Spain’s draconian anti-smoking law came into effect today and, needless to say, the first café/bar I went into at lunchtime had ignored the requirement to put a notice on the door advising whether it was a Smoking or Non-smoking establishment. A friend I met there complained that someone had earlier made a fuss about this but had been dismissed with the comment that it was early days and that, anyway, there was a [small] sign below the TV up in the corner.

After a meal in a restaurant last night, my daughters stayed in town to see in the New Year. Their intention was to do this in one – or several – of the bars for which the old quarter is justly famous. But, within ten minutes of me leaving them, they called to ask me to pick them up as there wasn’t a single place open. This, of course, reflects the fact the Spanish celebrate the arrival of the new year with a huge family meal which ends at midnight with the downing of a grape on each of the clock’s twelve strikes. Then, after talking about it for an hour or so, they depart for a bit of nightlife. If you haven’t guessed, this means the bars open between 1 and 2 and stay open until 8 in the morning, whether or not they have a licence to do so.

Closer to home, my nice-but-noisy neighbours – in keeping with Spanish tradition – enjoyed their 3rd huge, family meal in eight days. As ever, the party really got going around 2am, just as I was retiring to bed. I would have loved to reciprocate their love of noise and total lack of consideration for me by playing loud music from 9am. But, sadly, my daughters’ habit of sleeping until noon queered my pitch. However, they leave on Wednesday and revenge, they say, is a dish best eaten cold.