CONSUMER CONFIDENCE

The beauty of the internet is that whilst the fogeys take a post-lunch siesta in the Spanish sunshine, I can keep a beady on what’s going on at home.

Today’s BBC website featured an article on consumer confidence containing a statement that piqued my interest:

Older Britain is sat on its savings, despondent about the country and the economy, refusing to spend its money and weighing down GDP, even as pay rises for workers remain higher on average than the rate of inflation.

Seeing as I have nothing better to do in temperatures that today are above 20 degrees then let’s pick apart the various components of this statement.

Sat on Savings – Why is older Britain hoarding cash? Because most of us grew up with the mantra of saving for that proverbial ‘rainy day’. A mindset of ensuring you have enough money put by for potential emergencies or in case one day you have to pay for extortionate care homes, private medical treatments, vets fees, car repairs etc etc. I mean who doesn’t wince every time the garage drops a vehicular atom bomb during the annual MOT advising that your car needs a million and one replacement parts?

Boomers and the like also stash cash towards retirement, those extra pennies for comforts such as hobnobs, heating or holidays. Is this a bad thing? Not for you or I but certainly not good for the UK’s consumerist economy. However, now pensioners are about to fall into tax traps that could soon change.

Despondent about country and economy – Honestly, there’s little to be cheerful about these days. The tabloids are full of wars, hatred and hard luck stories. Bad news sells. Negativity spreads. What with the nation’s economy being pinged about in an economic pinball machine and more political U-turns than the magic roundabout, is it any wonder we’re not skipping round looking for unicorns?

Refusing to spend – Being a Super Scrimper I feel well qualified to tackle this one. If it ain’t broke, why replace it? It’s not that I’m refusing to spend my money, it’s just that the little money I have is spent WISELY. 

Not on frivolities, unnecessary gadgets, gizmos or generally pissed up against the wall on nothingness. I don’t need to keep up with the Joneses. Happy to drive an old banger, use a prehistoric brick phone, watch an ancient TV, keep my consumables in a dilapidated but functioning fridge or wear clothes that have survived decades of unfashionable trends. I paint my own nails, administer my own facials, shave my bits and get local college students to give me cheap haircuts stretching my part-time salary like one of those pilates exercise bands.

My one and only luxury is a monthly subscription to a local gym because us oldies need to keep fit to save the NHS the hassle of having to continually patch us up with cable ties and gaffer tape.

Yeah, I’m proud to be the consumerist economy’s worst nightmare because in doing so, I know I’m not contributing to the mountain of waste produced by those that feel the need to replace new things every 2-3 years regardless of whether they need to or not. A situation I might add that is deliberately engineered by those who prey on gullible suckers they know will succumb to consumerist FOMO. Not me, amigo.

Weighing down GDP – I know I need to shift a few kilos off the midriff but just how am I weighing down GDP? I think that accolade should be ascribed to the Treasury/current or previous Governments whose policies have resulted in zero productivity, high unemployment, rampant inflation, industry and wealth fleeing abroad. If anyone’s weighing down GDP then look to the FAT cats who take everything out but never put anything back in.

Pay rises higher than inflation – You’re having a laugh! Hands up who in the private sector received a pay rise this year or last? And pray tell us if it was more than 3.2% which was the UK's current inflation rate as measured by the Consumer Prices Index (CPI) in November 2025. 

I am still waiting for such a pay rise or in fact any pay rise, non-existent because our company pleaded poverty ever since the Chancellor clobbered businesses with higher NI costs and increases to the national living wage. Clearly this largely applies to PUBLIC sector pay rises and was conveniently overlooked by the Beeb.

And when you consider this last point, is it any wonder then that folks are hoarding cash, despondent, refusing to spend? I mean it’s bleeding obvious. Less pay, no jobs, less scope to do anything.

If you want to read this priceless piece of journalistic licence then here it is in all its glory:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c150leql9pgo

LOS CHINOS

For all the ex-pats living on the Costa Del Sol, one thing I noticed missing from the Spanish high street is Poundland or similar. However, in El Rincon that gap in the market has been filled by these marvellous Asian emporiums affectionately called Los Chinos (the Chinese) by my aged parents.

Los Chinos sell everything from pants to pliers at rock bottom prices. Need a loo brush? – Los Chinos. Run out of energy-efficient light bulbs? – Los Chinos. Got a hole in your socks? – you guessed, Los Chinos for needles, thread or even a replacement pair. There is almost nothing you can’t buy in these places; they’re like a cut down version of Amazon on your doorstep.

These Asian emporiums are huge too. Set out in a fiendish labyrinthine layout rather like the Hampton Court maze, once you’ve tracked down the sought after article, it’s a job to remember how to navigate back to the tills. Trapped in a dead end between cleaning cloths and cake decorating equipment, I thought I might have to ring the Spanish rozzers to instigate a rescue and that would have been tricky as who the hell knows what the Spanish word might be for piping bags or cookie cutters.

Having made it safely back to front of house with my eclectic basket of loo brush, fancy candle for Grandson’s next birthday and a pair of oversized gent’s boxers to use as shorts in the garden, I skipped out into the glorious sunshine thanking my lucky stars for the entrepreneurial spirit of Orientals.

FILTH!

One of the things about old people especially those with dodgy eyesight is that standards of housekeeping become somewhat interesting.  It just can't be helped.

I’d been previously warned about nasty niffs pervading the loo but it wasn’t until nature called that I realised how bad these really were. Pong does not begin to describe what smelt like one of those darkened alleyways that every drunk uses as a public latrine.

Too proud/stubborn/miserly (delete as appropriate) to hire an occasional cleaner because let's face it there’s no way an 87 year-old half-blind biddy is going to get on her hands and knees to scrub the floor or anything else then it was left to yours truly to get stuck in with heavy duty bleach and brush.

Double gloved, I approached the offending bog with bleach bottle in one hand, toilet brush in the other poised like a matador sliding cautiously towards a panting bull preparing to thrust in for the kill. Ole. If you conquer this smelly beast, you may get an ear and a tail!

I swear those grubby ceramic wall tiles had not been cleaned since the Moors were expelled from Granada by the Catholic Kings all those centuries ago. And the floor – don’t get me started on that one! Chicken coops are probably cleaner.

Job done. Breathe in that smell of freshness. Check out the gleaming tiles, taps and toilet. Worthy of one of those Flash adverts on the telly.  Brilliant.

Feet up.  Time for a well-earned San Miguel only now I’ve got a taste for it, maybe I’ll tackle the kitchen floor tomorrow.

SPANISH NHS

This blog would be incomplete without a few words about national health services but today I'm reporting on those experienced from the other side of the pond.

I wish it had been Tapas Tuesday yesterday but instead I spent the day accompanying the Ancient Mariner to a plethora of institutions as his trusty ‘consigliere’, personal shopper, carer and fellow churro muncher.

He’d found a few gold doubloons languishing at the bottom of his treasure chest and we had one of those rare personal father/daughter moments trading memories of bygone days between churro dunks into our coffees. A moment to be cherished for sure.

Churros, like kebabs always taste fabulous at the time but lead to regrets or belly ache later on. For someone with no gallbladder, eating greasy fried dough is perhaps not the most sensible thing to do but hey, when in Spain …

Fortified by our fried feast, we headed off to the local health hub/clinic which doubles up as both a doctor’s surgery and mini A&E department. 

Wes, I hope you are reading this post as this is how community health hubs should operate, not the poxy runaround you get when you need to visit a GP.

A large poster on the main entrance informed all visitors that compulsory facemasks were in operation and a security guard posted nearby was there to ensure you wore one. No face covering, no entry to the building simple as that. Believe me, you don’t want to argue with Spanish security personnel they look ferocious even with a facemask on! I think it’s those imposing dark eyebrows.

Having gotten through Checkpoint Carlos, you grab a ticket with a number on it rather like you used to do at supermarket deli counters of old or at McDonalds then wait to be called to the front desk. Ten numbers in front of us but the girls rattled through them fairly quickly.

Once your golden ticket number is called, you state your case to the jolly receptionist and present your national identity card. All health records are stored on their computer system using your unique DNI number (documento nacional de identidad or national identity document to us Brits). This card validates that you are eligible to use medical services provided.

On completing this check, your request is triaged on site. None of this online malarkey. Depending on your requirements it’s either a trip to another part of the building or a simple instruction to visit one of the local pharmacies. I counted at least 3 pharmacies within yards of the clinic.

All we wanted was a repeat prescription – no forms to fill in or online request to struggle with. The receptionist raises the prescription request there and then, wings it over to the doctor electronically who then authorises it and pings it straight over to the pharmacy. Medication ready to collect later on in the day or the following morning. No waiting around for days to get new meds.

Like the UK, the surgery was predominantly filled with older folk but unlike the UK, not everyone had a smartphone glued to their hand because all those techno-barriers that exist in Britain were not in evidence since the surgery staff handled it all for you. Unlike a lot of UK GP surgeries, customer service was given with a SMILE and a bit of friendly chit chat making you feel welcomed instead of a great inconvenience.

This morning at the pharmacy, I handed Mum’s national ID card to the pharmacist who stuck it into an electronic card reader gadget that told them who it was for and what had been prescribed. Interestingly, the Spanish word for prescription is ‘receta’ which also translates as recipe when cooking. There’s no third degree at the counter demanding dates of birth, postcodes or any other info as all of that is conveniently accessible at the touch of a button via the ID card. Just as well as my Spanish is a bit ropey when it comes to medical terminology.

Our NHS certainly has a lot to learn from other countries. Maybe Wes Streeting could personally look in on a few foreign health hubs to see how they do it effectively and No ID Here Keir should definitely re-consider the benefits to the health service of having national identity cards.