Time for my regular plaudit for the Spanish press. Their coverage of the UK elections has been impressive and way beyond anything that might appear in the UK on matters Spanish. Mind you, I took exception to a hagiographic article today suggesting Tony Blair was a political genius in his prime. As opposed, I guess, to a busted flush who’ll be handing over to the real leader of the Labour party very soon.

It was 30 degrees here both yesterday and today and I have been hugging the shadows so as to keep the sun off my melanin-poor skin. The sun and its warmth are welcome of course but spring temperatures at this level are clearly confusing the locals. The young women don’t know whether to stay in their winter coats of go for what we might call the ‘almost nothing’ look. Happily, several of them have opted for the latter.

After a sunny, dry winter, we’ve had a warm and wettish spring here in south Galicia. So everything in the garden is blooming. Everything, that is, except the young Leylandi-like trees I planted last October and which are reputed to grow at the rate of dozens of metres a year. These were installed after my elder daughter demanded a screen between us and the noisy Catalans next door so that she could concentrate on her career as an author. But as she’s since buggered off to live in Madrid, I don’t suppose all this matters very much now. Anyway, we’ve got two months or so before the screaming grandchildren arrive from Barcelona to take over the pool. Which reminds me - I suspect Tony is back from his tanker today. Let the bellowing begin. The joy of Spanish neighbours.

Talking of my daughter, she’s now into her fourth month of getting herself registered at the town hall in Madrid so that she can secure the state health cover we failed to get here in Pontevedra. Having read that 600,000 illegal immigrants are being allowed to register under an amnesty which ends very soon, I suggested to Faye it might be quicker if she got herself down to Andalucia and sat on a beach until she was arrested. Valuable material for a novel, if nothing else.