Survival!

 

 

Our cosy meeting of the Poetry Group in Barcelona last night was rudely interrupted (ironically during the period of silent introspection before our free-write) by a chorus of alarms from our mobile phones, the local government raucously informing us that a major storm was about to break and that extra care needed to be taken and . . .  but the way that the alarms are set up is that if you press the ‘OK’ on the screen to stop the noise, it also wipes the message, so any further details are lost and you just have the memory of the noise and the brief glimpse of the apocalypse outlined in three languages.

     It is a sign of the times that one member of the group had used her past experience to explain the proper etiquette for dealing with the increasingly regular (and intrusive!) mobile phone alarms, by informing us that the proper etiquette is is lower the volume to stop the noise, and then you can read the message from the authorities at your leisure.

     It was also with a certain amount of cynicism that we now appreciate these ‘warnings’.  After various scandals where withering fingers of accusation have been levelled at various officials who did nothing or less than nothing in the face of prompt warnings, we are now at the other extreme of responsibility with any front-line authorities showing an eagerness to put warnings out as soon as possible so that the officials involved can cover themselves in the case of disaster.

     It was the first flash of over-the-top lightning (looking more like the results of an amateur junior ASM being over enthusiastic in giving a dramatic light show for Lear’s Madness on the Heath scene, than anything in so-called real life) that I realised that I had not even backed a mini umbrella into my backpack and that I would have to traipse my way to the car park under the arc de triomf in driving rain.

     In the event, at the prompt termination of the event, there was what appeared to be a lull in the storm (which had provided sometimes disturbingly apposite sound and lighting effects to the poetry being read) which I took advantage of and scurried (in so far as I am now capable of that action) off to the car park with my baston clicking an urgent clicking beat to my progress.

     The car park is one of those vast underground constructions which honeycomb the city and give vastly expensive parking spaces, because finding something on the actual above-ground streets is virtually impossible.  My problem is always getting back in at the end of the meeting after the doors have closed.

     As is usually the case, at the entrance to the car park you are provided with a ticket from the machine which gives you a printed bar code which can be read by a machine which will then open the door for you to get your car.  I, however, have a little machine in the car which is recognized and lets me through without having to take a ticket, and this is also the case when I leave, my payment is automatically and (almost) painlessly extracted from my account, as you only get the briefest digital glimpse of the astronomical amount that you have paid to stay there.

     But I can never get in because the after-hours closed doors can only be opened from the street by showing your printed barcode on the ticket that you were issued with when you came in.  A ticket that I do not have.  I have previously been told that I can punch the registration of my car into the machine manually to gain access – but the keypad only has number and not letters, so I always find myself pressing the little button next to the keypad to summon one of the workers to open the door. 

     This usually takes a few minutes, which is usually not a problem (in spite of some of the suspect characters who hang around the arc de triomf late at night) but yesterday, I was waiting outside in The Lull waiting for the rains to recommence at any moment.

     My entry was facilitated by a customer leaving and, by the time that I got to my car, I was passed by a worker on one of those little electrical vehicles usually seen in airports, making his way to where I would have been waiting if it wasn’t for the aforementioned customer.

     Almost as soon as I got out of the carpark it started raining, complete with thunder and lightning.  As the air-con in the car is not functioning, I had the windows open and, as the rain increased, closed so the car became like a sauna.  And I took a new way home, guided by the GPS, going through new streets until I came to the welcome familiarity of the Via Laietana and a well-known way back.

     Driving at night in Barcelona is a total pain as you limp your way from red traffic light to red traffic light, with the added frustration of stopping for imaginary people to cross.  Would it really hurt the municipal authorities to install a degree of AI into the lights to facilitate the smoother running of the roads?  No, perhaps I shouldn’t have added a question mark to the last sentence, as its rhetorical nature is clear!

     As I drove through the city accompanied by lashing rain and the melodramatic production of son et lumière for the end times, I eventually made it onto the motorway.

     Although I was expecting it, based on vast past experience, the quality of the driving (in rain that needed the fastest setting of the windscreen wipers to fail to clear all the water) was appalling.  Motorists did not reduce their speed; they attempted risky manoeuvres on roads covered in standing water and . . . it was just like a normal night’s bad practice with the added danger of torrential rain.

     I did reduce speed, but that merely meant that vehicles drove at my speed a few centimetres behind me until they swerved to overtake into idiot traffic that was doing the same as they were.  I would like to say that it was an invigorating experience, but it wasn’t.  It was stressfully depressing and it remains a constant wonder to me that I do not have to thread my way through a series of pile-ups on all the roads I use!

     But obviously, I made it home, and was ironically drenched in the short run from the car to the front door.   

     A small price to pay for survival!

 

 

Pointless power

 

There is always something exhilarating about an electric storm, especially in this part of the world, as they seem (when they happen) to be the showy Drama Queens of thunder and lightning with constant flashes and histrionic rolls of thunder.  As I open the door of third floor to gain greater immediate access to the shenanigans of the weather, I am reminded of what we used to do in my first primary school.

     We were not allowed to use ball point pens, but instead we were issued with wooden nib holders and a metal nib to use the ink that was portioned out into the inkwells that were part of the desks that we used.  The inkwells had a sliding metal cover which was put in place when the ink was not being used to limit evaporation and keep things from falling in.  During thunderstorms, as we had been informed of the propensity for lightning to find a metal conduit to “earth” itself, we very carefully put pieces of blotting paper over the metal inkwell covers so that we were not electrocuted by a stray branch of lightning finding its way into our classroom.  Even though, even at that age, we suspected that a small piece of blotting paper was unlikely to be of very much help, it seemed better than doing nothing, and gave a most pleasurable sense of danger possibly prevented to liven up we already storm-excited kids.

     The storm has now passed, with the rolls of thunder being more of the distant grumbling variety rather than the window shaking type that really did buffet us just a few minutes ago.  The lightning remains, but more as distant fading flashes looking like poor theatrical attempts to try and mirror the real thing.

     A storm like the one that we have just had has an immediate legacy in this district of Castelldefels.  The name of the district is taken from the number of pine trees that abound and any storm washes off quantities of needles from the trees which, unless they are removed with expedition block gutters and drains and produce almost instant flooding.

     We have no pine trees growing in our garden, but we are surrounded by them in other gardens and so our garden is covered in needles, all of which need to be gathered up and put out on the pavement on a Friday when the organic collection of rubbish takes place and the raked debris disappears.

     I must admit that in my first year of teaching, I vividly remember a lad giving a passionate and informed talk to the rest of the class about his dad’s job in the local sewerage works.  His description of nematode worms and their essential part in dealing with waste and his simple wonder about the worth of sewerage and waste management has stayed with me through my career and beyond.

     I do find the whole logistical exercise of waste collection fascinating and I never fail to be moved and astonished by the way that it is done.

     In Castelldefels we have had a system of rubbish specific bins that are emptied on a daily basis by the use of massive lorries with a hydraulic arm that picks up each (large) bin, empties it into its appropriate section and replaces it with amazing precision when it has been emptied.  It must all be computer controlled and the lorries must cost a fortune, but it seems to work.

     I’m now typing in silence, the storm ended, and only the sound of the two fans which more than cover the sound of a very distant thunder roll.

     There are several pinch points in Castelldefels where storm water accumulates and the drainage system is inadequate in dealing with it.  As I make my way to the pool tomorrow I åshould pass at least two of them, but on the bike, it is easy to find a dry way through and not have to plough through the massive puddles.

 

 

Well, all that was last night and now its the afternoon of the next day, so to speak - and the sun is shining and the fans are on!  Ah, what a joy to live in a country where the weather is not lingeringly spiteful!

     The results of the downpour last night were obvious in the amount of leaves, needles and small branches littering the streets, pavements and more importantly gutters.

     My cycle to my morning swim was uneventful apart from the new bumps of tree litter strewn along my way, but the more spectacular even was to turn into the leisure centre and see the new lake that had formed taking over a chunk of the seating area and part of the parking area as well!     

     The attempts of the technical staff to use an electric pump to get rid of the water at first resulted in a small ornamental fountain, but by the time that I had finished my post-swim tea, the water had gone.

     As will the rest of the organic rubble as tomorrow is the leaf collection day and the little piles that have now accumulated outside our houses will magically disappear.  I hope.

     If not then our parking spaces (because some people put their tree and grass waste on the road) will be limited for another week - and not everyone obeys the rule that no waste can be put out for collection until Thursday at the earliest.

     It is very difficult not to feel resentment against those people who Take Advantage.  And what do we saintly others who obey the rules do?  Grumble a little, but actually do nothing.  I have read that some parts of the UK have draconian rules regarding the sorting of rubbish into correct receptacles, and woe betide the recidivist who makes a second mistake about the placing of egg shells: punishment is condign and expensive!  So, I'm told.

     One of the pleasure of owning a bike was the ability to ride along the Paseo and see the sea.  That is now forbidden.  It was done in stages: firstly on the narrower part of the Paseo and then extended to all of it.  And I obey the rules.

     Except, each time I come back from my morning swim, I cycle along the road which runs parallel to the out of bounds Paseo, and I ALWAYS see a few cyclists enjoying the forbidden sight of the sea.  And what happens to them?  Nothing!

     I know that I should be satisfied to do what is right and that feeling of rectitude should be reward enough.  But it isn't.  If I may paraphrase and overused saying, "It is not enough for me to do good; I must see those who do not, suffer!"

     Another character flaw I have to work on!

O God The News!

 

Never let it be said that the bloody awful weather dictates my attitude towards life.  However, I am in a bloody awful mood to match!

The news from Britain as the shambolic ‘government’ of talentless Conservative (have you any idea how difficult it was for me to put a capital letter at the start of that word) lower than vermin, self-seeking, inept, traitorous, bastards descend lower and lower into the farce that is their approach to Brexit.

And my contempt for May grows.  And, no, I have no sympathy for her as she is savaged by the liars and cowards with whom she has surrounded herself.  Whenever I see her robotically defending the indefensible and fell a smidgeon of sympathy, I only have to remember her tenure at the Home Office and the heartless and ILLEGAL processes that she put in place to banish any fellow feeling for her ‘suffering’ now.  Her on-going failure at least gives a re-reading of the “all politicians’ careers end in failure” as hers has been failure in its more continuous manner.  To say nothing of her dancing.

It is a sign of desperation and picking through the dregs that Pixie Cheeks Gove has been asked to take on the barbed wire rimmed, poisoned chalice of Brexit Secretary.  But he will only accept if he is allowed to renegotiate!  What world are these people living in?  Are they so secure in the foreign investments that they can look on with equanimity as the rest (the large rest) of us suffer?

I know that I do not command a great deal of sympathy as I spend my retirement by the side of the Med here in Castelldefels – but my pension is paid in pounds sterling and when I first came to Catalonia a Euro was 70p; now a Euro is 87p which means that my pension has been reduced by 20%, a fifth of my buying power has been wiped out largely because of the stupidity of a discontented electorate listening to the lies of the Brexiteers and believing that those Brexiteer had access to whole herds of magic unicorns who would make all manner of things well!  Rubbish.  Just recite the names of the most prominent Brexiteer and then ask the age-old question, “Would you buy a used car” from any of them?  Of course, you wouldn’t, so why entrust the future of your country to the sick imaginations of these failures?

And that scum that has resigned . . . and I paused there because my dictatorial watch informed me that I had been sitting for too long and I needed to move about for a minute!   

Perhaps its is just as well I walked away from the keys.  What do I achieve by venting my spleen?  I suppose it could be considered cathartic, but apart from keeping my blood pressure within the green range, cui bono?

It is, however, ironic that the “onlie begetters” of Brexit are generally not in government any more and therefore are not dealing with the mess that they have made!  Nothing like denying responsibility, but I suppose they have the superb example of Cameron to take as their guide for thoroughly selfish irresponsibility!

And the back wheel of my bike has been punctured or something because it was thoroughly flat when I attempted to ride it to my Catalan lesson this morning.  And now I have to go and pick it up in the pouring rain.  Again.  Much as I like the bike, I have to admit that I have been singularly unlucky with the damn thing.  I have barely gone more than a fortnight riding the thing without some reason to take it back to my bike man.  The broken spokes have become a running joke and the suspension is suspect too.

I am now thoroughly regretting that I have ordered the updated, fat wheel version of the bike that I have.  It will have improved brakes and gears, with a sexy paint job (sigh!), a full colour display and a back pannier, or at least a framework to put one on, and the thing will have a sort of brake light as well.  As you can see, I am easily persuaded with the trivia and don’t really care about the important engineering of the thing!

The new bike should/might arrive in time for Christmas and will give me something to worry about, while not being able to ride the thing because of poor weather.  It is all in the anticipation and not the reality!

Anyway, to finish off a near perfect day, after I have collected my bike, I then have to return to the centre of town for a dental appointment.  If a day is going to be bad then it does make sense to concentrate all the badness so that you can enjoy it a schadenfreude sort of way.

To keep my sanity, I have not gone out of my way to find what new infantile lunacy the so-called Head of the Free World has been up to.  That can wait until I am stronger!