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.
Pots and Cans
Sunday, January 25, 2026
Thursday, January 22, 2026
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.
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.
Monday, January 19, 2026
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.
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.
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
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
Sunday, January 18, 2026
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.
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.
Thursday, January 15, 2026
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2026
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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2026
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.
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.
Sunday, January 11, 2026
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.
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!
‘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!
Friday, January 09, 2026
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!
Tuesday, January 06, 2026
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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 05, 2026
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 |
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