Letter from Espargal: 7 of 2008

I’ve never been a TGIF person – maybe because I never worked a 5-day week. But I confess to succumbing to the MGIF syndrome - “My God it’s Friday” - what Sherlock Holmes might have described as the enduring mystery of the disappearing week? Lord alone knows where the days get to. I feel as if I’m clinging on to a spinning roundabout that one day is going to fling me off, possibly to vanish in a puff of smoke, like the unfortunate over-30s in Logan’s Run. Maybe it’s a good sign, given that the good times flash past while the bad times drag.

Whatever the case, the week began last Sunday with the usual popping of the hunters’ guns and the arrival at our front gate of my former colleague, Grant Ferrett, and family, down from the UK for a week’s holiday. They were booked in at Fintan’s holiday house at the other end of the village, and weren’t sure exactly where to find it. We pointed it out at the bottom of the hill.

Grant made a name for himself as the BBC correspondent in Zimbabwe, before – and after - the regime there threw out foreign correspondents as surplus to requirements. It was through him that we got to know his parents, who became regular guests at the Quinta and are now our principal house sitters. We joined Grant & co for supper at the local and are planning another get-together this evening. It was interesting to catch up on old times – not that I felt any twinges of nostalgia.

One morning Jones received a heart-shaped card in the post from an anonymous suitor whose handwriting bore a strong resemblance to that of an expat friend. I merely thought it a bit strange without giving it further consideration. If Jones wants to entertain occasional amours via the mail, so be it. It was only when I heard mention on the radio of St Valentine’s Day that the penny dropped.

In my view St Valentine is an invention of the stationery and flower industry, akin to chocolate Easters and toy Christmases. If I ever sent any valentines (or received any) I’ve long since forgotten about it. I do not say this with any pride. That’s just the way it is. Jones pointed out to me that a husband of 50 years was reported on the radio to have made his wife heart-shaped toast for breakfast. No such luck in this house, I fear – although she does get a professionally mixed baggy, lemon and coke each evening. (What more could a girl ask?)

The drama of the week was to realise from Serpa’s swelling tummy and insatiable appetite that she is soon to have pups – her first litter. Her state was confirmed by her owner, our immediate neighbour, Idalecio. Serpa comes walking with us each afternoon. We take an interest in her welfare and she has become a shared dog in a manner of speaking.

It had been our intention to have her spayed. The fact of the matter is that one is advised to wait three months (or so) after the dog was last in season before the operation is carried out. And that is what we were doing when we realised that we had waited too long. You may recall the fence bashing episodes involving Bizou, Joaquim Martins’ large Belgian shepherd, over New Year. As fast as Idalecio fixed one hole in his fence, Bizou made another. If Bizou is indeed the father, the pups are going to be a sort of shepherd-spaniel cross. Jones fears that Serpa may have difficulty with the delivery and blames herself for not having had the bitch spayed in good time.

Tuesday I had another session with Andrew, the chiropractor. Things are slowly improving, thanks be. Wednesday and Thursday brought English lessons. I’ve doubled up on them this month in order to compensate for absences we plan in March (with a week in Germany) and in April (with a week in the UK).

In the class we discussed the situation in the (former Portuguese colony and subsequent Indonesian territory) of East Timor, which has been a mess ever since the Indonesians withdrew some years ago. The recent shooting of the president and attack on the prime minister there have been headline news here. The class were keen to give their views but found it almost impossible not to break into Portuguese when English words failed them. One understands only too well. The reverse situation frequently presents itself in our Portuguese class.

ALMOND BLOSSOM
Wednesday brought a mini-disaster. I disconnected the new television aerial that was installed last week between the dish (outside in the garden) and the receiver (upstairs in the house). My aim was to pull the aerial through a protective plastic sheath in order to prevent accidental damage. Having achieved that, with Jones’s help, I reconnected the aerial to the dish and then came upstairs to check the signal. It was poor. Although we still got all the radio stations, TV channels were breaking up. Half a dozen times I went downstairs to recut the cable end and refit it to the dish. The result was the same each time. I can’t tell you how frustrated I felt.

In desperation, I called the Sat-TV man who’d fitted the aerial. He said he was hopelessly busy and couldn’t fit me in this week. So I tried a local Portuguese firm instead. The technician there promised to try to make it to the house on Thursday afternoon. In the event, it was Friday morning. He carried out a number of tests, which seemed to indicate that the LNB (the little receiver that picks up the signal from the dish) was at fault. After much fiddling about, he was able minutely to adjust the LNB and restore the signal. He told me that moving the LNB even a couple of millimetres is sufficient to lose the signal. It’s a relief to have all the channels back again. We don’t watch much TV but there are programmes (mainly documentaries) of which we’re both keen fans.

You may recall that the strange couple, Dina and Chico, have occasionally made the local news. (Dina is a very large woman who never learned to talk although she is capable of making a lot of noise. Chico is her elderly, half-blind guardian/partner.) When Dina gets a little boisterous, as she does at times, Chico keeps her in order. She can be very funny as well as a bit scary. She shakes her fist at passers by in a manner that is somewhere between a greeting and a warning.

The problem is that while Chico's eye-sight is failing, Dina has taken to helping herself to items from neighbouring houses. These include fire-damaged carpets that had been removed from Fintan's house and cushions from an English couple's patio.

Most of the pilfered objects have subsequently been discovered in Dina's cottage and reclaimed. Dina scarpers when she sees the search parties arriving. Matters came to a head when two Portuguese neighbours found items missing from their exterior grill areas. These were duly traced back to Dina and there was a noisy confrontation between a dispossessed neighbour and the guilty party. Dina, whatever her speech limitations, is a pretty smart cookie and knew she was in trouble. The incident may help to keep her on the straight and narrow.

Dani and Natasha put in two days this week. He is trying to earn enough cash to take himself for some weeks to Italy where a relative says there is well-paid work to be had. Dani was feeling especially sorry for himself after failing to get the necessary signature on a hospital prescription and having to pay a pharmacist 3 times the discounted price as a result – a whacking 90 euros. The pair of them worked to clean up “the park” area behind the house, piling load after load of branches on to the back of the tractor.

The rain that we were promised last week for this week now looks promising for next week. We really, really need it. All we’ve had so far is a wicked wind that has been driving us to distraction, day after day. In anticipation of the wet weather, Jones has helped me to scatter fertilizer around the base of all our carob trees. In the mean times she has taken to watering the garden again, a measure that is seldom required in the winter months.

I am nearing the end of a vast tome on evolution (The Ancestor’s Tale) by Richard Dawkins, having averaged a few pages a night – often the same ones - for the past several months. One thing the reader comes to understand is that in the great web of life, humanity is simply a footnote. As unfortunate as global warming may prove for homo sapiens, most of the rest of the world’s myriad creatures will carry on regardless.

Apropos of nothing, we watched a documentary on three child preachers – two Americans and a Brazilian – who whipped up their appreciative congregations into a froth of religious fervour. One of the kids went proselytising with a billboard listing evils – including evolution and homosexuality. I wonder if God realised what he was setting in train when he lit the fuse for the big bang.