As I wrote yesterday, Spain’s total of road deaths fell last year by another 10%. In fact, it was below 3,000 - an achievement last recorded 40 years ago, when there were rather fewer cars on the road.

The other good news of the day is that property prices in Pontevedra are the lowest of all Spain’s numerous provincial capital cities. You can pick up a new flat here for a mere €1,477 a square metre. This compares with more than three times this in Barcelona, which tops the list at €4,543 - followed by San Sebastian on the north coast and then Madrid. All these prices could well be lower by March, June and then September.

I got my act together yesterday and paid my speeding fine of last month. I was surprised – nay, astonished – the bank didn’t ask me to prove I was the person doing this. In contrast, my friend Andrew yesterday tried to order something via the internet but was asked to fax a copy of his identity card and a utility bill before they would despatch it to his address here in Spain and charge his credit card. Is it any wonder internet business in Spain is low by European standards? But at least the fax number wasn’t premium rate.

The governments of Spain’s three separatist ‘nations’ - Catalunia, the Basque Country and Galicia – held a meeting recently on representation in international sports competitions. In a nutshell, each wants to have its own team in the way Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland do. But, as someone has pointed out, the situation is not analogous as there is no British team that equates to the Spanish unit. Ever contrary, though, the Brits are now said to be thinking of creating one for the 2012 Olympics in London. Lots of fun in store.

I take back my recent comment about men in Spain hardly ever having white hair. Cardinals and Archbishops have been much in the news lately and I’ve noticed that, like me, each of them sports a glorious mat of silver locks below his little skullcap. Which I had thought was a biretta but turns out to be a zucchetto. Meaning, of course, ‘small gourd’ in Italian. Not to be confused with zucchini. Which I have never seen a Catholic prelate wearing on his head.

Finally, a tale that could possibly only take place in Liverpool . . . Last night my brother-in-law went into hospital with a suspected heart attack. Sitting next to his bed in the intensive care unit, my sister was approached by the senior nurse for data. After a few minutes of form-filling, the latter said “Now I have to ask you what you want for yourself. But, before I do that, I must stress the one thing I can’t do is arrange to have him bumped off. The paperwork is just horrendous. I used to do it. But now I have to tell you that, if that’s what you want, ********** hospital is the place for you. Would you like us to arrange a transfer?” Tension successfully eased. Even in the case of the listening transferee.