GUEST POST: A HISTORY OF MY LIFE IN 10 1/2 PARAGRAPHS!

Bonjour! I'm Lola and that Boris woman with the wild, fair hair has just left me to take Señora Noriega to her boyfriend, Juan Antonio. Señora Noriega, you see, doesn’t drive which is a shame because there’s nothing more délicieux than sitting in a convertible with the breeze rippling through your fur and cooling you down un peu in this heat.

You know, it’s already getting sooo hot here in Andalucia. In fact, I saw my first gecko yesterday in my garden, in my favourite spot soaking up the sun - always a sure sign of the arrival of summer. And, as for July and August with temperatures in the nineties, well, I dread to think how I’ll cope (yawn). I’ve tried Boris woman’s shades but they keep slipping and getting lost way down in all the fur. Sooo much fabulous fur you understand.

Now, sooo many of you, mes chers lecteurs, have asked how I’ve become so well-read and accomplished, speaking French like your average homme in the rue. (Or, should I say, caniche BCBG?) Well, the answer is très simple. Je suis française: And le résultat of all those years in New Labour puppybaccalauréatacadémie studying Chienbaudelaire, Chienvoltaire, Caninecalculus, chienphilosophie (ChienFoucault, ChienDerrida, ChienLyotard - oui, vraiment!) and sooo much else besides... But all this talk about my history and accomplishments is sooo fatigant (yawn), I feel another petit siesta coming on …

Speaking of all my accomplishments, however, does lead me on naturellement to Bo Obama. The Portuguese water dog aka Portie. The FDOTUS.

I bashed out the splash on him in my earlier guest post exclusively on Boris woman’s thingie. Namely, that it was a totally political decision to have as FDOTUS a PWG and not a Bichon ’cos Sarkozy aggravated so many at the G20 summit that the choice of a French breed at the time would have been hors de question.

Well, what are his accomplishments then? You may well ask! Bien sûr, he’ll be useless as a presidential guard dog - I mean, those webbed feet! In fact, I still haven’t fully recovered from a GHASTLY nightmare I recently had - the POTUS being chased by terrorists from the White House and that Portie diving for cover in the Potomac dogpaddling downstream as fast as his webbed feet would take him! Well, as I warned everyone then, what good are webbed feet to the POTUS on land?

But enough of the flip flow of one liners and glib assessments and down to the nitty gritty. And the EXCLUSIVE scoop you’ve all been waiting for… Apart from the fact he can’t hope to match the Bichons for agility, Portie suffers from one HUGE disadvantage. He may be friendly but he’s absolument pas… photogenic.

Dark, furry animals, you see, are notoriously difficile to photograph and the results in newsprint end up as featureless, amoeba-like blobs. La Maison Blanche should have asked the advice of one of the snappers who dog their every step. A Bichon, renowned for its looks and poise, would have been a parfait choice. Even an ugly, ugly mongrel with a patch over one eye - like Bill Syke’s mutt, Bullseye, a real character in the film Oliver - would have been préférable!

President Obama’s spin doctors not only missed the chance of countless, countless photo ops - starring yours truly (plus the President, too, of course way off in the background) - but have also complètement exaspéré countless, countless photo editors! Who are now demanding he change the dog for one beaucoup plus jolie - more like me in fact!

Oh that Boris woman is back again to write more drivel - who’s interested anyway in (yawn) Nightjack, Orwell or K-a-f-k-a. Ugh! Such ugly, ugly names and boring, boring stories - sooo unlike the history of my life. Anyway, I'd better jump in the basket, smile sweetly (it always works) and let her caress my fabulous fur.

PAWNOTE: That’s me in all my pulchritudinous pedigree above and in the side bar. As if anyone could confuse me with that human with the wild, fair hair…(yawn).

LOL LOLA!

FOR PEAT'S SAKE, SPRING HAS SPRUNG - AND BITTEN!

Had intended to follow up previous post on reasons not to blog but called away for past week to sick parent in deepest, darkest part of U.K., far from civilisation, mobile reception, internet - everything. Help!

On my return, immediately went to look for Lola only to learn she was at the vet's. Very sick. A very sick bitch. And I’m a very angry … person.

But first , a brief word of explanation. Everywhere in southern Andalucia, you see at this time wild mimosa shrubs turning yellow - masses of tiny pom pom-like buds, so delicate in their golden beauty. Yet another sign of spring. But where there’s beauty, there’s often a beast.

No, not a politician this time. ( Sarkozy anyone?) And as for Andalucia, you can take your pick. (At the last count, there are over a dozen corruption cases currently going through the courts.)

No, it’s the Processional Pine Moth Caterpillar. And so you can be assured this is no April Fool’s jape, that’s the beast above. And why am I so angry? Because Lola, Senora Noriega’s gorgeous canine is, once again, their victim.

These creatures (Thaumetopoea pityocampa) start out in silky, candy floss ball-style nests in pine trees which they strip of their needles, then leave to seek out another on which to feed. From mid-February onwards for about two months, they wind their way in lines up and down trees and along the ground.

They always process single-file, head-to-tail (sometimes metres in length) apparently because of a tactile impulse from bristly, hair-like sensory protuberances on the gut of the one in front. You mustn’t walk on them or disturb them since the bristly, hairy bits easily break off and float away producing a severe toxic reaction in humans and pets if inhaled, eaten or even touched. There have been reported cases of dogs losing part of the tongue, even dying, after ingesting them.

For this reason, a lowish fence was erected to cordon off, and keep Lola away from, the offending pine - the source of the bite that landed her at the vet’s last year. But they’ve struck again. ‘Processionals’ don’t observe niceties like fences, covering greater distances and moving ever closer than before. And Lola’s not a sufficiently canny canine to resist strangers bearing gifts on their hairy guts…

Footnote: In an experiment, these creatures were placed in a circle around the edge of a terracotta pot so that there was no lead caterpillar. Guess what? They followed each other around in circles for days, in all weathers, going nowhere. Simply the impulse to follow leading them on and on and on.

A bit like those politicians*, or what?

*Except, natch, for Tom Watson MP (an unforgivable, solipsistic oversight!)

A STEAL OF A MEAL - OR EAT YOUR HEART OUT HESTON!

So here we were in Luang Prabang. A UNESCO-listed French colonial-style former royal capital straddling the mighty Mekong surrounded by lush, green mountains. And what a difference from Siem Reap where noise and pollution hang over you like a dirty blanket as you ricochet your way among the ancient monuments.

What do I remember most about Luang Prabang? Was it the longtail boat trip upriver - into Heart of Darkness/ Apocalypse Now territory like some latter-day Colonel Walter E. Kurtz figure swanning up the Mekong? Was it the sight of rows of saffron-robed monks silently collecting alms every morning at 6 am? Or the magnificent royal palace, a host of sloping-roof temples, cobbled ancient lanes and alleyways?

You guessed right - it wasn’t any of those touristy things. It was food. But, I hear you cry, Laotian cuisine isn’t exactly world-renowned. When was the last time, after all, you went to a Laotian restaurant in London? But this wasn’t any old food. This was street food. But not the kind you can pick up in any of the food stalls lining the streets of Luang Prabang.

This was street food from a bug cart.

P reminded me of our joint new year’s resolution to eat more adventurously. And we now had just the opportunity as soon as we heard about a wizened old transsexual selling a selection of delicious snacks from a cart. Crickets of various sizes, large, black deep-fried scorpions, giant cockroaches, meal worms and large water bugs.

But the timing never seemed right. The carts seem to appear at odd hours before vanishing into the night so, after a few days of disappointment, we’d almost given up. Then, on our last night, as we were just about to return to the hotel, a cart suddenly appeared.

Bugs! Whoopee! The vendor, the gnarled old transsexual, excitedly helped us choose the bug courses. It was oddly reminiscent of ordering from a cheese trolley full of exquisite delicacies at some Michelin-starred French restaurant. Anyway, I got a small scoop of each bug - ten in total. All were deep fried and sprinkled with pepper. Before starting to eat, we glanced at each other as if for reassurance we hadn’t completely lost it. But for those of a nervous disposition, better skip the rest now.

Two varieties of lizards. Soft and slimy. Surprisingly tasteless.

Meal worms. Like school-style tapioca pudding. Revolting to look at. Even worse to eat.

Tiny yellow snakes. Similar to eel, but more delicate and white like fish. Supposed to be good for you, I reminded P several times. An aphrodisiac apparently. A view not shared by P it transpired later that night.

Crickets. Crunchy, tasted like potato crisps. I could snack on these any time of day.

Huge grasshopper. Not surprisingly I suppose, tasted grassy like some Sauvignon Blanc wines do. Wouldn’t hesitate to try again.

Malengdaa water bug. Resembling a giant cockroach, this is the insect that’s ground into chilli paste here and in Thailand. A bug jam souvenir you can buy in any supermarket. In the event, this one wasn't remotely interesting. But the most difficult to bu-n-g in the mouth!

Various kinds of maggots. This was the highlight of the meal. One tasted like almonds, another of cream - all juicy and sweet.

Left this almost till last. Black scorpion. Couldn’t bring myself to put the stinger bit in my mouth but downed the rest of the tail in a couple of quick bites. After all the build up, a bit of a let down. Flavourless.

The rest were small and indistinguishable - maybe other types of crickets or spiders or merely bits and pieces of legs, wings and assorted antennae.

All in all, a steal of a meal at 13,000 Lao Kip (=£1)!

ADDENDUM: No dogs were involved in the preparation of this post. Least of all any known blood relatives of Lola (Sra. Noriega's "guard dog") above.

A TALE OF TWO MARYS

I’ve been needing for some while now to get my hair done again here. The last time was a complete disaster. And not because it was in Spain. I can only too well recall the time I had my hair done very expensively at a top salon in London - only to emerge looking like one of the stylists who all had the same ‘house’ style and obviously practised on one another. And this despite explaining very clearly beforehand what I’d wanted…

So, it was with some trepidation that, just before Christmas, I approached a Spanish hairdressing salon called Mary where I knew Señora Noriega (coincidentally, another Mary) went. Now Mary may be an English name but that’s where any similarity ends. Spanish Mary speaks only Andaluz - the local, well, Andalucian patois - and I speak broken, self-taught Spanish. Imagine a conversation between a Geordie and a Martian who’s learnt basic English from a BBC language course and you get the idea.

Mary, who runs her small salon on her own, made it clear she didn’t like the interruption from a potential new client. She had one client’s hair to wash and another to tint. She scowled as she tore herself away from them to check her appointments book. No, she couldn’t possibly fit me in until well into the New Year. Why not, when her appointments book still showed a few gaps?

The reason, she added disparagingly while grabbing a tuft of my hair, was that it was in such a bad condition she would need at least several hours to hope to make anything of it. I couldn’t wait another month - I was beginning to resemble Geoffrey Howe’s mauled sheep - so I racked my brain for any recommendations received in the past year and called around friends.

"There is someone I like a lot but, of course, I do have thick hair which is so easy to manage," purred one, a beautiful Dutch girl. Great! So it’s an open secret I’ve got lousy, difficult hair! "Look, I’m getting desperate so give me her number or I won’t speak to you ever again!" I wailed into the phone.

An hour later, I was sitting in the tiny, shoe-box salon of hairdresser number two. Like hairdresser number one, she worked alone and was in great demand but, unlike Spanish Mary, she spent the half hour of her lunch break talking through the options including dietary advice. Yes, by now my hair was running the risk of becoming so self-important it might even have got its own show in the UK.

The bottom line is that the second hairdresser, a smiling Scandinavian, has booked me in for a long, therapeutic session before my research trip to Cambodia and Laos next week. And her name is…Mary.

Now, this isn’t a mini gripe against Spanish hairdressers - after all, the disaster I mentioned earlier was at a British-run salon - but at the difference in customer care. Spanish Mary is surrounded by customers for now - as she has been throughout all the boom years Spain has enjoyed. However, even Spanish Mary can’t have failed to notice that times, they are a’changing and that, in a failing economy, attitudes need to change too. Towards customer care in general - not just in service industries but in the professions too. As the other Mary so effortlessly demonstrated.

And so - perhaps appropriately as the time of year of my initial visits - a tale of two Marys…

SENORA NORIEGA & THE VIRGINS

As promised, I rushed back to Sra Noriega after the last Spanish class to lend a sympathetic ear to her woes and seemingly unending reminiscing about her youth and ardent wish she’d met Juan Antonio then and not Señor Noriega.

As she poured me yet another fino, she hardly stopped to draw breath, regaling me with tales of her courting days and the changing times.

Having to be home at 9 pm (even if the film finished at 9.15) seems to have been the least of her trials then. With Señor Noriega waiting outside, she and her sisters would often be made by their grandmother to offer prayers to numerous virgins before being allowed out, and the same grandmother would sit with them while they played parchis (ludo) - wearing sunglasses so that they wouldn’t be able to tell if she looked away or closed her eyes for a second.

And so she rattled on about the way courtship used to be conducted in Spain with little privacy until after the wedding ceremony. Some customs, she continued, still exist such as the petición de mano when the two families get together for the official "asking of the hand" and the practice of asking friends round to see the future home of the happy couple. This is then usually followed by a post-honeymoon invitation to see the photos of the wedding and the now lived-in home.

I was happy enough for her to carry on without interruption - if only to help her get things off her chest. Until, that is, she unexpectedly burst into tears again.

"How can our two families - Juan Antonio’s and mine - ever get together for the petición de mano, let alone for our wedding, when my children won’t even speak to him?" she wailed in despair, clasping the hapless Lola to her ample breast.

How indeed?

JESUS IN TEARS

Today began and ended in tears.

When I went down to fetch Lola for her morning exercise, Señora Noriega started reminiscing about her courting days and how she wished she’d met Juan Antonio then (the approach of the New Year always seems to make her maudlin). Mention of his name then started her off and before I could stop her, she was howling uncontrollably.

She wouldn’t let me leave until I’d promised I’d come back later today. But first I had to get to the last Spanish class of the year. And Jesús.

As a group, we had all clubbed together to buy him a gift token that he could redeem as he wished. For some CDs, a book or something for his beloved computer. And when he was handed the small envelope-sized package, his eyes lit up in surprise and, just for a second, he looked like a small boy again as he started tearing off the paper. But as he did so, he started to get quite emotional and tears welled up in his eyes. Immediately we were once again reminded what a bad year he’d had with the loss of the pre-payments on his apartment and consequent strain on his relationship with his fiancée.

The atmosphere was fast getting tense and, as everyone started looking apprehensive at the prospect of his breaking down altogether before he finished unwrapping it, I thought I’d try to diffuse the situation.

"Jesús, es turrón?", I asked, knowing full well how much he hates those sickly sweet, honey-coated almond delicacies which are as much a part of Christmas in Spain as mince pies are in Britain.

"No! No es turrón!" shouted indignantly all the Germans in unison as they turned on me, missing the irony while the only other Brit looked on, grinning broadly.

When at last he’d opened it up and read our messages on the enclosed card, he was very near to tears. "This is almost as good as winning El Gordo," he declared. Referring to next Monday’s huge lottery, The Fat One, which he, like millions of other cash-strapped Spaniards are pinning all their hopes on. More in the next post…

CRISIS, WHAT CRISIS? - LOLA'S BISCUITS, SILLY!

On the way back from the funeral neither of us spoke until, as we approached a supermarket on the edge of a town, Sra N. suddenly became animated and asked me to stop as she’d just remembered she’d run out of Lola’s favourite biscuits and a couple of other groceries.

When she emerged 15 minutes later, she looked more downhearted than ever.

"Just look at this," she exclaimed, brandishing a jar of instant coffee in her shaking hand. It was the supermarket’s marca blanca or own brand.

"You know, before Juan Antonio and I always had Bonka. Good Bonka."

Fortunately I knew what she was talking about otherwise I mightn’t have been able to stop myself falling over. What she was, in fact, referring to was Nestlé’s Bonka ground coffee. (Whoever dreamt up such a ridiculous name?)

"But, you know," she continued by way of explanation, "with Spain now in recession I have to watch every euro. I love my Helmann’s mayonesa and Tropicana pomelo (grapefruit juice) but now I’m forced to look only for marcas blancas. For Lola’s favourite biscuits too. It’s so sad."

Intrigued, I had a look at some Spanish newspapers as soon as I got home. Sales of Spanish supermarkets’ own brand products, I read, are up 33% on last year. And overall, discounted products (including own brands) accounted for 17.6% of spend on food and drink in the first half of 2008 compared with 16.1% for the same period last year.

And since 2009, by all accounts, looks to be tougher still, tiny Lola may find herself foregoing those biscuits altogether...

DEATH - ANDALUCIAN STYLE

Was busy writing about Jesús Gil and his protégé Juan Antonio Roca last week when a loud banging on the door interrupted my thoughts. It was Sra Noriega. Again in floods of tears. Fortunately P’s away so I could take as long as necessary to try to calm her down. (P, I have to admit, is a bit suspicious of her motives and believes she tries to take advantage of me sometimes so perhaps it was just as well he wasn’t at home.)

This time, though, I really couldn’t help feeling sympathy for her when at last she told me her news - her elder sister had just died and she wondered if I’d accompany her to the funeral. She’s feeling especially vulnerable at the moment not only because of her family’s extreme animosity towards JA but also their utter contempt for any plans she might still harbour to marry him. So a lift from one of them, not to mention JA, was clearly out of the question.

I’ve never attended a funeral in Spain before but remember reading somewhere that it’s important to find out straightaway where the family has congregated and when the funeral is to be held, because it’s likely to be very soon. So I lost no time getting on the phone to Sr Noriega’s daughter whom I’d met earlier at the wedding.

The funeral was, in fact, the following day in a small inland village. Since I was unfamiliar with the location, we arrived at the church really early and found those closest to the deceased, or to members of the family of the deceased, had already spent some time there commiserating with the family, some of whom had been up all night.

After many tearful embraces, we at last entered the church for Mass. What seemed a bit odd to me though was the fact that only a few attended the service and they were mainly women. When we later followed the coffin out of the church, however, we found all the men from the village waiting outside to shake hands with Senora Noriega and other family members and offer their condolences. The family and close friends then followed the coffin to the burial place and the rest of the village returned to its daily routine.

On the way back after a meal lasting over three hours, Sr Noriega seemed unusually expansive - about death. Maybe a reflection of her current feelings of loneliness and unhappiness...

Amongst other things, she pointed out that cremation, especially in the larger towns, was becoming more prevalent but it’s usually some hours after the funeral service itself with normally only family members present. Another custom which was gradually dying out, she added, was wearing mourning, although she was still of the generation that would always wear black for a certain period.

"Perhaps for the rest of my life if I can’t marry Juan Antonio," she sobbed.

...YOU'RE FIRED!

One of my oldest friends, Chloe, had long ago suggested a girls’ night out so P’s absence this weekend provided the perfect opportunity. Chloe, who lives in Malaga, proposed going to a bistro in the heart of Marbella’s casco antiguo or old town.

To get to it, you have to make your way through a hotchpotch of meandering marble-tiled lanes and alleys, miniature orange trees and overflowing wheelie bins lining the high walls on either side. Eventually, after trekking for seemingly ages especially on a cold Saturday evening, you arrive at a small central plaza where, facing a tapas bar and set back within its own enclosed garden, the nondescript hideaway is located.

Though tiny, this Belgian-run bistro is extremely popular particularly with fellow Belgians and other ex-pats in no small measure due to its consistently high-quality yet reasonably-priced typically bistro cuisine. Typical, too, is the well-trodden terracotta stone floor and polished wood tables a tad too close together. What distinguishes the interior from other bistros, though, is the quirkiness of its décor. While the ceiling is decorated with odd mauve-coloured swirls and curlicues which snake down the sides of some of the walls, the main wall is covered, top to bottom, with a patchwork of large satin cushions in a palette of vibrant rainbow hues.

Chloe and I had just started our main course when guests took their seats at the adjacent table. And that’s when I came face to face - just like all those contestants across the boardroom table before me - with Sir Alan Sugar.

It wasn’t though Siralan, though, who drew my attention and had me mesmerised for the rest of the evening. That feat was achieved by one of his companions. In addition to two blond ladies d’un certain age, who I assumed to be spouses, there was the most odd-looking person imaginable. Dressed in a powder blue ski jacket with matching scarf double-wrapped around his neck, the ends trailing down his back, he sported on his dome-shaped forehead a matching powder blue baseball cap on top of which was propped a pair of outsize sunglasses. And though the restaurant was very warm - everyone routinely removes scarves and jackets on entry - he steadfastly retained his full regalia - sunglasses included - throughout the evening.

Toad of Toad Hall instantly came to mind as I recalled those childhood images of Toad in his open-top motor car tootling along the banks of his riverside home, scarf flying in the breeze, beetle eyes enclosed by huge goggles. I had to avert my gaze for the rest of the meal to keep myself in check. After all, the last thing I wanted to hear directed at me from Siralan’s table were two words - to some the most dreaded sounds in the English language.

So, from then on, I continued chatting to Chloe as if I wasn’t aware of Toad sitting diagonally across from me. I did notice, though, that Siralan, like another Eastender I’ve also had the pleasure of sitting next to - Sir Michael Caine years ago at The Canteen restaurant which he then owned - is as lively and voluble in private as in public. In other words, what you see is what you get. Unlike a few other celebrities who sometimes are a tad different from what you expect. Michael Winner, for instance, who though opinionated and assertive in a public forum, is quite the opposite in a restaurant setting. On all the occasions I’ve seen him - whether at The Ivy, The Wolseley or Caprice - he was supremely unobtrusive, the epitome of discretion.

Eventually we left the restaurant, half expecting Max Clifford, another Marbellan homeowner, to burst in too. Siralan and Max: now that would be an interesting pairing.

As we walked back through the lanes and alleys to the central market underground carpark, I couldn’t help wondering how Siralan would be getting home. We’re so used to seeing him enter and alight from that gleaming black Rolls, the one with undoubtedly the UK’s most recognisable registration plate, that it seemed somehow difficult to visualise AMS Mark 2 parked in my dingy underground carpark or, equally, on one of Marbella’s narrow, windy streets jammed 24/7 with double/triple-parked dented delivery vans. Dressed as he was though in leather bomber jacket and jeans, he’d probably be just as happy in one of its ubiquitous, nondescript white taxi cabs.

As I was parking the car on our return - Chloe was spending the night in the apartment - I could see her approach our block when Sra. Noriega unexpectedly emerged from the shadows of her ground floor apartment, Lola at her heels. But how would this ‘vicious, snarling attack hound’ deal with the sudden arrival of a stranger?

Lola swiftly approached the stranger, sniffed the air quizzically for a few seconds and then, some half-hearted barks later, rolled over on her side.

And those two words that had hung in the air all evening suddenly boomed deafeningly in my ears.

Lola, you’re fired!

ALAN SUGAR, ME & TOAD OF TOAD HALL

As usual ran downstairs to Sra. Noriega's apartment early this morning to collect Lola for her daily run when I first noticed attached to the side of the front door the sign. A large, glossy sign. Of a huge, black rottweiler snarling and barking ferociously, labelled, in outsize font, cuidado con el perro.

Now Sra. Noriega's apartment is on the ground floor and she lives alone. (Whenever she and JA meet, it's always at 'his' apartment at Los Monteros.) And I know she feels vulnerable and exposed notwithstanding the high walls enclosing the apartment complex and the thick security gates encasing each individual block.

Doubtlessly though she's been advised by her elderly and equally nervous friends to get that sign which you see plastered beside the outside gate of practically every house here - whether or not an animal resides within. Invariably not.

Now Lola is a tiny, white bichon frise no bigger than the sign itself who likes nothing more - apart from the comfort of her basket - than to roll over on her side whenever she's petted. And, as I looked down at the snow-white curly bundle waddling beside me, I couldn't help laughing at the image conjured up of the other Lola, that snarling, savage beast intent on attacking all foolish enough to approach...

It's true Sra. Noriega may now have a sense of extra protection and security behind those reinforced doors and windows of hers. However, as Lola and I turned the corner (I running, she waddling - you get the drift) into yet another deserted street, it occurred to me that if anyone should feel vulnerable and defenceless at that godforsaken early hour, it certainly wasn't her!

Such bleak thoughts were abruptly interrupted by my mobile, however. It was P who's been briefly away on business and due back later today. I couldn't wait until then though to tell him my news.

About my meeting last night with Siralan and Toad of Toad Hall.

SENORA NORIEGA & HER 'WEDDING'

As soon as I mentioned the photos, her face immediately lit up. And she was pouring over every image, recounting every detail as if the wedding had only just taken place.

"You know, it’s scandalous what happens in that church in Ronda!" She paused dramatically for effect, pretending to fuss over Lola who was loudly snoring at her feet.

"What do you mean?" I asked, unsure where this was leading.

"Well, you could book your wedding now and find someone to marry later…"

I wasn’t certain now if she was joking or serious because I’ve known her even take joking seriously.

After a long, theatrical sigh, she at last looked up, enjoying every second she was keeping me guessing.

"It’s the waiting list! It runs there into years!

Allowing herself a sly smile, she continued. "I know at least three couples who changed their minds and ended up marrying someone else! And," she added, as if it were the final straw, "And you are forced to attend weekly pre-matrimonial courses. Every single week until the wedding!"

She gave a grim laugh. "And that’s not all," she mused. "The Ronda church is so popular it schedules weddings so tightly on busy days that if the bride arrives a few minutes late, she gets told off by the priest; regular church-goers arriving for Mass stand impatiently by ‘their’ pews and the newlyweds are not only forbidden from hanging about in the aisle after they’ve signed the register but instructed to move away from the church doors before the throwing of rice or rose petals!"

"Are all church weddings here as stern as the Ronda one?" I asked.

"Oh no, not at all! At some, the din made by all the children playing at the back of the church makes the proceedings impossible to hear anyway!"

We carried on chatting a bit longer about wedding receptions and also the fact that here there is no ‘best man’ - and no speeches. It was a topic to which she had clearly given quite a lot of thought recently and, from time to time, a faraway look crept into her eyes and I could see she was picturing herself as she spoke.

Suddenly though she got quite agitated and her voice faltered. "You know, wherever the wedding is held in Spain, it’s supposed to bring good luck for the bride to arrive with her father, the ‘padrino’ and for the groom to be accompanied by his mother, the ‘madrina’. But Juan Antonio’s parents are dead as are mine too. Does that mean our marriage is doomed?"

I had no answer to that one.

SENORA NORIEGA & ANTONIO BANDERAS

Got back from an early morning run today with Lola to find Sra Noriega ushering both of us into her apartment. "You must see these pictures of Juan Antonio," she added conspiratorially, brandishing a huge, red leather photo album displaying outsize photos of Juan Antonio taken at the wedding I’d recently taken her to.

Now, the mere mention of the words ‘photo album’ or, horror of horrors, ‘videocam’ usually send me running for cover. However, something in her manner stopped me in my tracks. When I had a chance to look at her face more closely, I could see she’d been weeping.

"You know, I’m likely to lose not only that apartment I bought for Juan Antonio but him as well", she said by way of explanation. "As soon as it goes, he’ll go… He knows I can’t afford to buy him another because of the crisis de crédito."

"But is it so certain it will be demolished?" I asked.

"Look, I love Juan Antonio but he is no Antonio Banderas! The only thing they share is the name…"

Faced with my look of blank incomprehension, she continued, with a faint hint of impatience. "Banderas lives in an illegal property nearby also due for demolition. But his won’t be demolished because he is the prodigal son of Marbella. He has a square named after him in Puerto Banús! He has a major role every Easter during Semana Santa as Mayordomo del Trono de la Virgen de las Lágrimas y Favores! He’s just received from King Juan Carlos Spain’s Fine Arts Gold Medal of Merit! He’s now producing a film about Granada and bringing much needed work to the area! They won’t dare pull his home down… Too much bad press. Bad press for Marbella. Bad press for tourism. But as for Juan Antonio’s…"

She stopped to dry her eyes. "You know, back then I was fooled by everyone. By the Registry, the notary, the State, the Junta, the estate agency. Nobody told me there were problems with the property. The headaches began much later when the courts annulled the so-called ‘building permit’ and ordered demolition. But then Angela Munoz was elected, and we thought all our problems were over … but we hadn’t taken into account, you know, the local Property Owners’ Communidad."

She was referring to the policy of the recently elected Mayor of Marbella to demolish only unoccupied illegal buildings and to the fact that the Property Owners’ Association of Juan Antonio’s urbanización responded by suing Marbella Town Hall in the Andalusian High Court and winning! And further that, since Marbella Town Hall refused to demolish either the Banderas house (above) or JA’s apartment block in open defiance of the High Court's ruling, the Association was continuing its cruzada, as she put it, regardless.

With that, she broke down, starting to sob so loudly even Lola looked up from the rubber toy she’d been trying, with a remarkable lack of success, to decapitate.

Sra Noriega eventually pulled herself together and looked so embarrassed that I had to think of something quickly to take her mind off her problems. But what? She loves to talk and she loves weddings (her dearest wish, after all, is to marry JA if her family would only let her).

So the answer seemed obvious. To show me all those photos…

SHIFTING TECTONIC PLATES

Got back from the wedding to find P and Lola, not exactly in separate beds - the celebrations continued overnight - but in separate rooms and as far apart as possible. P in his tiny office at the rear of the apartment and Lola on the terrace at the front. Both seemed somewhat subdued - unusually so for Lola, a boisterous and unashamed flirt at the best of times. Now, though, she didn’t show any of her former enthusiasm to go for a run and meet like-minded bichon frises particularly after being cooped up for so long but merely allowed herself to be scooped up by Sra N. and whisked back to her apartment.

She was so restrained I wondered if P might have added something to her food bowl. This he vehemently denied, attributing her "calmness", as he put it, to the restful night she’d spent in her basket on the terrace - undisturbed by him. After all, I was fully aware, wasn’t I, that any close contact with dog hair made his eyes stream? So this arrangement had worked out best for both parties. He’d been able to get on with his work - he works from home - and Lola had managed to catch up on some overdue beauty sleep.

I didn't want to belabour the point for a number of reasons. Firstly, since P had done me the favour of dog-sitting so that I’d be free to take Sra N to the wedding and meet the love of her life. Secondly, since there is another issue between us, cropping up with increasing frequency of late. Namely that he wants to stay here indefinitely whilst I’m more ambivalent. Much more ambivalent. Let me explain.

Since P can work from home via the internet anywhere in the world, he settles down with extreme ease wherever he happens to be - in Andalucia now just as easily as in LA years ago. Moreover, he’s not as close to his family as I am to mine. When we lived in California, we rarely saw his relatives directly due north in Canada whereas I have a need to visit my frail, elderly mother in north Wales at regular intervals.

In addition to my family, I also miss the variety and buzz of London’s theatres, concerts, galleries and restaurants. Whilst I wouldn’t go so far as to say the only culture here is the one growing in a tub of yoghurt, there is a definite lack of London’s urbaneness, cosmopolitanism, sophistication. But then, Andalucia isn’t Madrid. It’s provincial because it is, after all, a province. Not a metropolitan juggernaut.

The British sense of humour and fair play is another aspect of life I miss. I realise this sounds like a deeply rose-tinted view of the UK which, I am only too aware, has huge problems all of its own. However, when you open a newspaper here and read about yet another mayor or high-ranking official arrested for corruption, you start to ask yourself when is it all going to end. And the answer is always the same: not for a couple of generations. So ingrained is the culture in local life.

The newly installed Mayor of Marbella, Angela Munoz, and her team are gamely trying to root out the corruption that still remains in local government. However, the layer at the top is moving in one direction and the layer at the the bottom in the opposite, both consequently in constant collision with each other. With the result that no permanent change will occur until the old guard, the ancien regime, passes on.

This tension between the two forces seems to me like a shift in the Andalusian tectonic plates. A bit like the current shift in the tectonic plates between P and myself too. But I’ll come back to that - and corruption - in a later post. And more, too, about that wedding and Snr. N…

Now though I’ve got to prepare for my imminent Spanish lessons - the first for a week - with Jesús. (Yes, that really is his name. and not at all uncommon here.) Last Saturday, he telephoned all class members to say that, in addition to the cancellation of Monday’s class because it was Columbus Day, there wouldn’t be any further classes last week because "everyone would be attending the local fiestas". By "everyone", he was of course referring to himself. Ah, such is life in Spain…

WEDDINGS & DIVORCES

As soon as we got to the wedding last Saturday, it immediately became obvious why Sra. Noriega had wanted me to escort her and so arrive separately from her 'friend', Juan Antonio, another guest. Whilst she must be in her early seventies, he looked at least twenty five years younger and was clearly not approved of by those members of her family present who kept giving him steely, sideways looks from 'their' side of the church.

The situation reminded me of that of the Countess of Alba, 82, the leading local socialite - an elderly version of the UK's Princess Eugenie - and her boyfriend, Alfonso Diez, 30 years her junior. Whenever these two appear in public, marriage rumours, much to the disgust of her family, start to fly in the Spanish media. Like, for instance, at the recent opening in Puerto Banus of Valentino - attended also by Mark Thatcher and his wife, photographed champagne in hand, smiling and looking very relaxed, thus confirming all reports of his departure from nearby El Padronal to be extremely premature.

Sra. Noriega's relationship with Juan Antonio also laid to rest for good another rumour - that she might somehow be related to General Noriega (pictured above). Although of a similar age and background, that's where the similarity definitely ends.

Sra. Noriega is divorced from her husband who still resides in Colombia. And, as for General Noriega, the deposed dictator, he's apparently still languishing in a Florida jail, having been due for release last September when the French government successfully applied for his extradition to face a 10 year sentence passed in absentia for money laundering. A fierce legal battle is currently being waged between the USA and France to decide his fate since he claims the latter won't honour his legal status as a POW. And this from a man who has also received a long jail term in absentia in Panama for murder and human rights abuses!

On the way back from the ceremony, Sra. Noriega started to open up, doubtlessly moved both by the emotion of the event and her tense conversation with Juan Antonio, albeit briefly snatched amid the resentfully disapproving glances of her relatives.

The apartment occupied by Juan Antonio is, she began, in Los Monteros, an upmarket Urbanizacion or residential estate fronting the coast in Marbella. But it doesn't belong to him but, she ruefully admitted, to her. She had put him there. And hence her great fear now - at not just losing the apartment but him too!

By this time I was completely lost and the confusion must have shown on my face because she suddenly told me to stop and pull into a roadside cafe just outside Ronda. After we had ordered - black coffee for me and a double fino for her - she pointed to the document in her bag that I'd seen her earlier frantically discussing with Juan Antonio and that was causing her so much distress. She explained it was a copy of the latest Minutes of the Los Monteros Property Owners Community (LMPOC), a legal entity with far-reaching enforcement rights representing all the home owners.

LMPOC, it transpires, is desperately trying to get JA's apartment block demolished, together with La Gaviota, the home of Antonio Banderas and his wife, Melanie Griffiths, since both were illegally erected. The apartment block plot was originally designated a green zone whilst the Banderas house - a beacon of whiteness outside and in, the interior design colour palette manifesting all its possible monochrome nuances - sits less than glamourously on a disused sewage plant!

In recent years, Marbella Town Hall's reputation has been shattered by numerous corruption scandals relating to similar illegal property deals and other crimes which I'll refer to in greater detail in a later post. With regard to illegal property development, the policy of the recently elected Mayor of Marbella, Angela Munoz, is to demolish only those buildings which are unoccupied - to the considerable relief of all the ex-pat owners of occupied, unlicenced properties.

LMPOC responded by suing Marbella Town Hall in the Andalusian High Court and winning! But, in open defiance of the High Court's ruling, Marbella Town Hall is still refusing to demolish; the Banderas house together with Sra. Noriega's apartment block is still standing, and LMPOC vows to fight on regardless!

And Sra. Noriega remains distraught - at the potential consequences. For JA told her at the wedding that if he's forced out of the apartment, he's so fed up with all the stress and uncertainty during the past year he'll leave Andalucia - and her...

So one wedding and one threat of 'divorce' on the very same day. All this and problems on my return with P too!

TENSION AND OTHER ISSUES

Rushed back from exercising Lola to collect my books for the twice weekly Spanish class only to find Senora Noriega in floods of tears. She had in her hand (Senora Noriega doesn't do emails or even mobile phones) a document received from a (younger) male friend of hers. I couldn't stop to listen to all her woes but it seemed to have to do with the current financial crisis in the Spanish property market and simultaneous criminal investigations.

She said she would be seeing Juan Antonio this Saturday at a family wedding at Ronda when she would find out more. I was about to leave when she suddenly grabbed my arm and, somewhat uncharacteristically, asked if I would accompany her as she felt so upset since, as she put it,"Su perdida me afecta mucho". Hastily glancing at my watch, I agreed although as I ran up the stairs to our apartment, I remembered that would mean P looking after Lola for the duration. And Spanish weddings go on for hours - often overnight and well into the next day - and P is severely allergic to dog hair. He only has to be in a room where a dog has been and his eyes swell up and start streaming...

As he drove me to Spanish at the local Ayuntamiento, I thought it politic not to bring up the issue of Lola just at that moment particularly as P and I are currently engaged in an ongoing dispute about another issue of rather greater importance than Lola's welfare. Namely whether or not we remain in Spain. Or, to put it more bluntly, whether or not I do.

More on this when I get back from the weekend's wedding.

NO BIG BANG

Returned yesterday from a couple of days in the UK to hand over to relatives and friends signed copies of my first novel, The De Clerambault Code, a psychological suspense thriller. Notwithstanding it is currently in the top 2% of Amazon UK book sales, I don't believe I need concern myself that those signed copies will go straight on eBay or be put up for immediate auction as if they were the latest JK Rowling...

Flying back over sodden, wind-swept, rain-lashed parts of the UK didn't present quite the same biblical images as last year's flooding but they came close. Interestingly, heavy rainfall in summer is a fact taken almost for granted now in the UK as are news items in both print and broadcast journalism about its effect on retail sales in terms of company losses on summer clothing, certain foods, garden furniture and so on. We read, for instance,that during cool weather the public eat more comfort food like chocolate - hence those sales are up - but fewer icecreams - so those sales are down. And all this bad news - poor sales and poor weather - hugely magnified during the current credit crunch.

And yet, poor summer weather isn't unknown in Spain. Yesterday, the leading item featured on Telemadrid - the only Spanish TV station we can access - was the previous evening's gigantic maelstrom of... hail! Madrid's municipal workers could be seen scooping up golf ball size hail stones from storm drains whilst rescue services were busy winching out stranded passengers from cars abandoned in flooded streets that were beginning to resemble small rivers. And some of Madrid's motorways, roads and tunnels were so flooded that numbers of commuters were unable to get to work by car and had to cram themselves into already crowded buses...

That same evening, too, we had a storm in Andalucia, though with nothing like the severity and ferocity of Madrid's. Everyone in the block was woken up late in the night by a huge, deafening crash and, even before the son et lumière thunder and lightening show took centre stage, I'm sure I wasn't the only one whose immediate, semi-comatose thought was whether the Large Hadron Collider had been activated a few hours early and a rogue proton taken a wrong turn down one of the 27 km long underground tunnels circling Geneva. And the end really was nigh...

But the end certainly isn't nigh - yet - for Señora Noriega, one of my apartment block's few permanent residents who lives on the ground floor and whom I bumped into on my return. I know she originated from Panama but my Spanish is as weak as her health so it's been impossible so far to establish if she is a relative, maybe even the wife, of former General Noriega of President Reagan/Contras fame. The surname is, after all, extremely rare. Only one is listed in the whole of the local telephone directory and that's hers...

Señora Noriega is a nice, elderly lady but she does possess one big drawback. And that is her dog. A yappy, blond bichon frise that she dotes on - as do so many elderly ladies here as in France and Italy. Maybe it's a southern Mediterranean thing. Whilst in the UK women take up golf or good causes when children fly the nest, here it's a dog!

In fact, you see as many canine peluquerias (grooming spas) around town as you do women's hairdressing salons. And since Señora Noriega can't get out much, she has the mobile peluqueria visit a couple of times a week. Just for a wash, blowdry and pedicure. For Lola, that is. Well, at least there's one gorgeous-looking female on the block...