It’s so rare to see a parking space in any of Pontevedra’s streets that I regularly wonder how folk ever find one. Is it all just a massive game of chance or are there actually ‘rules’ which make it easier for the cognoscenti to find a spot? Anyway, as I was walking into town at 11 this morning, I passed a car which was pulling away from the kerb and leaving a space free. This is so unprecedented that I felt like a character in a Bateman cartoon – The Man Who Saw A Parking Space In Pontevedra. Which, I guess, will mean nothing to most readers. Ah, well.

There are, it has to be said, certain areas of the city where there’s a lot of (free) parallel parking spaces and, if you drive round and round these for a while, you might strike lucky and coincide with someone leaving. The trouble with these areas is they’re patrolled by the worst of Pontevedra’s panhandlers – the less-than-lovely men and women who ‘guide’ you into a space and then hold out a hand for your contribution to their outgoings. Reputedly, these are essentially drug related and it’s arguable that it’s very pragmatic of the council to keep the petty crime rate down by allowing this to happen. Intellectually, I can easily understand this. But, emotionally, I find myself so irritated by being forced to pay for a free space that I cut off my nose to spite my face by resorting – on the very few occasions I drive into town – to one of the more expensive underground car parks. Which is marginally more attractive than being jailed for mowing down one of the beggars on the way into a space.

Talking of beggars . . . For a pretty rich country, Spain does seem to have a lot of them. Though, thankfully, we don’t get many of the “Look at my festering sore” variety these days. The market niche which seems to be getting crowded right now is that of the middle-aged, middle-class men who sit, silently, on a shop step with a small placard in front of them, saying something along the lines that they have no income but a family to feed. One of these I passed yesterday was using a ring binder, raising the question of whether he had a different page and different message for each day of the week. I really can’t decide whether any of them are genuine or not. So I give free rein to my cynicism and walk quickly past.

The number of boarded-up shops continues to rise in town. And I see today that even the snobby delicatessen in the centre has shut its doors. But it’s not all closures. A clothes shop on the edge of the main square has re-opened as a sweet and ice-cream shop, despite the fact there are several others within spitting distance. Must be a recession-proof business. Or have a long planning lead-time.

Finally . . . I see that President Berlusconi insists he’s never paid for sex. Well, neither have I. But I have been impoverished by two marriages. Does this count?

Incidentally, it’s just possible I’m more trustworthy on this score, than Il Presidente.