Some not-very-related odds and sods . . . .
Driving past the brothels of Poio yesterday, I caught sight of three immaculate Morgan sports cars, all being driven by men no longer in the bloom of youth. The number plates were all British, so I imagine they'd come over by ferry and driven down from Santander. Though I don't know where to. Happily not to one of the brothels.
Regular readers will know I have a problem with people who exit a shop and walk right across right in front of you, within a few centimetres of your face. Even more so with people who come up behind you, pass you on your left and then immediately turn right. And yet more so with people who look at you as you're taking a foto but continue walking, between you and your subject. In the first two cases, I'm prepared to believe there is no conscious thought. But in the third? How can you not be on their radar?
In this part of Spain, at least, they virtually boycott mackerel, regarding it as 'too strong'. In contrast, they adore hake and seem to revel in its blandness - If they haven't smothered it with olive oil and sweet paprika (pimentón dulce), a la gallega. I mention this because my friend Jon, who's big in fish, got hold of some fresh mackerel yesterday and I was able to enjoy this delicacy for the first time in many years.
Well the Economist issue of Sept.1 arrived today, a few days late. As to the whereabouts of the previous 2 or 3 issues, God only knows. Possibly in a large bin in the Post Office sorting room.
Click here for the Economist's overview of the rape issue, spotlighted by the predicament of Mr Assange.
A thought stimulated by the speed of the van which passed me in a pedestrianised zone last night:- Has anyone ever seen a Spanish vehicle bearing the legend - How is my driving? Call xxxxxxxx. Don't think I have.
The island of Nauru was, for a while, the richest place in the world. All thanks to bird shit, basically. Getting a little ahead of themselves, the islanders set up not only a shipping line but also an airline. Both of which failed. At least we were saved these lunacies in Spain, where useless airports and vanity follies were the plat du jour. We nearly got a fourth Galician airport up near Ourense but the bubble burst just in time.
One thing that wasn't built during the bum years – a municipal tip. What negligence. Fly tipping anyone?.
We have four different tourist organisations in Pontevedra. I went into two of them today to try to get info on the Spanish National Triathlon which takes place here in the city at the weekend. Neither of them could give me an iota of data. But they could give me a street map.
A new Spanish word – Un swinging. 'An interchange of partners'. This is in the local news because the six clubs in the vicinity of Pontevedra (e. g. New Kisses) all report that their clientele is no longer confined to couples in their 40s and 50s but now includes some in
their 30s and even their 20s. People are getting bored earlier and earlier, it seems.
Can you believe that 46% of kids killed in cars in Spain were not wearing a safety belt? I guess it's easier to police the stupid law about not wearing earphones when driving.