Monday, September 17, 2007

There’s a huge blanket of fog outside my window, the temperature is forecast to drop 10 degree or more today, and I’ve lost my internet connection. So, a big welcome to Monday.

Here in Spain, the female form comes at you 24/7/52. This morning, for example, the [excellent] lady who chairs the serious early morning discussion program on TVE1 is sporting a pretty decent d├ęcolletage. Often, though, she’s outdone by a columnist from one of the heavy papers who never smiles but often favours us with 2 or 3 inches [5-8cm] of cleavage. In this context, I have to say I was amused at the complaints about my recent tame photos taken at Pontevedra’s Medieval Fair. A few readers couldn’t resist accusing me of being a salacious sexagenarian. To be honest, I prefer the word ‘lucky’. It’s just one of the many things about Spain that keep me young. Given the importance of this, I couldn’t care less how I come across.

I’ve mentioned before that, contrary to a widespread view elsewhere, British parents are hyper-concerned about their kids and their wellbeing. This stems from fear generated by the execrable tabloid press and, to me, is objectively excessive. Anyway, today comes news that an Englishwoman has invented a GPS-based product that you can attach to your offspring so you know exactly where they are. Provided, of course, they don’t stick it on a passing dog.

I read that, in some countries, one is obliged to sort one’s plastic rubbish into several different types so it can be effectively recycled. I wonder, then, what happens to all the jumbled-up stuff I throw into the yellow container in our street. Is it sorted ‘downstream’? Is it dealt with by one super-efficient machine? Or is it all just chucked into a huge hole in the ground?

The other thing I’ve taken to wondering about is whether my rusty Farsi will come in handy when, as predicted now by the French Foreign Minister, we all go to war with Iran. Vamos a ver.

Meanwhile, though, there’s a Formula 1 championship to be won. So, let’s hope and pray this goes to Fernando Alonso so he can then negotiate a mutually profitable way out of his contract with McLaren. Anything else is not worth contemplating. We’ve surely all had enough of this year’s – non-plastic - rubbish. My apology to American readers who haven’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about. The lucky buggers.

Finally, a word on our local Galician sport of bird-watching. A columnist in today’s Voz de Galicia reviews the state of the development of the AVE high-speed train from Madrid, compares progress with the pre-election promises of the last several years and challenges the government to deny that the official forecast of completion by 2012 is out by at least two years, quite possibly three. On balance, I think this is probably a more important question than what happens to my plastic bottles.


Anonymous said...

You scousers are liars -- The Beatles were Galician!!


Colin Davies said...

I always suspected something. I could never understand a word they said. . . .

Anonymous said...


This lucky bugger has to recycle his plastic, and most of it gets sorted, but some does end up in a hole or incinerator. Metal and paper are separated too.

We all have the choice though, the choice to pay privately to have someone haul it all away, or to sort it and just have our taxes pay.