Thanks to the closure of the Pontevedra agent, I had to take my car to Vigo today for its annual service. Despite the sun and the upwards incline, I decided to walk the 6.5km to the centre of the city, to lunch with my friends Anthea and Phil. But I got the bus back, unaware it was heading for the beach and that it was the hour when the Spanish head for the seaside en masse. I thought the bus was full way before the driver squeezed another 20-30 people into it. If I'd wanted proof that the Spanish don't mind physical contact, I certainly had it now.
The resturante clandestino we have in Pontevedra is (pretentiously?) called El Rincón de Los Momentos. I took a look at it yesterday - or at the entrance at least. Distinctly odd decor. But, anyway, did I mention that when I asked the owner if his dished were fusion based, he said not and that they were traditional. He cited callos. Or tripe. Enough to delay my first visit. Perhaps permanently.
So, after many years as the only obvious foreign bank in Spain, Barclays has decided to throw in the towel, selling everything to CaixaBank. This follows Citibank's decision to sell their operations to Banco Pastor. Or is it Banco Popular? I can never remember but, as one of these now owns the other, I guess it doesn't really matter.
Here's someone's view of the top ten phrases you'll need if you work in a Spanish office.
And here's the elder of my two beautiful daughters in a video. I wish I could tell you what it's all about. Maybe an app. Whatever they are.
Finally . . . My apologies to Graeme for calling his blog North of Watford, when it's really South of Watford. These are both plays on the old sign that one used to meet on the way out of London - Watford and The North. Which had probably been there, in one form or another, since The Middle Ages.