A Tale of Two Countries

Winter warmers: how the stove puts 'heart into the home'

I have had 'love affairs' in the past (generally turning into a rerun of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' combined with 'Fatal Attraction') but now I have a new love in my life: my wood-burning stove. A large, cast iron contraption that sits in the corner of the kitchen,  the Prity Woodburning Stove has put "heart into our home", so to speak. As well as burning huge logs - sometimes until the early hours of the morning with very little re-loading or stoking needed - it can also be used for cooking chestnuts, baking potatoes, et al. Without doubt, it has single-handedly made the biggest difference to how habitable our home remains during 'invierno'.

The Andalucians have an expression about living here: "nine months of winter, three months of hell". Properties are built to keep out the summer heat, with luttle concern as to how they can be warmed in winter. Brits coming to live here can assume it's hot all year round and, consequently, fail to prepare for plummeting winter temperatures combined with poorly insulated and un-heated properties. When I first came to La Alpujarra, I knew nothing about stoves and found it extremely difficult to light one and keep it going (cue several failed attempts with loo roll tubes, paper tissue and cereal boxes being fed into the gaping maw, to no avail).

Before the introduction of the new stove in October 2011 - i.e. just before a cold snap could set in - our Spanish home featured an inefficient wood-burner (possibly rated as 5KW) that could consume up to 10 Euros of 'madera' in one evening, while we sat around shivering and able to see our breath. People tended to disbelieve my cautionary tales re "my stove is really, really crap" until they came to visit and almost froze to the bone. Meanwhile, taking a bath in January (our 'banos' is in a slight dip and is, hence, the most frigid room in the house) was comparable to entering a garage in England during the 'Big Freeze', removing one's clothes, stepping into a vessel of tepid water and then putting one's feet on to a concrete floor directly afterwards. Inviting, it was not! On some occasions, to add to the bathtime 'fun', the gas would freeze in the bottle and a bath would be taken in cold water. I since learnt to buy Propane gas in winter: it has a much lower freezing point than Butane.

So, during winter months, instead of shivering under heaps of duvets and leaving the relatively warm comfort of the sofa or bed only to make urgent trips to the lavatory or for a much-needed biscuit to stave off starvation (and, heaven help us, not a bath!), this 'invierno', we can sit around a monster stove and view burning logs, eat soup, play games on the rug, or whatever. 

I have been so horribly smug about our increased 'calefaccion' level that I half suspect the stove will do something unsavoury - such as break apart - just to teach me a lesson in "pride comes before a fall". I can't help recollecting an occasion when I was smugly thinking "this is a great drive and I love the CD on the stereo" just before I crashed and wrote off a hire care on the autovia near Durcal.

One bad incident concerning the stove... on an unfortunate evening in early December, my little boy accidentally brushed his bottom against the red-hot cast iron, giving himself a nasty burn that, fortunately, healed a week later. However, it gave him and Mummy a nasty shock at the time. The same night, a damp log was left smouldering in the stove for several hours while all attention was on the damaged bottom. The result... we woke up the next morning to find black, tarry puddles in our lounge. The house stunk of 1,000 damp ashtrays, reminiscent of tje aftermath of some sort of mass smokers' party. Not a pleasant ambience and one that meant the joints in the chimney pipe had to be repaired with aluminium tape.

However, no relationship is perfect: traditional wisdom says that you have to work at it. The stove might have gone astray in December but I am still in love with its warm, pleasant character and the fact that it is so reliably large and robust.

 

You’ve got ‘the look’ - reflections on turning 40

I recently visited an old university friend who I haven’t seen since 1995. Those halcyon student days in Leeds – spent living on “Britain’s most burgled street” (Chestnut Avenue, LS6) and occasionally attending the occasional university lecture when not in bed - resembled a combination of ‘Electric Kool Aid Acid Test’, ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’, ‘How Not to Live Your Life’ and ‘Shameless’ (the McGuire characters featured heavily). While certain memories from those days are hazy, others are so clear that the Leeds student antics could almost have happened yesterday. How can 16-17 years slip by unnoticed like that? Will I suddenly turn around again, take stock, and find that I’m 57?

While meeting my friend – who ran a successful surfing magazine from her Leeds HQ for several years - her hubby made a comment about the passing of the decades: “We suddenly realised we were fed up with reviewing trainers and hoodies. We were getting older than the readers. When you’re 40, you have to decide on the look.”

Since then, I’ve taken his comment to heart. It creeps up at unexpected moments – late at night when contemplating life; in the daytime when I’m choosing a fresh outfit; and when I see teenagers strolling past in a selection of “Claire’s Accessories combined with worst of Primark”, or with the waistband of their jeans hanging under their bums. There’s no doubt about it: yours truly is getting OLD and any look involving bums-out, trainers-in or printed slogans must be avoided at all costs.

So what is “the look” for 40? Is it the look when I’m dashing to school with the kids at 8.55am, like a crazed wildebeest, panicking about being a few minutes late; the look when a dried-on red wine stain must be scrubbed from the lips; the look at a festival when the dress-up bag has been raided (however, the look is definitely not zip-up, furry animal suits or Wellington boots when it’s not raining or muddy).

Is the look Primark, M&S (Caitlan Moran says Per Una garments make everyone “look a little bit mad” and I think she’s correct), Karen Millen or – my favourite - the latest haul from the charity shop and car boot sale?

I think that over-analysing what is “the look” or the ‘hybrid of looks” makes everything look a tad unfortunate. And why should I care how it all looks anyway, huh?

Another friend, who is currently 47, had a habit of saying “not bad for 40” when she first turned the decade (she is now more concerned with “middle aged spread”). Possibly because I’d rather be “very bad for 40”, my six year old boy has given me withering looks about the prevailing look at times during the last year.

And, is it just the look or the look and feel? ‘How Does it Feel’… when we kiss the sky? And is everything really the way it looks anyway?

Harking back to the 80s, I remember a song called ‘Camoflague’ by Stan Ridgeway. While recording my favourite Top 40 tunes, I spent months imagining that Stan was actually singing “Camel Claws”. In view of the nature of the lyrics, my error was quite apt:

Whoh-oh-oh-oh Camoflague
Things are never quite the way they seem…

 This throwaway ditty, which goes on to mention “I was awfully glad to see the big marine” (I bet you were, Stan, nudge-wink), can be applied as an effective mantra for life these days. So here are a few WORDS OF ADVICE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE from DR JO WHO IS NOW 40, a la William Burroughs:

1. Situations aren’t always the way they seem so don’t imagine the worst and act as if your assumptions are a fait accompli / a proven fact. This is known as “awfulising” and it tends to make scenarios W-O-R-S-E. We don’t want to awfulise, now do we? This ‘put the brakes on your imagination’ mechanism can be applied to everything from “such-and-such didn’t accept my friend request on Facebook so he/she clearly hates me” to “such-in-such is sleeping with my partner – I just know it!”
2. Having said that, hunches can often be correct, are some sort of primal instinct, and we probably shouldn’t ignore them. Maybe ‘they’ really are sleeping with your partner.
3. People, in particular, aren’t always the way they seem. Don’t believe clever presentation and personal hype - it’s what they’re really like that matters. Press the ‘play’ button on ‘Portrait of Dorian Grey’ for a useful example.
4. Don’t waste days/months/weeks/years (delete as appropriate) on bad relationships. Before you know it, whole decades will have been laid to waste while you bicker over whose turn it is to buy the frozen peas and pick the dirty socks off the floor. As suggested by the blurb for a self-help book on Amazon, “if it hurts, it isn’t love”. (All consensual fetish-type activities are exempt from the proviso, of course.) As an addition to the above, open relationships might work for some people but I personally think they suck like a cyclonic Dyson with a dysfunctional “off” button.
5. It would be easy to sink into the escapism of addictive behaviour(s) – whether your ‘poison’ is booze, drugs, porn, chocolate, junk food or lurrrve addiction – but, really, it’s boring for whatever mates will put up with it, as well as being expensive and ‘morally bankrupting’. So just say “no” like they told us in ‘Grange Hill’, back in the 80s, alright?*
6. Don’t live in the past. Nobody likes it when interpersonal communication descends into a gruesome dissection of “that incident 10 years ago when you got off with my mate and weally weally hurt my feelings…” What’s wrong with focusing on present annoyances instead?
7. Don’t sleep through the party (or through life) – you might miss out on various (or all) forms of fun. However, no matter whatthe 'fun level', it is inadvisable to sleep with the partner of your friend/boss/any crazed person with psycopathic tendencies.
8. If you are being negative, everybody will avoid you. Just as a watched kettle apparently won’t boil, the phone won’t ring if you’re in the deepest, darkest, dankest mode. So sort it out before venturing into public (but don’t try to rectify it with a bottle of vodka).
9. Don’t borrow money you can’t pay back. Even if it’s just money for drinks at a party. You don’t want everyone chasing you around with baseball bats… or handbags.
10. Watch out for the camel’s claws and the big marine.

Disclaimer: I didn’t say I can or do stick to my own advice.

 Although we should definitely live in the present, being 40 has tended to make me reflect as follows: “Wouldn’t it be handy to REWIND to certain pivotal moments in life, erase them, and then re-record the ‘footage’ for a more favourable ending. With a handy rewind button, how everything looks could be given a rigorous post-production edit.” 

In the words of The Cardigans:

Erase and rewind
'Cause I've been changing my mind…

Ah well. I guess it’s too late to edit the last four decades NOW THAT I’M 40, so I’d better lie back with a chilled glass of Prosecco and slip a more positive tune from Prince into the player. So here goes:

You've got the look
You've got the hook

You sho 'nuf do be cookin' in my book.
Your face is jammin'
Your body's heck a slammin'

If love is good
Let's get 2 rammin'.
You got the look
You got the look!

YEAH!

 

 

 

Lost in translation again: Mummy needs to go to 'el colegio' with 'los ninos'

I recently enrolled my two young boys in the local Spanish school so they could integrate with the community in a proper way. I consider this important: not only do the boys make new Spanish friends but Mummy has the job of escorting them to various after-school activities - such as football practise and birthday parties - which forces social interaction with other Spanish parents. Outside the world of 'el colegio', these fellow members of society would surely be overlooked because of the inability to conduct a coherent and meaningful conversation that doesn't result in gesticulating and blustering over lost and forgotten words. Muy embarazoso!

At a Spanish kids' sixth birthday bash held in the function room of a local bar last week, for example, Mummy was somewhat priveleged to be the sole English parent. So there I was: brandishing a cheese sandwich containing excessive amounts of butter and vaguely wondering whether it would look 'malo' to procure a social-nerve-calming glass of vino. As none of the other parents were openly drinking alcohol, the vino was vetoed. The cheese sandwich became heavy and dropped to the floor (worse than 'los ninos' - oops). A fellow parent said that my youngest son is in the same class as her three-year-old but I initially misheard it as "why is he here - does he know the birthday boy". Oblivious to my slightly awkward feelings, Oldest Son dived straight into the fray, chasing the birthday boy around and brandishing balloon swords. The Spanish parents seem to encourage 'fun sparring', for want of a better word. I was relieved when the party ended so we could return to the 'comfort zone' of our own house and the wood-burning stove. After accidentally tipping a plate of half-eaten, gooey birthday cake over a table at the back of the room, it seemed prudent to leave quite quickly.

Last week's encouraging example of integration by Oldest Son was sadly counteracted by this week's incident of the 'bolsa in the bin'. All the kids have a school rucksack ('mochila') and, when school Comedor (dining room) ended yesterday, Oldest Son's rucksack was strangely missing. Following a fruitless 20min search of the playground, Mummy took to ranting at random adults re "la bolsa es perdida" and "donde esta un habitacion para propeidad perdida", which nobody seemed to take on board. In view of the general lack of progress, the hunt was abandoned. This morning, an English Mum emerged from the play area to say that the bag had later been spotted in the bin: however, the school caretaker (a lady in her 40s) wasn't sure what I was ranting on about yesterday. The bag was duly returned, albeit a bit dirty. Mummy knows who put the bag in the bin (an older Spanish boy). The culprit possibly hopes his crime against personal property and hygenie will be 'lost in translation'. He's probably right!

Meanwhile, Oldest Son (5) and Youngest Son (3) are already coming home from school and repeating Spanish words and phrases in perfect Andalus accents. They've only been "integrating" for two months and their capacity to take on board 'un otro idioma' is clearly more akin to "absorbent little sponge" (kids) than "village idiot" (Mummy). I'm not sure whether to be proud or slightly jealous... neither of them suddenly slips into a Home Counties "a" when pronouncing "vado" or accidentally pronounces the "h" on "hombre". Oldest Son already talks about "Speederman". Cool. Maybe he can pronounce my van numberplate in correct Spanish letters of the alphabet when I next book airport parking services.

Or maybe Mummy needs to go to school herself, and 'muy rapido' The fact that I've widely mistranslating "the school" as "upon straining" when speaking to townspeople isn't entirely inspiring re keeping up with the five-year-olds!

Poor neglected blog

This blog will be coming back soon... well, it hasn't actually gone anywhere, such as on holiday (ha ha)... I mean it will be updated soon with some more rants about the chaos and conundrums of living one's life between two different countries.

It's difficult to concentrate on coherent material when the ambient temperature in your lounge is 30C. Scorchio!! England can keep it's grey 20C, which friends keep telling me is "really hot".

Hasta pronto!