Long before 9.11 and then 11.3 and 7.7 the Spanish had 23.2. This was the date – in 1981 – when elements of the army staged a coup d’etat against democracy in the form of a socialist government. Happily for Spain – and Europe – the uprising was short-lived and the new king came out of the affair with great credit. Today was the 25th anniversary of the event but, reading the reports and watching the old news bulletins, it felt like something out of the 19th century. And such has been the progress since then, it’s virtually impossible to imagine something similar ever happening again.

Talking of progress, Spain’s economy continues to power ahead, at a growth rate of more than 3% per annum. But inflation is in excess of 4%, average salaries are falling and the percentage of new jobs on short contracts has risen from 18% in 2002 to 64% in 2005. So I guess it’s not terribly surprising there’s an underlying concern about the economy in general and unemployment in particular. But, come what may, at least the currency is secure. Unless the euro implodes, of course.

I think we know now why the Spanish team were only ‘moderately optimistic’ prior to the tripartite talks over matters Gibraltarian. It seems they’re not disposed to reaching agreement over the 3 issues tabled – airport access, pensions for Spanish citizens and more phone links with Spain – until they know the final form of the new constitution being negotiated between the UK and Gibraltar. In retrospect, one wonders why the meeting went ahead in the first place.

Walking down from Plaza Mayor in Madrid into Bordadoras Street last week, I happened upon what you might call a priests’ outfitters. Inside the shop could be glimpsed racks of gaudy chasubles and the like but what really fascinated me were the windows full of priestly paraphernalia such as tabernacles, chalices, crucifixes, triptychs, statues, rosary beads, wine goblets, etc. Why on earth, I wondered, did the shop need to display its wares like this? Surely it was a unique address known to all Spain’s priests and so didn’t need to strut its stuff like common or garden retailers. So imagine my surprise when, two doors down, I found myself gazing into the equally bizarre window of a competitor. I had visions of young priests flouncing from one to the other, in search of divine discounts. And I mused irreligiously on the possibility of one or both of them being a franchise. By the way, bordadoras translates as needlewomen. Which means, I guess, seamstresses, rather than female drug addicts. Perhaps they’ve been sewing things for priests there for some centuries.