TRUE FRIENDSHIP

Much is being made in the media of Lord Mandy’s and a whole host of other people’s friendship to defunct paedophile Jeffrey Epstein but instead of using this opportunity to be judgy or scandal-monger, why don’t we ask ourselves this - what is the meaning of true friendship?

Freddie Mercury had the right idea when he sang:

Friends will be friends
When you're through with life and all hope is lost
Hold out your hand 'cause friends will be friends
Right till the end

Miss you Freddie

Real friends will hold out a hand regardless of whether that recipient is Jeffrey Epstein or someone else. You don’t drop friends just because they’ve committed some transgression or other. I mean, who among us is perfect? And who are we to judge why it is that people choose to stand by their friends even when society has labelled that person a monster.

I’m not condoning the actions of either Epstein or Lord Mandy. They’ve done what they did for reasons best known to themselves but what I’m saying is that if you value yourself as a true friend to someone then surely that means sticking by them through thick or thin and not dropping them like a hot potato because an unpleasant side to their character has come to light that you didn’t know about or because the world at large is tarring everyone beknown to that individual with the same brush.

‘To err is human, to forgive divine’ as the proverb goes. You can’t profess to know all the inner workings of your friends. We can all make errors of judgement when it comes to assessing people’s characters because there’s no tick box form out there that is used to select friends. Generally, you gravitate to those who support, love or encourage you in your endeavours. And of course, sometimes you get it wrong.

But when you do, surely you can find it in your heart to forgive if you value their friendship both past, present and as Freddie said, right to the end.

True friends of Lord Mandy are not likely to berate him for his choice of non-fashionable undies paraded across the tabloids like After Eight mints handed round the dinner table following a gut busting supper. Instead, I hope they’ll try to understand what prompted him to buy such awful baggy white under-crackers and steer him to trendier choices going forward. Selling state secrets for cash though, that probably is unforgivable even if he is a friend.

Mandy Pants

Epstein died over 5 years ago yet still we’re obsessing over him. He did what he did. He ruined a lot of lives. The continual muck-raking is still ruining a lot of lives. Why must we keep digging through his crusty old laundry basket looking for even more musty old linen to air in public?  Hasn't enough damage been already done?

I hope that given time, all victims will find peace in their hearts and the inner strength to move on with their lives.  

SPANIEL EARS

Peeling off my sodden togs after another squelchy walk home from work, I happened to notice that my pair of once pert juicy grapefruits were hanging down despondently like a couple of deflated balloons.

‘Spaniel ears’ as one of the more raucous members of our team calls them every time the topic of conversation veers round to the joys of old age or dieting.

What happens to boobs as you age

As I gaze down at these two sad puppies, it also dawns on me that the pair are not symmetrically matched either. One side is definitely larger than the other which means that my very own planetary orbit has been on a tilt since puberty. Gravity is most certainly not your bestie once you hit 50 and has definitely slung its hook after 60.

If that wasn’t bad enough, my former furry friend is now looking more and more like a mangy bedraggled badger than an under-pruned lady bush. Grey hairs it seems are not just confined to your bonce. There’s no escaping the fact that getting old is truly a physically sorry state of affairs.

Rather than splashing the cash on MDF for wood panelling maybe I should instead use the funds to implement my own levelling up agenda. A few well aimed tweaks here or there could turn these south-facing spaniel ears into a magnificent pair of sit-up-and-beg pedigree chums. If only I could find a few thousand quid stuffed down the back of the sofa.

Everything's gone south

All the chest presses in the world aren’t going to cure these bad boys any time soon so I guess its going to be a case of just making the most of the best window dressing available plus a few mechanically engineered bras to keep these spaniel ears looking as perky as possible.

WORK IS NOT THE ENEMY

And this week’s gold medal in the Tabloid Winter Olympics goes to The Times for giving me a hernia-inducing belly laugh.

The Your-Having-A-Laugh Medal

Seriously though I was almost reaching for the Tena Lady after reading an article entitled ‘Here’s Why You Shouldn’t Touch Your Pension Lump Sum in Your Fifties.’

Gold medal journalism

The last time I had such a monumentally hysterical fit of the giggles was during the cowboy fart scene in Blazing Saddles. You know the one. Still brings tears to my eyes even thinking about it today.

So, what was it about this article that tickled my fancy? It was mostly the paragraph headed up ‘Work Isn’t the Enemy’ and the advice that reframing how you perceive your job is perhaps better than taking early retirement. You’re kidding, right?

Well, as one who is on the cusps of taking early retirement then I’ll quantify why I’m not going to be reframing my perception of work any time soon with just one word – Boxer.

Have you read Animal Farm, Bec? Yes? No? If you haven’t then perhaps you’ll be interested to learn what happened to Boxer.

Boxer from Animal Farm by George Orwell

Boxer was Animal Farm’s cart-horse, strong of heart and hoof. His mantra ‘I will work harder’ is probably what lead to his eventual sticky downfall. Almost killed from years of overwork whilst building a windmill, Boxer continued to slave away on the belief that after all his hard work he’d eventually be retired and put out to pasture. Unfortunately for poor Boxer, he was betrayed by his greedy fat pig paymasters who having exploited him to the nth degree, sold him to the Knackers Yard once he was no longer able to perform.

And this Boxer principle is probably why so many of us choose to take early retirement once we can afford to because working yourself into the ground only to be betrayed by the fat pig paymasters (Government) who promise you the world in exchange for continued tax payments is not what we signed up for.

Like Boxer, my body is already physically broken with painful ailments affected by repetitive actions such as keyboarding, prolonged periods of sitting or having to deal with stressful workplace situations. It would be daft not to avail myself of the Get-Out-Of-Jail pension card as that’s my only hope of having a fighting chance of being able to enjoy my golden years before I end up being sold to the Knackers.

For me and many other ‘Boxers’ out there, it simply isn’t a case of finding a different job or re-framing our perceptions of employment but having the freedom to choose the path of our own destiny.

The article goes on to say that early retirement may not be all it’s cracked up to be. And how do you know this? Did you survey millions of people who took early retirement for feedback on whether they felt better for leaving the rat race? No, I guess not.

I didn't let pension rules dictate my life decision because I’m one of those obstinate people who rarely take notice of what others tell me I should be doing with my life. I prefer to make my own informed decisions based on a good deal of research, spreadsheets and number crunching.

Early retirement is what you make it – same as the rest of the time that’s lead up to this point. If you don’t think you can find stuff to do to take the place of employment then by all means, keep at it but I’ll tell you this – work WILL NOT set you free.

ECONOMICALLY INACTIVE

Countdown to doing nothing has officially begun. In around 2 months I will be joining the ranks of those deemed ‘economically inactive’ by the Treasury. Do I care? Not one jot! I’ve paid into the coffers for over 43 years, enough is enough.

Cash poor, time rich that’ll be me. The thought of having nothing to do after a lifetime of employment is actually quite a scary prospect. Work defines many of us. We have careers, companies, colleagues. Discussing what has or hasn’t happened in the office on any given day is our lifeblood so what happens when all of that disappears into the ether? I guess I’m about to find out.

Like a political party, I can already feel my brain splitting itself into two camps; the Yahoo-I’m-Finally-Free faction and the Not-A Moment-to-Lose faction.

The Yahoos are relishing the prospect of total unfettered freedom. The freedom to do what you want, when you want and with no-one to answer to. Captain of the good ship Idleness sailing the seas of laissez-faire. I can hibernate all winter long if I choose to. Unkempt, unwashed and unconcerned about anything other than the time of my next cuppa.

I’ll have so much time on my hands that for once I’ll be able to squander it. Guilt free! Time rich. Time can’t be taxed so I’ll be a High Time Worth Individual, a multi-minute millionaire with complete freedom to do as little as possible. No more getting up at 6.30 am to join the rat race.

On the other hand, the Not-A-Moment-to-Lose part of my brain is drawing up a To Do list of mammoth proportions because essentially, it’s following the mantra that if you stop, you die.

Like drawing up a bucket list, this is a list of all those things I always said I’d do on retirement which in my case was take up photography or oil painting. I’ve set aside a notebook to jot down all those ‘been meaning to do this’ projects so I can race into retirement with a master plan that leaves little room for boredom or the desire to return to the rank and file.

Already on the To-Do-In-Retirement List or POSER Plan are the following:

• Complete wall panelling downstairs
• Rip up old corridor carpet for replacement flooring
• Take up wild water swimming
• Consider joining the local WI group
• Dig large hole in garden for a pond
• Finish itinerary for a trip to east coast of Australia
• Do more volunteering
• Buy a sketch book and have an art attack
• Climb Snowdonia
• Gardening, gardening and more gardening
• Become a Super-Blogger
• Sign up for those free local council Heart Smart walks

And that’s just for starters because as all of us compulsive ‘A-listers’ know, once you start listing stuff it just goes on and on and on …

With all of the above to be getting on with, I really don’t see where I’d have time to fit a job into the equation so it’s just as well I won’t need to.

POUNDLAND'S DEMISE

Killer! Murderer! Assassin! Me and millions like me have dealt Poundland a fatal death blow. Et Tu Brute. I’ve as good as stuck the knife in.

These were my thoughts as I mooched round the already plundered aisles of Chichester’s soon-to-be-closed-down Poundland like a scavenging vulture looking for a carcass to pick clean. As sure as eggs is eggs, I’m one of many who have contributed to the demise of this popular retail emporium.

Bye bye Poundland - I'll miss you

How can one tiny person bring down such a commercial colossus? By being lazy, that’s how.

Modern technology has spawned a nation of indolent shoppers for whom taking a trip to town to buy toiletries, clothing or anything has become nothing more than an inconvenience. Why bother to get dressed, sit in traffic, stress over where to park the car or jostle with the great unwashed in cramped shops that don’t respect your personal space when you can just purchase whatever you like from the comfort of your laptop or smartphone? For many of us, shopping means major mental trauma.

Not only is online shopping easier or quicker but you can also use websites such as Trolley.co.uk to look for the cheapest price rather than trudge endlessly round squinting at price stickers or having your ankles smashed by trolleys/buggies driven by inconsiderate idiots who fail to grasp that two objects cannot occupy the same space unless they’re in a parallel dimension. Plus, some gumby gets to bring your purchases straight to the front door freeing up even more time for a spot of cyber-bingo or electronic celebrity undressing.

Supermarkets and other retailers are happy to encourage laziness since online deliveries/click & collect have become a multi-million pound industry.  They're making money hand-over-fist from the bone idle so they're not likely to be that bothered about the impact on the ever-dwindling high street.

Multiply one person’s laziness by millions of shoppers and you’ll understand why Britain’s High Streets are slowly disappearing, sucked dry by the commercial vampire that is internet shopping. We’re all guilty of killing off our town centres. Poundland won’t be the last chain to be garrotted by idleness.

In addition to that ‘can’t be arsed’ attitude that’s decimating our shopping precincts, shopper habits in general have probably changed in response to the current economic climate and other factors. I know mine have.

Being a self-confessed Super Scrimper, I no longer pop out for the odd trip to town, preferring instead to shop in bulk usually online. I keep a beady eye on prices then when I spot what I feel is a bargain, I buy a large quantity of that product. Take toiletries for example. Not for me the odd tube of toothpaste or can of deodorant stuck in with the weeks shopping. When I need this type of thing I get at least 6 tubes or cans or enough to tide me over for several months. In this way I can lock in that bargain price thus creating a cushion against the risk of future price increases in the market.

Same goes for laundry or cleaning products. At the start of each year, I ‘forecast’ how much detergent, washing up liquid or fabric softener I might need for the next 6-12 months then I wait for supermarket offers on these items. When the price is right, I stock up. It’s why my understairs cupboard always looks like a subsidiary of Poundland because bulk buying enables me to take advantage of economies of scale. Always keep a smaller pack/container in use which can be easily refilled from larger ones.

For those of you out there thinking ‘what a saddo’ well you may be right but I’ve always felt that if you look after the pennies, you don’t need to worry about the pounds. Must be all those years working in investment banking.

And so, this is how I’ve helped to kill Poundland and loads of other retail establishments by being a weirdo shopper who buys things online. 

Sorry to see Poundland go from Chi’s High Street. No doubt it’ll be replaced with yet another café, pizza parlour or expensive up-market chain that’s of little use to anyone other than the super-rich.

A PROSPEROUS RETIREMENT

I’ve decided to stop using the term ‘retirement’ as that sounds like the ill-awaited fate for knackered racehorses. Instead, I shall be referring to my golden years as the Period of Self Enlightenment or POSE for short seeing as everything is reduced to acronym form these days.

I plan to become a POSER before the end of the current tax year. But that’s no-where near the state retirement age I hear you gasp in amazement; how will you do it?

Indeed, how can I become a POSER without claiming a state pension? Simply by saving today so I can live for tomorrow. Not easy when I’m throwing cash around at the timber merchants like knickers at a Tom Jones concert but there are plenty of ways to build a POSER foundation without locking my purse away deep in the vaults of Fort Knox.

If I could re-wind the clock to give my younger self some good advice it would be this – if your company doesn’t offer a defined benefit (final salary) pension scheme, don’t enrol in a pension but save that money in a cash ISA instead.

Outrageous advice! Fund Managers out there are no doubt sharpening knives, lighting torches and grabbing pitchforks from their garden sheds ready to roast me on a skewer like a juicy kofta kebab over a nice hot flame. Pension Advisers would deride such foolhardy notions, citing guff about tax relief given on pension contributions by the Government but to my mind they are only keen on seducing workers into defined contribution schemes because it keeps them in jobs and extends our taxpayer lifespans.

What is a decently funded retirement anyway? Well, that depends on your perspective and aspirations. A study done at Loughborough University claims that a single person will need at least £31,300 a year for a moderate income in retirement according to a pensions industry body (who?). The least you’ll need is £14,400 per annum on which to live and the most around £43,100. What I’d like to know is what are these figures based on?

The key omission of Loughborough’s interesting reportage failed to mention whether these figures were pre-tax or after tax because the key to a prosperous retirement is knowing all about TAX, what you’ll pay, when you’ll pay it and how to ensure you pay as little as is legally possible.

Let’s take the figure mentioned above of £31,300 a year and break it down further. For my example I’m going to assume that this is pre-tax income made up of the current annual state pension of £11,973 plus a private pension of £19,327. (You’d need a massive private pension pot to generate an annual income of £19,327 per annum).

You would pay zero tax on the whole of your state pension BUT because the combined income is greater than the current personal income tax allowance of £12,570 then you would be liable for tax on £18,730 which at the basic rate of 20% means you’d have to give the Revenue £3,746 leaving a net annual income of £27,554.

Whilst the remainder of your pension pot continues to stay invested then in addition to tax on your future annual drawdowns, you’d also be paying fund management charges that would be eating into your capital. Remember too that monies invested in a pension fund are subject to the vagaries of the stock market which may go up or down depending on which way the wind is blowing and that will in turn affect the total value of your pot. In bad or volatile markets, the value of your pot may plummet thus potentially affecting how much you have available to draw down from your pension in any given year.

Now in my crazy retro scenario, I’ve gone back in time like a pirate Time Lord raided all my private pension schemes and placed the money into a cash ISA instead. OK so I may not have benefitted from potential market rises or tax relief but my invested capital has remained secure, safely weathered every conceivable political/financial crisis and steadily grown in its very own tax-free wrapper.

Supposing that I’ve managed to grow my cash ISA pot to the same value as a defined contribution pension pot then let’s revisit the above example to see if I would be better off. State pension £11,973 tax free as under the tax threshold and £18,730 drawn from the ISA also tax free so £3,746 pounds plus fund management charges better off.

What’s more I can continue to save into a cash ISA without fear of breaching any pension lifetime allowances and landing myself with a huge tax headache.

The pensions industry will try to emotionally blackmail us with crap about inflation and how money in a cash ISA is worth less over time. However, £20 is still £20 regardless of whether you get it from an ISA account or a pension fund. When I studied economics back in the 80’s, inflation measured the buying power of money NOT the rate at which prices rise, this now seems to be the popular definition used in the media. Inflation erodes the buying power of everyone’s money anyway you get it.

Clearly the University’s estimated pension figures must be skewed in favour of yuppy pensioners benefitting from generous civil service gold plated pensions since most of us will have failed to earn an annual salary of £31,300 or £43,100 in our career lifetimes. My best wage only topped £32,000 and that was after about 30 years of employment.

The key to a prosperous retirement is to manage expectations and live within your means. Don’t be seduced by mass consumerism or pension preachers. Sounds boring but not impossible. Most single POSERs could still get a lot out of the minimal amount quoted of £14,400 if they re-examined their outgoings and gave up fags, booze, subscription services, takeaways, online gambling, tattoos and expensive holidays/smartphones.

Don’t believe the hype – you can retire on a lot less than £31,300 and still have a bloody good life. After all, I’ve lived on a part-time salary much smaller than the state pension for the past 5 years and still found the cash to pay for food, festivals and McFlurries.

BYE BYE WORKPLACE

Although there’s still two months before I skip off into the early retirement sunset, I’ve already drawn up a letter announcing my departure intentions which I’ll present to my manager like an early Easter egg. Haven’t you bought yours yet? They’ve been in the shops since 5 January so no excuses.

Legally obliged to give only a months’ notice, I’m generously giving my employer two whole months in which to procrastinate as I’ve yet to experience a workplace where replacement staff are recruited in a timely manner that allows the current incumbent to train up their successor.

And that of course is assuming that there will be a successor because past experience also shows that many companies choose to leave posts vacant for a period in order to achieve headcount budget saves and don’t really care if your colleagues have to absorb your workload on top of their own in the meantime.

The more devious companies use early retirements as a good excuse for a complete departmental restructure that generally results in more work for the same pay on a permanent basis and also generates ongoing savings on employer on-costs which are then spaffed on director bonuses, client schmoosing or some nonsensical bit of office kit you didn’t know you needed.

I hope my replacement is the Usain Bolt of data input, has the patience of a saint, zero initiative, and enjoys being micro-managed because these are the key attributes required to fit into my role.

Whilst there is no career progression as such or guarantee of an annual pay rise, you can dress casually, listen to the radio all day long and enjoy the delights of a Turner’s pie delivered to your desk every Christmas. Even the chancellor can’t tax these perks which albeit small, add to a pleasant working environment.

The key to a good leaving letter in my view is to ensure you don’t burn bridges because if retirement becomes one long bore, you may wish to return to your old job. Are there any statistics out there to quantify how many people have done this? Keep it brief, free of personal gripes or company criticisms and thank them.

What???  Yes, thank your employer for giving you the opportunity to sit there and take shit. It’s polite and after all whatever you might think of them, they gave you a chance when perhaps no-one else would. Plus I’m sure that most people have given as much shit back to their employers as they’ve taken during their working lives so it’s only fair to show some degree of gratitude.

By all means throw in all those insincere platitudes – I’ll miss you (no I won’t), I’ve enjoyed working here (really?), I’ll pop in to say hello (come on, nobody ever goes back) and keep in touch (I never want to hear from you buggers ever, ever, ever again!).  Best to just keep it simple.

In the past I’ve always handed over my letters of resignation on a Friday. This is not a deliberate ploy on my part to ensure my manager has a stressful weekend but because as an ex-manager, office custom and practice is to deliver bad news on Fridays.

You’re sacked/redundant/being replaced by a robot or a 12 year old who knows how to use social media – all of these scenarios are communicated at the end of the week so as to cause the least disruption in the workplace. No tears, tantrums or toys thrown out of the pram for 5 days because all those human emotions that accompany bad news then take place on your own dime. By the time Monday rolls round, your resignation is old news and pragmatic plans can then be put in place so that office life can continue as before.

There’s always an element of both nervousness and sadness in handing over the missive but it should always be done in person. No cowardly leaving the letter on the desk when your boss has nipped out for a latte/slash or to chat up the totty in the team next door.

Experience shows that after the deed is done there’s generally an embarrassing silence, some well wishing but never a great deal of chat; both of you are just sat there hoping the moment will quickly pass so you can get back to your spreadsheets.

BACK TO BLIGHTY

Overseas business concluded, back home in dear old Blighty, a country of cold, complaining and crises. Who wouldn’t want to live in sunny Spain all winter? I for one would quite happily hibernate here from October to April each year given half the chance and a lottery win.

Something that’s hard to explain is that although British by birth and having lived pretty much all my life in the UK, there’s a part of me that always feels like I’ve returned home when visiting Spain. I just can’t put my finger on it. A switch flips in my head bringing out the Mediterranean in me. And when the locals accost me in the street to ask for directions then it becomes even more obvious that they think I’m one of them, not some gringo from foreign parts. Not that I can help them in any way as I’ve no idea where anything is but it’s really rather nice to be asked.

Alas, all good things come to an end and it’s probably no bad thing. There’s a reason why you leave home in your younger years; it doesn’t change as you get older. Everyone knows parents will drive you mad sooner or later, mine are no exception.  I now need a holiday to get over this holiday!

Besides which I have a long list of stuff to return to such as continuing the wood panelling project I started before Christmas plus getting my head round this new concept called retirement.

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.

WOT NO CHURROS?

For those of you out there thinking I’m loitering in some Spanish taverna quaffing San Miguel at 10 am then sizzling my wobbly bits on a sandy beach, I can assure you that is as far removed from reality as Donald Trump buying Scotland for its North Sea oil and gas reserves. OMG I hope I haven’t given him any ideas…

In the words of the immortal Godfather, Don Corleone - it’s not personal, it’s strictly business. It’s not even my own business but that of the Ancient Mariner who after a decade of nagging has finally decided to get his foreign affairs ship shape before heading off to Davy Jones locker.

I’d forgotten just how hard the single beds were in my old childhood bedroom. Imagine sleeping on a granite outcrop covered by a few flimsy sheets of loo roll. Three bedspreads heaped onto a couple of moth-eaten prehistoric blankets later I finally managed to thaw out for some shut eye.

Only I’d also forgotten that mother masquerades as a wrinkly vampire watching TV until the wee hours. No problem with that except she’s almost as deaf as a post and even three bedspreads plus a closed door failed to tone down the volume. This does not bode well for the week ahead.

Alone in a house with two old dears that struggle to walk a hundred yards to the loo is going to mean no churros for yours truly. I’ll be that saddo tourist sitting alone in a corner table nursing a cup of hot chocolate slowly savouring the taste of deep-fried greasy churros which although not great for anyone’s waistline are such a treat that it’s almost a religious pilgrimage when visiting Spain.

It’s now just a case of picking the right moment to pop off for an early morning stroll down to a local churro emporium.

RUDE

There’s rude and then there’s f*****g rude. Old lady, you may be a decade older than me but barging past then sticking your suitcase in my face is just NOT OKAY!

Yesterday’s early morning departure to Malaga from Bournemouth was evidence of the rich tapestry of peasant life – the winter fuel allowancers, the would-be benefit claimants and kids seemingly of school age who inexplicably won’t be ticked as present on Monday’s register.

Pensioner poverty my arse! I suppose you’ll be telling me next that all these oldies spent all summer living off beans on toast so they could afford to warm their old bones in the winter sun. Yeah, I can clearly see where all my taxes are going. Still, at least they won’t be clogging up NHS hospitals with all those health issues exacerbated by sub-zero cold or damp.

‘Algo que declarar? (anything to declare?)’ said the officious Spanish copper wielding a lethal looking stamper in the Border Control kiosk, ready to crush any potential narco-terrorists with a resounding click.

‘Let me see’ I squeaked from behind my guinea-pig face mask, a must for all travellers on Covid-air. 

‘Hands up I did let off a few silent trouser trumps at 10,000 miles high, most likely the result of post traumatic stress following a Samsonite facial administered by the Dowager dragon. UK temperatures are cold enough to freeze the tail off a shithouse rat and the economy is going to need more than a defibrillator to jolt it back to life’.

‘You might also want a quiet word with that bald bloke over there in the grubby grey tracky bottoms as I think he took an almighty crap over Cordoba which has probably created an international incident beyond diplomacy that now requires forcible action to resolve. Otherwise, nope. Nothing of note to declare’.

Slowly morphing into my Spanish alter ego – Juana Sheet in Malaga’s midday sun, I board the bus to El Rincon sweating like a pig in polar thermals. The sun is shining, the sea is sparkling, the bus is full of happy chatter which of course, I can auto-tune into using the Spanish half of my brain – there are some advantages to speaking a foreign language you know.

I relax back into the padded seat and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Life is good. Viva Malaga!

NEW YEAR, NEW HORIZONS

Well that's another year rubbed off life’s scratchcard.  

Funny how time seems to drag on in your middle years yet speeds up in your later ones.  Is there a name for this wondrous phenomenon?  Or is this just a sign of old age?  After all, 12 months is still 12 months.  Right? 

There’s nothing pretty special about 2026 except for the fact I’ve arrived at 63.  

If longevity statistics for women are anything to go by then I only have around 20 years left on the planet provided no other unexpected visitors turn up – like Death.  I’m not hoping to see the Grim Reaper for a few years yet but when I do, I hope he’s like the Death featured in Terry Pratchett novels; astride a white horse called Binky and speaking in CAPITALS.  

This time last year, I was throwing together my list of three goals to accomplish.  Naturally, they all revolved around the house – fixing this, replacing that or smashing out the other.  At sixty-three, there’s got to be more to life than DIY so this year’s resolution will be like nothing before.  

After 45 years of spreadsheets, putting up with work numpties and clacking away on office keyboards, I’ve finally decided to hang up my working gloves to venture off into the world of early retirement.  So long suckers and thanks for all the fish, as that’s what decades in finance has given me – one great haddock! 

My mind’s made up.  All that’s needed now is an exit date but that too has already been added to the kitchen calendar.  When the clock’s next change, I’ll be springing forward to begin writing the final chapter of life.  

Not this blog though.  No final cyber chapters yet for you lot – there’s still another 20 years of this nonsense to publish!

PUMP IT UP

My Chinese horoscope is showing that 2026 is set to become the Year of the Heat Pump. The Government is deviously planning to give all gas boiler owners one of those unwanted Christmas gifts by FORCING us to pay towards other people’s heat pumps, something it obviously decided in the net zero January sales.

Muppet Miliband wants to ‘encourage’ folks to install these expensive monstrosities by beating us with his levy stick to the tune of £30 added to gas bills. Eliminating consumer choice is hardly the way to win over the electorate but essentially you and I will be deprived of our democratic right to choose what to buy to heat our homes.

Costlier to buy and fit than solar panels, like electric cars I’m not convinced that pumping up the neighbourhood is the answer to lowering energy bills but what do I know? Muppet Miliband clearly did not do his homework in the school holidays. Instead of snaffling all the chocolates from the advent calendar, he would have been better off taking a close look at demographical statistics to determine:

a) How many properties in the UK actually meet the internal/external space requirements needed to fit heat pumps.

b) How many households fall into the wealth bracket whereby they can actually afford to buy or run heat pumps.

It is all well and good saying you want households to get one of these things but ours and many others are not likely to meet the above criteria which means the people who should be benefitting from cheaper bills won’t be.

And even if you could get round the second point by being eligible for a Government grant to help with costs, you’d still have to find around £7,000 to part fund the project. Like all these things, I expect the qualifying criteria for any help from the Treasury is going to be set so tightly that you’d have more chance of getting a window seat on a rocket to the moon.

Why do you think there haven't been any tabloid reports about the success of the previous Government's Great British Insulation Scheme?  I suspect it's because it was poorly publicised and there was little take up.  How much was spent by the Gov on it and how many better insulated households who participated are now saving on their energy bills?  Yep, no-one's reporting on that one are they?

So, if you want to saddle yourself with an unwanted eco-loan and higher electricity bills then by all means get a heat pump. Oh, did the papers fail to mention that heat pumps being an electrical gadget are expensive to run? I think that was buried in the small print along with the footie results on the back pages.

A spokesperson for the Dept of Energy Security & Net Zero said ‘Our plans to feather our nests and those of our cronies is paramount. We are taking action to increase bills because the chances of Britain being turned into a tropical paradise where heating becomes obsolete is zero and we’ve promised suppliers of renewable energy that we’d pick up the tab’.

My gas boiler is going nowhere. I am more than happy to pay £30 to keep a cheap, efficient power source to heat my home effectively and look forward to reading about how ‘successful’ this heat pump initiative has been in reducing our electricity bills later on in the year.

HAPPY NEW TRACTOR!

Happy new tractor! 

Bet you’d thought I’d forgotten to update the world on the fitting end to our tractor saga but no, here it is in all its farmyard glory:

Finally finished

Ready and waiting for grandson

Imagine waking up on your birthday to find this lovely surprise on your play mat.

Is that for my birthday?

Needless to say there is one very happy little boy pretending to drive to the petrol station or tucking into a slice of birthday cake – tractor shaped, of course.

A yummy edible version