I came across the Spanish equivalent of ‘until the cows come home’ yesterday – hasta que San Juan baje el dedo. Or ‘until St. John lowers his finger’. This is because he’s always depicted with one of his digits pointing heavenwards. Or at least skywards.

I was impressed to read this morning that Spanish hospitals are amongst the best in Europe at minimising infections within its hospitals. And this is despite the fact relatives routinely stay over in the wards. In the UK, there is widespread fear of catching your death from superbugs should you have to go in for even a minor operation. I suppose it’s possible this is a tabloid-generated phobia but rather doubt it. All this may have something to do with the fact that, in the UK, health services are still managed – Stalin like – from the centre, whereas in Spain it’s the regions that have control. I wonder how France manages to do things as well as they’re reputed to be done there.

Similarly, I was impressed that only 75% of Spanish teachers think [state] education here has deteriorated in the last 30 years. In the UK, it must be at least 101%.

Two new magazines are launched here today, both apparently aimed at my generation. One is called Senior Net, and aims to provide a guide to the net and ‘modern technologies’. The other is called Júbilo [Joy] and on its cover it carries a picture of Carmen Maura sitting a little provocatively. The suggestion is she’s 61 but she looks about 12. Or possibly even 14. Maybe they could give me the same makeover.

For aficionados of Asian food, there’s a gem of a street in Madrid, in which there’s an Indonesian restaurant next to a Thai place and a Persian restaurant sandwiched between Indian and Chinese choices. If you stumble across the street and opt for the Indian, be aware that this is one place in Spain where picante really means picante. Despite our very high tolerance levels, my daughter and I were relieved we went for the Madras and not the Vindaloo last night

As someone who frequently quotes data from the Spanish National Institute of Statistics, I was interested to learn how they collect this. You get sent a comprehensive form and, if you don’t complete it, you get fined. Which I suppose is one way to do it. And probably quite effective. Though I think I would lie outrageously in protest at the compulsion. Especially if I could only answer in Gallego . . .

Galicia Facts and Perspectives

A Gallega friend told me yesterday that, although she normally speaks Spanish, she returns to her grandparents’ Gallego whenever she wants to be sweet or gentle. Galician, she insisted, is the superior tongue when you want to be nice. I do hope this goes down well with certain Galician readers. Though I’m prepared to be accused of being gratuitously patronising. That’s my lot, I fear.

Perhaps the feeling of victimisation is beginning to rub off on me.