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!
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