Letter from Espargal: 22 of 2010

This is a particularly difficult week to write anything sensible about, largely because it’s been so similar to last week – only in some ways more so. That’s to say it’s been hotter, sweatier, itchier and scratchier with irritatingier ticks, annoyingier flies and pestier mozzies. Jonesy got stung by a wasp or hornet and couldn’t believe that such a small pink mark could hurt so much.

The shutters are half closed as a compromise between the light she longs for and the cool I crave. The dogs, walked and watered, stretch out on the tiles for relief. Only the cats have the energy to play silly buggers, chasing each other round the lounge and up the stairs.

I have had to suffer two soccerless days, sitting in my recliner, staring in deprived bemusement at the TV. Maybe it’s a good thing after watching Spain whack Portugal on Tuesday evening. Jones suggested that I might enjoy following the match up at the snack bar but I feared that things might go badly and declined.

The defeat was only one-nil but as all Portuguese know and many would admit, it could easily have been 4-nil had the Portuguese goalie not made so many splendid saves. Oh well! The essence of the knock-out stage of the championships is that each match brings a loser. The defeated team has to find an excuse for the fans, its manager to discover his fate – possibly to move on and console himself with his millions.

We have continued to labour in the garden, Jonesy piling up little mountains of vegetation and I removing them in the tractor. I went back to see whether the infestation of thorny creeper on the Casanova field had succumbed to my spraying, only to find it thriving – as if I’d zapped it with fertilizer rather than poison. So I’ve sprayed it again, this time with double strength veneno.

2nd HALF OF THE YEAR

You may have noticed that we have entered the second half of the year. It’s as though the seesaw had just started to tip down – assuming that one is counting months and not days. The first six months of the year are slightly shorter than the last.

The best time of day is twilight, about 8.30. We are back from our walk, sitting out on the patio and staring across the valley. The dogs are fed although still hopeful of a biscuit or two from my pocket. Jones has scraped some marg and marmite on to biscuit thins and we’ve baggies with lots of ice at hand.

The sun is gradually sinking and reddening (as this, err, recent sunrise picture illustrates). It vanishes just after 8.55. With luck there’s a breeze to keep the mozzies at bay. Bird calls and the cicada strings mix with the yap of distant hounds - the muzak of the valleys. I like it.

I have bought some new 50+ sun-cream because the product I was using left me daubed in white like a zombie in a cheap horror flick. I didn’t mind this as much as Jones, who complained that I didn’t have to look at myself and wondered (for the umpteenth time) why I didn’t rub it in.

GECKO WITH UNDIE FETISH

She was explaining this one morning to Brigitte, as we sipped coffee (I zombielike) outside the Coral. “Better white than red,” I interjected. My wife was not persuaded. At my next rebirth I’m opting for black hair and a Mediterranean skin. There are no advantages to being a ginger-kop, none that I’ve come across. I can’t think why evolution invented us in the first place.

On Wednesday the car turned one! (Do cars turn anything other than corners or over I wonder?) For its birthday I gave the car a thorough cleaning, hauling out all the dog towels and vacuuming dog hair from the deepest recesses. It gleamed in appreciation. Not that the dogs showed any gratitude. They were happy the way that it was.
Jones has finally begun sorting out piles of old glossy magazines. She goes through each one, cutting out articles of interest – one we found in Tuinhuis by you Annelize. The rejects are being carted up to the paper recycling bin in Benafim. They weigh a ton.

Natasha came to clean, as usual, on Wednesday afternoon. She was glum. She has set her sights on obtaining her driver’s licence and had sat the theory exam. This involves the most abstruse material, ridiculous stuff like the size of baby seats for different ages of young children. And the moment a driver gets his/her licence, all the theory goes straight out of the window as, sadly, much of it deserves to.

The exam comprises 30 multiple choice questions. To pass, candidates have to get at least 27 answers correct. Poor Natasha got only 26. Even worse, she went back and changed an answer that would have been correct had she left it. She chided herself for her mistake.

“Never mind,” said I, “You can sit it again.” “Yes,” said she, “but it costs 140 euros each time.” And I had to concede that this is a great deal of money, probably a week’s wages for her.

The Dutch ladies had us around to a fancy lunch on their patio, partly to thank Jonesy for looking after Ermie while they were away. They have been doing a lot of work for UNIR, an organisation that looks after people with psychological problems. And so have other neighbours, Mike and Liz Brown. Mike is teaching some of the guys how to work a lathe.

Anneke is going off for two months to work as a volunteer at a UNIR house upcountry, the Casa de Santa Isabel. http://www.casa-santa-isabel.org/ That’s impressive public service. For my part, I’m considering a Natasha request for English conversation lessons for a Russian friend of hers. Hmmm! Still thinking about it.