Fire!

Our fuegos artificiales (the Spanish is definitely better than the prosaic “fireworks”) lasted precisely 10 short minutes.  Ten minutes of delight!  There are some things that stay with you from childhood and never let you go: fireworks are my memorium pueritiae!

Linked to this fascination has been a long-standing desire to take one, just one, decent photograph of a firework exploding.  Through successive cameras I have tried to persuade myself that I am getting closer to that illusive shot.  On some shameful occasions I have resorted to downright trickery and taken a small detail in a shot and blow it up to make it appear as if the explosion of colour thus captured was a result of careful composition.

Friday’s attempts produced shots which were as inept as anything that I have ever produced.  A triumph for consistency at least!

Never let it be said that I cannot find beauty in perversity; so some of the shots have an almost abstract attractiveness while other shots make it seem that our modest display was something akin to the foundation of the universe.  There are one of two photos where the end result is recognizable as an exploding firework and, while the lines of colour are a little sparse, they show the way to better pictures.

I would not call my efforts a total failure but neither were they the opulent success that I seek.

I struggled to the beach this morning weighed down with a full Lidl fair-trade bag; a new towel; sun lounger and self-inflatable airbed.

I think I can fairly say that when I was finally established on the beach my lounger/airbed/towel combination put me at the “high-end” of the comfort zone – and rightly so.

I am still reading the Kindle copy of The Guardian that I bought days ago: I have even read the Sports section, and even further the cricket reports! This is not healthy.  And I have read precious few real books this holiday as well!

The Family arrived at lunchtime and we had a pollo a last from La Pava: decidedly sub standard and the chips had to be tried to be believed.  The croquettes seemed to have been made with pointedly tasteless sawdust, but the chicken itself was moist and tasty.

As we are well into our Festa Major we went into town in the evening and failed to hear the singing in the main square, as it had not started on time.  To compensate we went for a drink: a small beer and miniscule tapa for €1.30 which is excellent value – but please note that I used the adjective “small” to indicate the amount of beer in the glass.  After god knows how long after the last molecule of beer had finally evaporated from the desiccated glass I decided (alone) to have another.  The rest of the Catalans were quite happy watching the world go by behind an empty glass.  It is unnerving to find people who are so easily satisfied with one paltry drink.  I needed another one just to steady them.  The nerves that is.

Our walk back to the cars was enlivened by my sighting fireworks (!) in the main square and so off I rushed accompanied hand in hand by one of Toni’s nephews.  The poor boy travelled rather faster than he anticipated and also suffered something of a whip-lash effect as I wove my twisty way through the crowds with the hapless child flapping along behind.

When we got to the main square I had to lift the kid up so that he could see.  And I was unable to take photographs!

Luckily his father soon joined us and placed his son on his shoulders and I was able to shoot away at the rapidly vanishing group of revellers who were waving fireworks on sticks at the crowds.

It is a tradition of people to dress up in sacking and, looking exactly like characters from some medieval woodcut prance around with lighted fireworks.  Hardy (or stupid) members of the public are invited to dance with them under the fiery rain of burning sparks.

There is also a dragon.  Each town has its own mythic beast which, bedecked with fireworks, makes its way through the streets burning passing citizens.  This is fun.  Officially.

There is a vague nod towards Health & Safety in the form of procession marshals and some barriers but the whole thing would have been laughed to scorn at the initial planning stage in the UK.  But, as I am so often told, “Remember Stephen, this is not Britain.”

The “firework” setting on my camera was far too sensitive to take pictures at close range and with the incidental lighting from the street lamps and merely produced the sort of white-on-white shots which would have gladdened the heart of any self-respecting Russian Supremacist painter.  Rapidly adjusting the setting I managed to get one or two shots but nothing as good as I got when using my old Canon with the real viewfinder!

Still, two lots of fireworks in two days can’t be all bad.

And Sunday marks the arrival of The Pauls!

To go to the beach (which is at the end of the road) I need to take the following: a portable sun lounger; factor 20 sun lotion; my Kindle; a large (yet never quite large enough) towel; my x-generation i-pod; my mobile phone; an elegant waterproof watch; a hat; my goggles; my ear plugs; my keys; a T-shirt; colourful yet restrained shorts; sandals and money - because, if nothing else, I am my mother’s son and the idea of going absolutely anywhere without money is something which all my maternal training revolts at.  And contact lenses of course.  Thus casually prepared I am ready to hit the sand.  And a camera.  I forgot that.  

I have two photographic aims in life.  The first is to take a decent picture of fireworks and the second, and much more difficult with our irritatingly unruffled sea, is to take a stirring picture of a wave.

I also forget that my mobile phone can take pictures.  But the pixel rating of the mobile phone camera is witheringly low; I am not convinced that my real cameras (note the plural) can take photos at that low a resolution!

Toni is unnecessarily dismissive of the sheer amount of stuff that I need to lay (Oh, and a bathing costume, I forgot to add that to the list) simply and demurely in the sunshine within a stone’s throw of the house.  Well, I like my creature comforts and I know what I need, so there!

Toni is, however also the cause of my probably taking even more “stuff” to the beach.

On a visit to Sitges we went to Lidl (A German supermarket, my lord, where the advantageous prices charged are a brave attempt to get looters to consider paying for their consumer durables rather than acquiring them to the sound of tinkling glass) and he noticed “self-inflating airbeds” which would be easier to carry to the beach and make lying on the sand so much more pleasant.

To me, “self-inflating” would be pretty far along the “against-the-law-of-god” scale.  Anything that useful could not possibly work; and if it did work then the Black Arts would have to be fairly heavily involved.  Surely!

Cheerfully ignoring our moral scruples we bought one each with the stated intention of “taking them straight back if they don’t work” to justify their purchase.

These things come rolled and, unrolled they look like very thin, very flat airbeds.  They have valves on one corner which when turned anti-clockwise produce a very, very subdued whoosh (if such a thing is possible) and very, very gradually the wrinkles on the surface of the “bed” disappear and it magically inflates to its full one and a half inches of comfort for the sleeper.  It does work.

We have worked out that there must be some form of honeycombed foam inside which compressed is without air and when allowed to expand draws in air to fill its structure, air which can be trapped by the turning of a valve.

We haven’t actually tried them out yet, as the instructions state that it is advisable to allow them to lie with the valve open “overnight” to give the foam a chance to expand to its full potential.

I have to be fair and say that I am sure that it is going to be more comfortable stretched out on the “Fun Camp” (sic) self-inflating bed than on a towel directly on the sand.  But the extent that it is better and more comfortable remains to be seen.  So far, we are merely amazed by it doing what its USP indicated!

I think that I will be taking it as well as the sun lounger, thus with all my “stuff” making me appear more like somebody coming to colonize the beach rather than lay on it!  I can always run my patriotic shorts up the flagpole and claim the beach for Wales!

Lunch was in town and in a restaurant which had toasted bread, garlic, tomatoes and aioli on the table.  All of which was charged for in the final bill.  We only had one course because the menu del dia has been suspended because today is the start of our Festa Major or our annual celebrations and fiesta.  One course and a drink and we ended up paying something like €13 each!  Such a rip off – even if our food was excellent!

Significantly at 11.00 pm tonight we have my photographic bête noire, fireworks.  I will, of course, try again and attempt to take a decent picture.  I am at a great disadvantage because my usual approach to seeing fireworks is to gape, open mouthed in wonder and take no photographs at all.  I shall do my best.  And use the new camera which does have a “firework” setting – though in my experience these settings do little or nothing in helping take an adequate photograph.  

Still I am ever the optimist and I always believe that “this time it will be different”.  Bless!

London's . . . . . . . . well, you've finished the phrase!

Try as I might, and I have tried hard, one cannot get away from what has been going on in London.

The Spanish news agencies are revelling in our troubles as it certainly takes attention away from the “economy” which is the term for the sick joke that the Spanish have constructed since the implementation of the euro to deal with financial affairs in this country.  Any attention paid to Spanish Debt or Spanish Unemployment or Inflation or anything to do with the economy and hollow laughter is heard throughout the land!

So the behaviour of Thatcher’s Grand-Children in their all-out dedication to consumerism or die comes as something like light relief for the hard pressed merchants of doom who nightly avoid all of the most pressing economic problems in this country.

Spain’s answer to our Blitz-like riots was a disturbance in Lloret de Mar in which foreign revellers fought with police.  Spanish police should not be confused with British police.  Spanish police come out metaphorically all guns firing.  Indeed, as far as plastic bullets are concerned, literally with all guns firing!

I remember a Spanish television programme about resorts in the night.  In one the police were dealing with one thuggish British boozer when his drunken chavish girlfriend decided to weigh-in and started berating the arresting policeman and bad mouthing him and attempting to drag her boyfriend free.  The policeman’s response was an full open-handed slap across her face.  She behaved and promptly dissolved into sobbing disbelief.

I do not for a moment condone such behaviour by the police – but a small but significant part of me felt a little jump of delight that someone had their justifiable comeuppance!

I was reminded of this occasion when I listened to a BBC recording of an interview of three girls who had participated in the riots.  They were drinking a bottle of rosé (in itself a crime) and voicing their thoughts.  The riot was “good” because it showed that “we can do what we like” and it was justified because it was “against the rich” who were defined as anyone who owned a small local shop or business.

Like the girl just before she was slapped, what one senses is a lack of moral and social responsibility together with an expectation of immunity from the consequences of those faulty actions.

I downloaded a copy of The Guardian to my Kindle today for less than two dollars: I don’t really want the news I want the Guardian comment on the news to comfort me with pseudo convincing sociobabble!

As my knees have still not recovered from the forced march yesterday, I declined to accompany Toni on his stroll along the littoral in search of the elusive black sea glass.

The new lounger encourages lounging in a most satisfactory manner which I did while downloading and then reading the Guardian by the side of the sea.  Such is modern technology!

Keep it coming!

A little late, but still near enough to the previously set deadline we set off for a walk.  I am not given to walks but, as the sun was sulking behind clouds, I decided to see what other people have said is, “nice.”

Walking through the dying waves was, for a few paces, quite pleasant.  It is, after all, the stuff of innumerable novels, plays, short stories and films.  And it is supposed to be good for the feet.  But it is a bit, well, samey.  And the water does not wash over one’s lower extremities with a constant force.  No indeed; one or two incontinent wavelets can easily give one the look of another meaning of that adjective and one is reduced to praying for the sun to come back out to evaporate the misleading dampness!

We walked down to the centre of the playa looking down for Our Purpose in Life, sea glass – and found very little.  The vagaries of tide and time seemed to have washed all the detritus from which gleaming examples of sea-smoothed broken bottles could be extracted from the tide line.  All was smooth shelving sand!

I do not think that all of this is natural.  Since living in Spain and going on holiday to Gran Canaria I have come to understand just how much very large machinery is involved in the simple phrase of “beach maintenance”.

 

I suppose my first practical example of how to make a beach look natural using unnatural means was in St Tropez when I slept on the beach (sic) with an Irishman (not in that sense) and was moved on by the police (shame!) so that the great sand sifting machines could rake and cleanse the sand for the richer people who went on the hygienic sands in the daytime.

That was not the first time that I had been moved on by the police.  The first time was when I was trying to sleep in a public park in Greece.  I was not alone there either.  This time I was sleeping with a horde of multi-national backpackers (still not in that sense) and I completely forget what I did after I was moved on.  Indeed I don’t think that I have thought about that particular incident for many a long year.  Trust me to remember St Trop in such detail and Greece so sketchily – such snobbery!  Plus ça change!

Once we were in the area in which we used to live, Toni went to waste his money on another futile ONCE lottery ticket (I am more than prepared to do a complete U-turn on this moral position as soon as he actually wins anything, of course) while I looked at the British newspapers and eventually decided to buy the Guardian.  As I always do – except for periodic lapses into The Independent.

And the paper did not let me down.  Quite apart from excellently informed “liberal” coverage of the riots it also, in the section “Reaction round the world” had the headline “Iran piles in as Britain’s woes are met with global schadenfreude”.  How well the Guardian knows its readership! 

When teaching English as a Foreign Language one also looks at things from a slightly different perspective, and I did wonder how much of that headline I would have to explain to my classes!

We walked back on the paseo and I think I walked a little too far as my knees are letting me know that I have done something out of the ordinary. 

The stairs are slightly problematic at the moment as my progress is a little less like Cinderella making a light-footed Grand Staircase entrance to the Ball than Blind Pew without the stick stumbling his way past the Admiral Benbow - and in this house that is a disaster because almost whatever you are doing you need to go up or down stairs to complete it!  I did say “almost”! 

In fact, that last simile took so much time to fabricate that I think that I have recovered full movement in all my joints!

As Dianne was a prime target for the mozzies, Toni has given the visitors’ room some extra protection.  It looks a little temporary and a little Heath-Robinson, but on the principle that “Anything is Better than Nothing” it should give the little critters something to think about as they try and get new blood!

Our visit to Gava allowed me to look at the end of summer range of loungers for the beach because one session of towel on beach was enough for me.  I do demand my creature comforts and the words “sand” and “relaxation” do not easily go together in my lexicon.

I have purchased a lounger which I sincerely hope is going to last a little longer than merely to the end of this season.  In my experience one should never assume that one’s lounger is going to last beyond the year in which it was bought. 

This year could (must) be an exception because there are only a few weeks left of the official summer I will have to remember to take the lounger in and store it inside rather than leave it to the vicissitudes of the weather to rot and decay.

Nothing done about the books today.

Signalling a new approach to life, Toni has voiced the aim of getting up each day at 8.30 am and going to the beach and walking for an hour.

Allowing for ablutions this actually took place today, starting at about 9.  I don’t of course “do” walking.  I feel that the good lord has gone out of his way to encourage his favourite creation to invent so many forms of transport which are so much easier than putting one foot in front of another that walking is actually a form of blasphemy.

I did a little light wallowing and listened to my Nano while taking the sun.

It is a fact (as noted by Ceri on one of his peregrinations) that early morning visitors to the beach tend to be of a “Senior” persuasion.  Groups of pensioners arrive, strip off and plunge gingerly into the welcoming sea.  Those not staunch enough in their approach to welcome the salutary effects of immersion walk the beach and do a form of beachcombing whose ends results are a little mystifying.

Shells are not difficult to find on our beach but our senior citizens seem to be looking for something more exotic than spending their time finding the two basic shell forms which we have in abundance.  They are looking for sea glass.

We now have a section of the coffee table devoted to this material and Toni has become a devotee of this form of Walking with a Purpose.  I too threw myself into this occupation by walking from my towel to the sea and picking up a few choice pieces (which were later rejected with contempt by Toni as inferior examples) on my walk back to resume my prone position.

Lunch was in an interesting new restaurant next to the Kafka whose name was a variant on the name of Castelldefels though I do not recall the exact form it took.  The meal was served by a very jolly man who apologised for the somewhat informal menu for which he endeavoured to compensate by tucking it expertly into the fold of my napkin in a post-modern cuisine sort of way!  At least he did it with a laugh which made his efforts acceptable.

Apart from a very ordinary pseudo-tiramisu to end the meal the other two courses were excellent and I would go again.

After the necessary siesta a little visit to Alcampo for things and stuff, but not the cut-price beach lounger that I was looking for.  Call me a self-indulgent aesthete, but a single towel on an uncomfortably undulating beach is not my idea of pleasure.  At all.

Horrifically, in Alcampo they are clearing the summer goods and putting out some things for Christmas!  I always think that it is bad enough when superstores start laying out the stationery in late July for school children for the September start of school, let alone bloody water features with snowmen!

As if we had willed it the Scumbags next-door kicked off on a monumental argument with the daughter (quelle surprise) screaming at her mother at the top of her voice and rapidly descending into noisy tearful imprecations.  The arrival of the Father promised more fireworks and he duly exploded with howls of rage but then, silence – rather than the throwing of items of domestic use which we have had in the past.  In the end it was a pale reflection of the cataclysmic pandemoniums that we have had in the past.

Tomorrow is Day 2 of the New Life of getting up at 8.30 am and swimming or walking.

We shall see.

New Day - New Week

There are only twenty short minutes left of Monday morning and all I have done since I got up (reasonably early) has been to drink two cups of tea and listen to Radio 4.

Listening to Radio 4 is the most exhausting sport in which I participate as it does take it out of you.  For example, this mornings there was the Today programme followed by the news which seems to get grimmer with each broadcast and Book of the Week was about a man’s struggle to define his Welshness.

As I am at present wearing a pair of Tesco (reduced) shorts emblazoned with the Welsh Dragon I feel that this is need to my concerns.  Don’t worry, the wearing of a shirt completely hides the mythological element and merely leaves me looking as though I was wearing a pair of bright green shorts.  Nevertheless the mere buying of such a nationalistic garment on my last foray, or rather pillage, of the clothing department of Tesco’s shows some concern for my ostensible national identity.

Although I remember nothing of my time there, I was born in Yorkshire – though my parents were impeccably Welsh (whatever that might mean) hailing from Merthyr Vale and Mountain Ash – names that sound much more attractive than the grim reality of the places themselves!

Brought up in Cardiff in an exclusively English language-speaking environment it came as a shock to me to find out that my paternal grandfather’s first language was Welsh.  He spoke not a word of it neither to me nor to my father nor any of his other children.  Actually my grandfather must have spoken some Welsh to me as my name for him was Du-cu a version of the Welsh Tad-cu (grandfather) which he must have used when I was a babe in arms. Similarly, my word for my English-speaking grandmother was Dando, which must also have been a lisping corruption of mam-gu – though I am not quite sure how I got there!  My names for my mother’s parents were Nana and Gramp – very straightforward!

In a way which would be shocking today, but then was an obvious course of action, my great-grandparents on my mother’s side decided to stop speaking Welsh (their first language) to the fourth and succeeding daughters and raised them exclusively in English.  The result was that my grandmother could not communicate with her elder sisters in what was their native language!  English was the way forward and, in my grandmother’s case it could be said to have worked as she married an English-speaking accountant who later became town treasurer.  If that is how you measure success!

On the radio the seeker after nationality has spoken with Bryn Terfal who is uncompromising in his definition of Welshness: it rests squarely in the ability to speak the language.  This is a key concept in the modern development of Wales and the approaches to the language define aspects of the on-going political narrative.  The clear implication is that without at least an attempt to learn the language your nationality is, at best, in a sort of cultural limbo.

The radio reader has also attempted to ride? sail? row? a coracle which, while interesting from an historical point of view, does not necessarily give much indication of the aspirations and inclinations of Welsh people today – or help in establishing a definition of nationality.

For me the single most interesting point made in the programme was that the name of Dover, that quintessentially English symbol of Nationality for our eastern neighbours is in fact derived from the Old Welsh for “water” and indicates clearly who was living in the island before the invasions of various groups of foreigners forced the inhabitants into the west and then called them “Welsh” which, with the irony for which the English are justly famous, means “foreigner”!

After an indifferent start to the day the skies are now flawless blue (apart from scattered cloud which is not over us) and the sun is beating down.  I cannot foresee a time when I will ever be tired of such days – there is even a gentle breeze!

Now out for lunch because, after all, there is little point in suddenly going cold turkey on the gastronomic delights that we had with Ceri and Dianne.

If the sun keeps up, I might even consider flinging myself into the foaming (well, gently waved) brine of the Med.  And I could try out Toni’s invention at the same time.

Apart from one or two characteristic outbursts our Scumbag Neighbours have been strangely quiescent.  Toni has only called the police once to complain about the boorish behaviour of the younger element and it is his suspicion that they actually heard him make the call because, no sooner had he replaced the phone than the rowdy element began to softly and silently vanish away!  We fear that they are building up to some sort of cataclysmic act of sonic selfishness. 

We wait in dread!

The only thing I did about The Books today was to read through old programmes from performances of King Lear that I had seen, together with their reviews from the Guardian.  I put them carefully in a large brown envelope labelled “King Lear”.  Better than nothing, I think!

Coffee and departures

There is always a pang of regret when you watch through the car window your recent visitors walking through the absurd revolving door, dragging their cases behind them and going in to suffer the humiliation of cramped seating on a budget airline.

The house seemed strangely empty and the feeling of mild desolation was not helped by starting the washing machine.

There is something unhealthily domestic about sorting and putting washing in the machine; I detest the challenge of opening the packet of two tablets of washing powder without swearing; I find the smell of sickly sweet oiliness of the fabric softener nauseating – and all of this is topped by the irritatingly jaunty tunes that my bloody washing machine plays to announce the fact that it has done some tedious mechanical task!

The tumble drier has chosen this moment to make some unsettling sounds which sounded (not that I know what I am talking about here) as if the bearings were worn.  Whatever it actually was, it sounded expensive.

When confronted by technical problems of this magnitude there is only approach that is tried and tested: ignore them and hope for the best.  This I did with enthusiasm and dedication with the result that it now sounds fine – and I feel free to imagine the money saved by not having to buy a new machine to be available for self-indulgent spending!

The weather this afternoon is brighter than I would have thought possible given the dull morning that we had.  It is still very humid and the heat is not pleasant and it would be pleasant to get back to the cleanly bright sunny days that have been the best of the summer so far.

 

The unreality of the Nespresso Saga continues to haunt us.  Although the exclusivity through limiting the supply is an interesting marketing idea the concept seems to have been taken to truly absurd lengths by the management of the product.  The whole “life-style” overlay relies on an illusory “value” being placed on a mere cup of coffee!  I can’t help admiring any process which makes people pay happily more for less!

The afternoon was taken up with a quick trip to Terrassa for an excellent lunch and to pick up Toni after his stay there for his nephew’s birthday.  Two boys aged three and, from yesterday, six.  There is, one might say, a certain friction between the two when it comes to possessions and attention which is enervating to observe and unimaginable to live with!  I return to what I have always believed: parents only sleep through sheer exhaustion!

My attempt to have a late siesta was frustrated by the entire band of damned neighbouring dogs who seemed to have entered into a dedicated pact of general howling, screaming, yapping and barking hysteria simply to keep me awake.

I was driven to get up and consume the remains of Dianne’s pizza which she failed to eat in the restaurant we went to on Saturday – delicious!

The new week must be matched by a new determination to Do Something About the Books.  To be fair I have made something of a start, but it is not clearly visible.  Decisions have to be made and there is a time limitation as the next visitors are due on the 14^th of the month!

The clock is ticking!

Life and its funny ways

Ceri shocked us all by actually getting up first and going for a walk on the beach.  This seems to me to be tantamount to a rejection of everything a holiday stands for but, everyone to his own!

There is nothing I like more than seeing others possessed by the devil which so often drives me: lust for a gadget.  The gadget concerned was a coffee machine and our visitors have been impressed by the quality of the coffee produced by ours and so they want one.

I was more than pleased to drive them to St Boi to one of the superstores that line the edges of the motorway so that they could indulge their appetites and we could buy a birthday present for Toni’s nephew.  Having gone to Gava yesterday and been almost overwhelmed by the acumen of the selling display of an earnest young Nespresso salesperson we knew what the base price and offer was and we were prepared to buy!

We did actually leave without purchase but extensive exploration of the Internet showed clearly that the price in MediaMarkt was (allowing for the value – I use the term loosely - of the pound and the offer of €50 worth of capsules) was exceptionally good.

Back to Gava and purchase.  Brought home and extracted from its box the DeLongui Nespresso machine gleamed in all its “60s White” retro splendour.  The splendid assistant in Gava also gave us a bag full of capsules, some stylish plastic cups and a leaflet which outlined the way in which we could claim our €50 worth of extra capsules.

During the course of a wonderful mariscada in the Maratimo later that night it was decided that the next morning would see us venture into Barcelona and the new shopping centre in the old bull ring to claim our rightful prize.

One problem we encountered was finding a place in the UK which actually sold the capsules.  The marketing strategy of Nespresso is to make the machines readily available but the selling of capsules limited to a few so-called boutiques or “Temples” as I prefer to call them.  It was impossible from using the web sites of various important stores to discover if they actually sold the capsules as well as the machines.

We eventually decided that Cardiff was bound to have a few shops which sold them and that anyway they would surely be available from the Internet.

Available – yes.  But only if you were a member of the Club of Nespresso users!  You have the idiotic situation of a store selling the machine, yet not selling the capsules which go into it and make the machine worth buying in the first place.  There might be other make capsules available; but the real thing - no!

The faux-exclusivity of deliberately restricting supply while charging people for the inconvenience seem to be to be a marvellous piece of marketing: though slightly unreal at the same time because people will surely realize that they are being taken for a ride by smoothly operating, ruthless commercial robbers!

We, however, were firmly determined to go on our Pilgrimage of Grace to the fount of all true capsules in Barcelona.

At our predetermined time we gathered to make our final plans and to ensure that we had all the necessary information to ensure the easy acceptance of the Nespresso people of our right to extra free capsules.

Armed with a photocopy of the receipt, the offer form and the actual bar-code self-adhesive slip from the drip tray of the machine we set out by bus to gain our lawful prize.

Perhaps we should have been forewarned by the fact that neither of the generously offered T-10s from Ceri and Dianne worked in the bus and that we had to stand all the way to the centre of Barcelona.

The shop in the bullring is less a Temple than a well-appointed chapel for the worship of the coffee capsule.

Form, photocopy of receipt and bar-code were all offered up and peremptorily rejected.  We had the wrong barcode number.  Our offer to phone up Toni and get him to read out the correct one was also rejected: only the true cardboard would be accepted – no simulacrum would be tolerated.  Our bleatings about having come all the way from the UK and then from Castelldefels fell on deaf ears and we faced the prospect of a return journey.

We almost pettishly refused a proffered cup of coffee to provide some small compensation for a wasted journey, almost but not quite and we were soon seated grumpily around a table under a translucently rodded light construction sipping our favourite tipples.

Having decided to go home and return we walked out towards the bus top and broke into various unconvincing attempts at running to get what looked like a 94 to get back home most expeditiously.

We stood all the way back too and were able to ponder the futile efforts of man when faced with the almost insuperable task of getting a Nespresso machine up and running!

In Castelldefels other possibilities presented themselves.  Rather than presenting ourselves as miserable supplicants for the largess which had already been denied at the haughty store in Barcelona why not kill two birds with one stone and go, rather, to the shop in Terrassa where Toni had to be for the birthday of his nephew.

Galvanized by new hope based on the fact that we phone the central headquarters of Nespresso to find out if the offer could be realized in other shops in the area we sturdy four set out with pleasurable anticipation for the town of Toni’s birth.

Our arrival in the centre of the city was sombre because of the number of shops that were closed for the traditional lunchtime hours.  As we walked through eerily quiet Saturday afternoon streets we became a little depressed at the thought that this journey too was going to be a wasted one.

But no!  The shop was open and the rows of capsule filled boxes arranged with suffocatingly minimalist style quickened our expectations.

The salesperson had never heard of the offer of €50 worth of capsules with a new machine.  The manager had never heard of the offer of €50 worth of capsules with a new machine.  He would check.

Check done we were told that he would accept all our various bits of paper and cardboard and send them on to the relevant authorities and in due course we would probably get something.

This was not satisfactory.  We showed clearly that this was not satisfactory.  We were offered a cup of coffee.  When in doubt, give them a coffee seems to be the Nespresso way of defusing any potentially embarrassing situation.

As Toni harangued the poor manager (a mere boy! And yes policemen do look too young to do their jobs) I refused the proffered coffee because I was dangerously near the “incandescent” setting on my personal anger-meter.  Such a refusal is tantamount to spitting on the true cross in a Nespresso Chapel and caused a ripple of unease among the carefully dressed assistants.

Much later after more detailed discussions with the hierarchy of the movers and shakers in the upper echelons of Nespresso España there was a breakthrough and we were allowed to choose our selection of tubes.

I, for reasons I didn’t fully follow, was inducted into the Secret Society of the Nespresso Club and give a Socio number and a card.  This allows me to buy capsules in the stores.  I repeat, now that I am a member of the club I am graciously allowed to spend my money and buy the capsules without which the machine doesn’t work!

To cap it all we were then told that just because you were a member in Spain did not mean that you were a member worldwide.  No, when Ceri and Dianne return to the UK they must strive to become members of the Club in the UK so that they are allowed the privilege of buying overpriced capsules of coffee from Nespresso!  This marketing gone mad and having an on-going nervous breakdown.

All too soon (certainly after the excitement of actually getting our hands on coffee capsules) it is time to go out for the last evening meal before Ceri and Dianne go back home.  It has only been a few short days, but it might be possible to go over to Cardiff for Ceri’s Private View, so not too long to see each other again.