offering it around to the diners, only one of us had a full glass: me.  The other three have a notional smear of the liquid so that they could say that they had been full of New Year Spirit.

Every offer of a fill-up (or augmentation of their piddling amounts) was met with a polite but firm refusal.  So I had recourse to the only other accepting rim, mine.

And here is where the realization of just how old I might be showed itself.  I eventually stopped filling my glass up.  I allowed a partially full bottle of Cava to leave the table and go into the kitchen where it will be poured away.  Into the sink!

I have always prided myself on being ‘so much younger than my grandparents were at my age’ – but how can I, in all conscience, maintain this assertion when I actually and in reality, allowed a half empty bottle of Cava to be ‘wasted’?

I remember, vividly, though years ago, a party in the Circle Bar in the New Theatre, Cardiff for someone’s birthday party where the drink provided solely consisted of cocktails.  There were three as I remember, but only one that I recall: a Champagne cocktail that, I can still see in my mind's eye, comprised a brandy soaked cube of sugar at the bottom of a glass that was then filled with Champagne.  

I tried one of these and thought, immediately, that the liquor soaked sugar cube was a profanation of decent Champagne.  So I took action.  I ‘acquired’ a bottle of Champagne and retired to a corner and slowly but purposefully drank it.  I then went looking for another bottle, which I found, but was not allowed to drink it in the sequestered peace of the first, as owners of un-drowned sugar lumps came in search of submersion.

It was an easy switch from Champagne to Cava, especially to the older, tastier Cava brut versions with which I am now familiar, and mostly especially given the radical difference in price.  

With a few adjustments made to my purchases over the years, spurning the offerings of Frexinet because of the poisonous political attitude of the owner and questioning a few of the other brands because of their suspect right wing leanings, I have learned to love Catalan Cava.  And apart from the cheaper and sweeter varieties I have never been known to leave a bottle half drunk.

But now I realize that the time has come to take stock and to consider what this not-empty bottle left in the kitchen might mean.  

I could, I suppose, assume that leaving alcoholic liquid that I don't really need to consume is a sign (at last) that I am getting to the age of discretion.  Or it could mean that the pain in the lower back is not muscular, but rather my tired kidneys calling out for respite!

Whatever the analysis might bring up, it remains as an indisputable fact that I did leave a bottle of Cava with some drinkable Cava inside!

Or could it be the start of a trend?  My suit was tight so I do need to lose weight; cutting down on my lunchtime red wine might be one way of doing it.  

Or it could be a flash in the pan and this disgrace will not be repeated.  We shall see.

Meanwhile I am dog tired and I feel that putting my watch to charge counts as housekeeping.

Time to think about a snooze and perhaps I will feel and think differently after some of the recent sleep deprivation losses have been partially made up.