What now!

One definition of ‘hardship’ is having to use the outdoor community pool rather than my rather more congenial local swimming centre.  I realize that this definition is not one that will be enthusiastically shared by those, for example in the UK, where the number of outdoor community pools for private citizens is somewhat restricted.  And even if they were in greater supply than they are, when would an ‘outdoor’ pool ever be used?

And that brings me to the serial untruthfulness of my friends in Britain.  It is a ‘given’ that any telephone conversation between Catalonia and the UK will touch on the weather.  Even though we have had an indifferent early and late spring with weather that all of us grumbled about, I refuse to believe that the weather in my country of birth is markedly better.  Yet, in every telephone conversation I have to listen to my British friends say (yet again) that “Today” (or more tellingly “yesterday”) has/had been glorious!”  [I know that the quotation marks in that sentence are not exactly correct, but merely thinking about them brings back memories of fiendishly difficult exercises on punctuation in Form 4 or 5 that took sick minds to devise - and certainly created nausea in the stomachs of hapless pupils who were called on to ‘solve’ them]  At first we took such statements on trust, but then the suspicious nature of the consistency of response encouraged us to be a little more circumspect and we started to check up on these statements of nationalistic climate one-upmanship.  And behold! the facts would invariably cast (at the very least) doubt on the assertions of flawless skies and tropical temperatures.

It was refreshingly direct, when my cousin Margaret came to Castelldefels, she sent a selfie by the pool or on the beach to the folk back in Maesteg and, at the same time she checked the weather.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Or, as one of her correspondents put it, “It’s pissing down here!”

It’s odd, isn’t it - the weather is a topic of national conversation, whose awfulness is bewailed at every opportunity.  We hark back to the ‘Great Summer of 1976’ and somehow seem to ignore the fact that it is a warm experience of over forty years ago!  But let foreign weather attempt to better our (for want of a better word) climate and suddenly we become all protective and start rationalizing ‘light rain’ as something that can be ignored, or ‘a patch of blue’ as a sunny day.  Trump’s alternative facts have a lot to answer for.

I have a simple way of showing the difference between the weather in Cardiff and Catalonia.  Every day I use my bike (admittedly an electric one, but I still have to pedal) to go on an epic journey to my local swimming pool.  I do not use my bike if it is raining.  So far this year, I have had to use the car on four occasions.  I ask you, members of the jury, how many days would the bike have been kept at home in Britain?

Of course, you could say that my continuing concern with the weather is a form of displacement activity to encourage my thinking of something other than my health.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with thrombosis, embolism and strained heart.  Eight days in hospital; two weeks total rest; weeks of gradual exercise; hospital appointments; blood tests; health centre visits, a doctor’s visit to the house (!) {sic.}; twice daily injections etc etc etc.  The six-month period is a time for more evaluative tests to see exactly how I am doing.

The last visit to the hospital doctor (as opposed to my local doctor) was generally positive: blood, pee and heart all passed muster.  Now on to leg and lungs!  And it’s the lungs that are the worry as the damage that the embolisms did might well be permanent and if that is so, Other Things Will Need to be Done.  What these things are, I know not of.  But they will be the thorough irritation of my world.  There are Dark Mutterings about some sort of ‘mask’ that might have to be worn during the nights, but I was told not to worry because the newer ones are almost silent.  If that was meant to comfort me, it did not.  My ever-active imagination has already sketched out some form of modern/medieval form of nocturnal torture instrument!

So, while I get browner, as an actual and real sign that our weather is really quite good, and stride about looking the soul of health, I still have nagging worries that I will have to take my local doctor’s injunction that I will have to “remake my world” and live with the consequences of what happened six months ago.

The visible signs of this remade life are that I now walk with a stick (when I remember to take it) and I wear a pressure stocking (when I am shamed into putting it on) and my pathological hatred of the act of walking is now a sort of medical imperative.  I do not look ill.  I do not feel ill.  My swimming times are the same or better than those before January.  But it is difficult to feel totally at ease when you consider that my basic medication is rat poison.  Admittedly it is packaged in little white tablets that can be easily broken into quarters to match the ever-changing daily dose, but the fact remains that I am ingesting rat poison.  On a daily basis.  You might be interested to know that Warfarin killed the rats by causing internal bleeding, and it is that ability to thin the blood that is supposed to help those with thrombosis etc.  And I hope that it is.  This month will demonstrate exactly how effective the drug has been.

I have also had to change my diet.  I am on a low fat and no salt regime and I haven’t had a drink of alcohol since January.  Admittedly I was told that I could have an occasional small glass of red wine - but I would rather do without than be so glaringly abstemious!  No salt is just about impossible unless you cook all your own food and I have less than no intention of doing that, so I tell the waiters that I need to have a ‘no salt’ dish and believe in their veracity.  Well, don’t knock it, I’m not dead yet!

It is ironic that in the The Guardian today (the on-line version that I read) there is a report that suggests that the NHS could save billions by encouraging doctors not to over prescribe and not to encourage patients to have series of tests and examinations that may not be strictly necessary.  I think that the succession of tests that I have had in Catalonia and the level of medical care that I have received are in marked contrast to the service that I would have had if I had still been living in Cardiff.

As a Baby Boomer (Leading Edge) I am of the generation that is now entering into the age when the availability of medical services are going to be called on with greater regularity.  On the 70^th Anniversary of the NHS now is the time to start funding the service as it should be funded and, incidentally, to be taken out of the hands of a Conservative Party (“lower than vermin”) that did everything in its power to try and halt its foundation.

You see the way my mind works.  I start talking about the weather and end up with the NHS.  But thinking about it, they are both linked, and the more I think about it, the more one appears to be a metaphor for the other!  But such literary niceties are for another post!

Reality will bite!

The twenty-somethingth of this month is going to be significant for me.  On that date I will have to take an examination in Spanish for which I am supremely unprepared.

It was not really my choice to ‘go on’ to the next level in the language at the start of the year, but my (vicious?) teacher encouraged me to progress with comforting words of specious consolation.  I had not, to be fair, ‘nailed’ the last examination – though I got a pass and a certificate that (I think) is the minimum basic level of Spanish competence that will get me nationality – as long as I pass the accompanying examinations on my knowledge of Spanish culture, politics, administration, Real Madrid and the King.

That examination I am not too worried about.  The knowledge needed is factual (though partial) and I know that I can cram for that with no problems.  The problems come with the reality of what Spanish nationality can mean.  As far as I can see, Britain and Spain do not recognize dual nationality.  Indeed, at the moment, what is the point of dual nationality when we are both part of the same EU?  But, thanks to the “lower than vermin” Conservatives and the idiot Brexit voters, that is all about to change.

In a few years time I will be effectively disenfranchised.  After 15 years residence in a foreign country I will no longer be allowed to vote in British elections.  As I am not a Spanish citizen I cannot vote in national elections in this country and, when we leave the EU, I will not be allowed to vote in local elections.  I will then be in the situation where I am taxed in both countries and allowed to exercise my democratic rights in neither.  My freedom of movement will be curtailed and, although it appears that I will have the right to stay on in Spain, I may have to apply for residence and I will certainly lose my present rights to move to and settle in any country in the EU.

After the well documented economic effects of the Brexit self-harm become a reality, it is highly likely that my pension will be further reduced.  The value of the pound has fallen since the announcement of Brexit and I expect it to fall further when Brexit becomes real.  My pension is paid in pounds sterling and is taxed at source and then transferred to my Spanish bank where the total has bought fewer and fewer euros as the disastrous chasm draws nearer.

The present state of my health necessitates regular visits to hospital for check-ups and controls.  I see my doctor regularly and I have a scheduled series of tests stretching into the summer.  I take daily medication for which I pay a token amount.  All of this could change.  At present, although I do not pay it, the real cost of my medical treatment is printed on the information that I am sent.  The treatment of EU national resident in Britain has been scandalously heartless.  The reputation of The Home Office has been comprehensively shredded as more and more examples of callous administrative indifference or active antagonism come to light.  Why shouldn’t EU countries reciprocate? 

Our Prime Minister is the shameless architect of the “hostile environment” and she is presiding over a country where voiced xenophobia is becoming mainstream.  She, and her riven, minority government are disgraceful and in no way reflect my attitudes and ethos, but she and her squabbling rabble are the public faces that the EU sees and I, and people like me, are likely to be the collateral damage from an ideology-driven Brexit that serves (some of) the Conservative Party and ignores those likely to be worst affected by it.

Which brings me back to the solution to my Brexit problems (well, at least some of them) – becoming a Spanish citizen.  As I have no intention of returning to the UK except as a visitor, it makes sense to link myself more closely to my chosen country.  We will leave to one side the question of Catalan independence, and concentrate on what is, at present, on offer.

I have zero intention of giving up my British citizenship.  Though I may be thoroughly depressed at what I observe of the present Daily Mail encouraged right wing exclusivity in the country, I take some comfort from the “This Too Will Pass” school of philosophical tranquillity and fondly believe that sense will eventually prevail and all manner of things will be well.  However, the immediate future demands action and Spanish citizenship seems one realistic way of combating some of the fall-out from the Brexit collapse.

No matter how much rumination I indulge in, there is no alternative but to cough up the readies and buy in some legal advice.  We are now in the tax return season and I do have someone who has done my tax returns and in my next meeting I will start making serious enquiries about the practicalities of citizenship and will-making and all the other little bits and pieces that make for a quiet life in a foreign country!

The necessity for speed has been emphasised by the breathlessness that I experienced on returning from a shopping visit to Aldi to get the necessary stuff for Toni’s birthday meal.  I was glad that I wasn’t alone and that the fetching and carrying was shared, but I still felt exhausted on our return.  This is not good, and such exhaustion concentrates the mind wonderfully. 

Whether that leads to action, well, that’s another question entirely!

Envy

It’s funny how a blast from the past can change electronic delight into ashes!

I cannot now remember the exact date that I was finally beguiled by the seemingly reasonable price of a Polaroid camera into parting with hard earned cash for the dubious delight of producing instant photographs of Things That Didn’t Need to be Remembered in Concrete Form.  It was only after you had bought the machine that you realized just how expensive each of those pictures actually was.  And suddenly no occasion seemed sufficiently worthy of immortalization and the camera became an unwanted reminder of how you had been ripped off by efficient marketing!

But, time has come full circle and the buying of a new camera for a birthday has stimulated desire for something which is obviously backward looking, namely one of the new generation of instant cameras.  The marked difference between the old Polaroids and the new Polaroids and their imitators is in the printing technology.  I do not pretend to understand the technicalities of the process, but it certainly seems to less immediately chemical than the old version.

In Toni’s birthday camera (a neat, fairly slim, white number) the photographs are only 2x3 inches, but they emerge from the camera already partly developed and they do not necessitate the frantic waving around that was an essential part of the older versions of instant cameras.  The detail is impressive and in Toni’s camera he has the ability to save photos to the internal memory and edit them before they need to be printed – a step up from the point and shoot and print version that I remember.

Now, I am not without cameras of mine own.  I have a totally embarrassing number of them, and my new phone, a Huawei P20 Pro, has a camera system which has been developed in association with Leica with three (count them!) rear cameras!  I have already taken what I regard as some astonishing photographs.  Not that I have an instinctive sense of photographic style, but rather that the capture of detail and the depth of field is astonishing for a fairly thin mobile phone.  I look forward to exploring its possibilities and have printed out a manual from the internet to try and tease out the details of their working that too often lies hidden from the ordinary user.

Even this prestigious phone is not enough to protect me entirely from resentment at a new piece of technology being flaunted in my ever-so-gadget-sensitive face!  Now, I am not saying that I want one of these cameras myself, but I don’t like being without one – if you see what I mean!

Today’s weather is sullenly awful and takes its place in a series of sullenly awful days.  We are now into May and according to the contract that I have with Catalonia, we should be getting bright, warm, beautiful days.  And we are not.  While not actually raining, there was certainly rain in the wind and that is not something that I want to experience when cycling back from my Spanish lesson.  I consider that, having made the effort to exhaust my remaining brain cells by the different varieties of the Spanish word ‘porque’ in all its accented and unaccented forms, the very least that the weather could do was shine on me.  Is that really asking too much?

Perhaps my mood will change when we go out to lunch, though I doubt it as we will have to spend some time planning yet another of the Family Celebrations that make May one of the most expensive months in the calendar!