At the top of the third page of my paper diary, Bob has written, 'Don't write anymore on Spain or the kids, no one cares."
Oh. Well, attempting to adhere to this I have made three weeks of entries fit into this:
It fulfills three purposes:
1) My sweet kind Spanish family will never be able to understand the reams of bile about Spain due to me writing extra small, upside down above each line, and inserting many superflous "oh"s.
2) Maybe I'll go blind from trying to read back my notes for this blog, and then I can go home as I don't have hospital insurance here.
3) Oh, I am doing my bit for recycling.
The latter is UNLIKE the Spanish. Recycling isn't the latest trend here. Maybe they don't read The Guardian. I also think it is because they prize super-hygiene much higher than the environment and our great great grandchildren's life quality. They use plastic gloves more than I ever remembered to at work, apart from that time with all the bloody sanitary towels. They use them at petrol pumps to handle the nozzle, they use them at the supermarket to pick up their apples. The amount of plastic wrapping they use on vegetables I could use to suffocate myself if the heat doesn't get me first*. They clean the house, even the holiday house, every day with hoover and bleach. Well, obv my Spanish Mum doesn't do it herself, she has a cleaner, but still. They've washed my bedsheets more frequently so far this holiday than I do in a month. I look on askance, unsure whether to help or stare. They look on equally shocked as I eat a peach with the skin left on. "But someone might have touched it".
Well, the only fruit I don't mind laboriously peeling here is a fig. One of the Grannys gave us a large bucketfull at the start of the hol from the tree in their garden. I'm not very good at describing something that I actually like, but you could pick from anyone of these superlatives- they were dreamy/sweet as nectar/the most delicious thing I've ever stuck my face into.
*Please just stuff it into my mouth to stop me moaning about such a nice holiday.
Oh. Well, attempting to adhere to this I have made three weeks of entries fit into this:
1) My sweet kind Spanish family will never be able to understand the reams of bile about Spain due to me writing extra small, upside down above each line, and inserting many superflous "oh"s.
2) Maybe I'll go blind from trying to read back my notes for this blog, and then I can go home as I don't have hospital insurance here.
3) Oh, I am doing my bit for recycling.
The latter is UNLIKE the Spanish. Recycling isn't the latest trend here. Maybe they don't read The Guardian. I also think it is because they prize super-hygiene much higher than the environment and our great great grandchildren's life quality. They use plastic gloves more than I ever remembered to at work, apart from that time with all the bloody sanitary towels. They use them at petrol pumps to handle the nozzle, they use them at the supermarket to pick up their apples. The amount of plastic wrapping they use on vegetables I could use to suffocate myself if the heat doesn't get me first*. They clean the house, even the holiday house, every day with hoover and bleach. Well, obv my Spanish Mum doesn't do it herself, she has a cleaner, but still. They've washed my bedsheets more frequently so far this holiday than I do in a month. I look on askance, unsure whether to help or stare. They look on equally shocked as I eat a peach with the skin left on. "But someone might have touched it".
Well, the only fruit I don't mind laboriously peeling here is a fig. One of the Grannys gave us a large bucketfull at the start of the hol from the tree in their garden. I'm not very good at describing something that I actually like, but you could pick from anyone of these superlatives- they were dreamy/sweet as nectar/the most delicious thing I've ever stuck my face into.
*Please just stuff it into my mouth to stop me moaning about such a nice holiday.
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