I rarely go down to the pool in the communal garden of my community. And I jump in it even less. But it’s been very hot of late and, besides, with my daughters and their friends about to descend on me, I felt it’d be good if I could swap my winter whiteness for at least a nice shade of summer pink. So I took myself down there at 4 this afternoon, expecting to be the only person there. But there were three teenage girls in their bikinis there and these were soon joined by two of their friends. Feeling a little self-conscious, I buried myself in my book and did my utmost to ensure there could be no accusations of prurience. But it’s one of the great things about Spain that young women are not taught to assume all men are perverts and, in truth, I doubt this even crossed their minds. In due course, another three young women arrived but – fortunately or unfortunately – my self-allotted hour was up and I made my way back to the house. Having had my day considerably brightened. Not to mention my skin.
If you want to tell a driver his/her lights aren’t on in Spain – or at least here in Galicia – you use a quacking-duck’s-beak gesture with one of your hands. The one used in the UK to tell someone they’re talking too much. Merely pointing at the headlights seems to have no effect at all. As I know from frequent failed attempts at helpfulness.
Finally . . . I read today that the band which played at the recent bullfights here in Pontevedra has threatened to forego the honour next year. It seems they’re fed up with all the insults directed at them during the proceedings. I suspected the audiences here were not out of the taurino top drawer and were basically there for the fun. But I never realised things were this bad. The bulls will be pulling out next.