The Deputy Director of the Spanish Royal Academy of language is in the news again, this time for weighing in against the suppression of Spanish in Catalunia, the Basque Country and Galicia. As I try to wade through our all-in-Gallego election material, I have some sympathy for this complaint. And I share his view that, essentially, it’s not much removed from Franco’s proscription of the local languages. But things could be worse; I could live on the Catalunia-Valencia border and be forced to give a single language two different names, depending on whether I wandered north or south. Cue for hate mail from Valencian Nationalists. I assume they exist. But if not, they will in a few weeks’ time. In modern Spain, no self-respecting autonomous community can be without these warriors.

Said Deputy Director lauded Spanish on the grounds that every single speaker of the language around the world could understand each other perfectly. This, he said, was not true of English. My instinct was to scoff at this claim; but then I remembered listening to some Scots being interviewed about their elections only last week and wondering what the hell they were talking about.

Next week brings the feast of San Isidro, or St Isidore in English. An 11^th century ploughman, he’s the patron saint of labourers. And of Madrid. Depending on whether you like noise and bullfighting, this would be either a very good or very bad time to be in this great city.

Which reminds me . . . My elder daughter, who lives very happily in Madrid, has suggested I challenge my readers to come up with a longer Spanish sentence than the 112-word one she’s recently encountered. So there you go. The winner will get two free copies of her first novel. Every other entrant will just get one.

Back to Nationalists and the elections in Scotland. These were naturally well covered in Spain. One commentator noted that, after 70 years of democratic effort and several ups and downs, the SNP had finally arrived in government. Whereas, after 40 odd years of violence and bloodshed, ETA were exactly nowhere. Which is hard to gainsay. Even if you live in New Zealand.

As I write this, two collared doves have landed on the window ledge of my study and are either demanding to be let in or getting into spring mood. So I'm off to open the window and ask them which it is. These birds are very reminiscent of my last house and garden in the UK. Strangely, my elder daughter hates their sound, whereas my younger daughter loves it. I'm with the latter on this but am upset I can't tell whether they're cooing in Spanish or Gallego. Perhaps one of each.