Here's what happens if you do something...

With the Best Intentions

Sunday started out all right. And in the grand scheme of things it ended up all right. It was the bit in the middle that went skew-whiff.

Having watered my garden I strolled down to my neighbour’s garden to fulfil the same task minus my key. I didn’t need my key, as Steve had it so that he could get in and minister to the pool.

Sure enough, when I arrived there was Steve upside down in the pump house, addressing the pump in a stern voice. I knew better than to interrupt.
My mission completed I ventured to see whether the pump had acquiesced to Steve’s blandishments only to find the pump house open but to sign of Steve or his van.

Must have gone back for a part, I reasoned. Probably won’t be long – unless he has breakfast and walks the dog, in which case he will be long. Better lock the gate, in case. I pushed the padlock shut and returned home to the banality of housework.

In mid-washing up I heard an enquiring ‘Jos’ coming from my porch.

‘Have you got the key?’
‘No, you’ve got it. I shut the padlock because I knew you had the key, and I didn’t know how long you’d be.’
‘I left it by the pump house so that you could lock up if you were finished before I came back.’
‘Oh.’

It never occurred to me to look for it, but the end result was one locked gate with Steve on the outside when he needed to be on the inside.

Although neither of us have any demonstrable criminal skills it was obvious that a legitimate break-in was necessary. I suggested climbing over the wall onto the neighbour’s garden wall (who aren’t here, so wouldn’t know), but Steve was already on top of the wall, padding back and forth with all the confidence as if he were walking along the promenade at Garrucha.

‘Don’t do that!’ I exclaimed. ‘How am I going to explain to Kim (Steve’s wife) that you broke your leg falling off a wall?’
‘I won’t fall. I’m going to jump down here.’
‘It’s too high, you are not designed for long drops without a parachute.’

I must have tapped into his common sense gene, because he descended the wall and headed for the lamppost. The ground on the other side of the lamppost is much higher, so less of a drop would be necessary. Climbing lampposts is not as easy as it might at first appear. The little ornamental knobbles that adorn it are not big – certainly not big enough for good purchase by a full size foot!

Also considerable upper body strength is needed to hang on to the metal stalk of the post while the feet scrabble for a decent hold. Once the feet are solid on the post, then the hands have to release their grip in order to grasp the post higher up. Having made this upward progress, then it is all down to the thighs to push the body up to meet the hands.

And then there is the matter of getting from post to wall. The distance between the lamppost and the wall is not great – but it is greater than can be reached by stretching out a hand and foot, and requires a confident lemur-like leap from one to the other. There is very little about Steve that is lemur like, especially in that split second between leaving the lamppost and reaching the wall, but sheer determination prevailed, and he arrived on the wall shaken but not stirred.

Our legitimate break-in was successful, and Steve was able to complete his treatment of the pump, while I learned that in future I should check the keys before locking the gate.
And if Steve’s wall walking and lamppost climbing has given him the urge to run away and join the circus as a high wire or trapeze performer I am sure they will be quashed by the thought of the very tight Lycra worn by said performers!

Either you will know what this means, or like me, you will have to read on for the explanation!

Hablas Flamenco

My Flemish Belgian neighbours had got caught up in the rapidly ever changing Covid restrictions, and were stuck in Belgium unable to receive their order of furniture.

All was not lost; they had a Jos with a key and nothing to do!

The furniture was coming from Koala, due at 11.00. ‘They said they would come at 11.00, and they will be punctual.’ Eric told me.

Those who know me know that I can be a little sceptical, especially when it comes to Spanish timekeeping. However, this was a Belgian company, so I reined in my natural pessimism and prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt. At 11.00 on the dot the Koala van pulled up. Had Big Ben been present the van’s wheels would have stopped rolling on the first Bong, and the tailgate would have been opened by the eleventh Bong.*

I approached with a degree of lingual uncertainty; We were in Spain, but this was a Belgian company. Most, but not all, Belgians speak English. The same applies to Spanish. So what would be our common language? While I was pondering this problem Delivery Man #1 addressed me. I had no idea what he said, and I put this down to the fact that he was wearing a mask.

In the hiatus that followed he started again – in English. His English, however, was obviously not at the front of his mind, so I replied in Spanish in the hope that we would reach a better accord in a language that was foreign to both of us. Having thus established a linguistic common ground the conversation moved on harmoniously. Until he asked me ‘¿Hablas flamenco?’

That stopped me as effectively as if I’d run headfirst into a brick wall. Noticing my stunned expression he helpfully repeated ¿Hablas flamenco?’ I looked down at my less than lissom body, and considered my lack of limb mobility. I must have misheard – Flamenco? Me? Nah, not in my wildest dreams!

This was a conundrum beyond my solving. I was totally stumped. ‘Flamenco is my language. I thought you might speak it.’ He offered. Now I saw a chink of light. I still had no idea what he was talking about, but it was obviously something to do with languages.

‘I speak a little Spanish’ I replied, ‘but my English is excellent.’

Returning back to my base I resolutely banished from my mind the awful spectre of me dancing flamenco and reached for the phone and Google Translate.
Flamenco, it informed me, is Spanish for Flemish??. Is the dance called after the country, or the country called after the dance? I think that is a line of enquiry best left to erudite historians, of which I am not one!

*Yes, I know! If Big Ben had been present he would have Bonged 10, not 11!