Getting laid

So there was I, thinking that all the work had been done and that we would now be able to lie back, enjoy the Spanish summer that's already begun with a vengeance (at least in this part of Spain) and perhaps snooze away a few siestas.

Some hope.

She Who Must Be Obeyed had clearly been hatching other plans and, after the work to put up the trellising had been completed, revealed these to me: a major tiling job, extending our already quite reasonable collection of outside floor tiles to unheard of dimensions. Yesterday her favourite tile-laying-arranger was called. Alex is a very personable young man of Russian origin. He spent three years in India, studying, and has now been working in Spain with his own odd-jobs company for several years. We have made use of his services before and have been very pleased with his correctness and quality of work.

Alex arrived at about eight o'clock that same evening and everything was explained to him: here a corner, this extended, that a quarter circle, this a right-angle, and so on. He took all the measurements, made his calculations and came up with a price that, though staggering in its enormity, was, all things considered, quite reasonable. The deal was sealed and this morning Alex and his team number eight arrived at close to nine o'clock to start the work: from preliminary measurements to start of work in just 12 hours! Alex is off to arrange for new jobs: he seems to be doing well and deserves it, too. Team number eight, Watsis and Igor are hard at it already.

We, of course, had to be up at the crack of dawn (well, that's what it seemed like me) in order to move the cacti, succulents, and other plants and objects away from the areas that are to be tiled.

Today is initial preparation (removing the layer of gravel now in place, levelling the playing field, and so on) and perhaps some initial laying of reinforced concrete, a job that will be completed tomorrow. Then a couple of days rest to allow the bases to set well, before the actual laying of the tiles. Hopefully, the work will be completed by the end of next week.

Perhaps then the lying back can begin.

Jealousy

The work of removing the aldelfas/oleanders and putting in their place trellising with climbing plants was completed earlier today. The plants chosen are Trachelospermum jasminoides, otherwise known as Chinese ivy, Chinese jasmine, Star jasmine, Jasmin rhynchospermum, and Jasmin rhyncospermum (and, I suspect several other names, as well). Hopefully, these plants will be able to support the hot summers here; they should certainly not have any difficulties with the mild winters. If all goes well, the trellis should soon be covered in largish glossy green leaves, accompanied by several months of star-shaped white flowers which should provide a citrus-like perfume. Some very good photos of the plant can be found here.

Where does "jealousy" come into the equation? Well, the Spanish word for a trellis is celosía and this made me think of the word celoso, which means "jealous." Checking the etimology of the word, I was delighted to find that celosía is, indeed, associated with jealousy. This is even more obvious in the French word for a trellis or lattice window, jalousie, of course. The book, Etimolgía de las pasiones, provides plenty of interesting material regarding celoso, celosía, and even the English zealous.

Where a simple trellis can lead you!

Adiós Adelfa—Oleander olé

The four Adelfas (Nerium oleander) at the front of the garden. They have been fairly unhappy for some time now, with browning leaves and few flowers. I have sought the advice of gardening professionals and have been told that the plants are suffering from:

too much water
not enough water
insect infestation
fungus attack
…

(This reminds me of the story of the blind wise men and the elephant: each touches a different part of the elephant and comes to a different conclusion about the whole, none of them being correct.)

After some research of my own, I decided that the most probable cause was a fungal attack and that, other than spraying the plants with all sorts of rubbish, the only course of action was to cut them right back and hope that they will grow again in a rather more healthy state. Another option, of course, would be to remove the plants completely, but that seems a tad drastic just now, so today the old secateurs and pruning saw were retrieved and the plants were cut back to the ground. It's just as well that the weather is cooler today, thanks to a light cloud cover; had I tried to do the job yesterday, I 'd probably have died from heat exhaustion in a very short time.

Now it's wait and see.

Incidentally, oleanders might be very pleasant to look at, at least when they're healthy, but take care with them, as they are highly toxic. It seems that old Napoleon lost several hundred men during his Spanish campaign, simply because they prepared their evening meal using oleander sticks. A few leaves is sufficient to kill a horse, so I've read.

Fortunately, I don't own a horse…

Eviva Belgica!

What do Charles V, Adolph Saxe (inventor of the saxophone), Tintin, the Smurfs, Jacques Brel, George Simenon (Maigret author) and the song Eviva España have in common?

Well, for one thing, they all come from Belgium!

Charles V was born in Ghent in 1500 and was brought up in Mechelen. He went on to become Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and ruled as Carlos I as the King of Spain.

No, Tintin (Kuifje in Dutch) was not a French invention, nor were the Smurfs a Dutch invention; these comic characters originated in Belgium.

And if you thought that Jacques Brel was French, then think again: he was Belgian and, despite being known as a singer of French chansons, was, in fact, of Flemish origin.

All together now… Eviva España!

No, you are not singing a Spanish song, even if the number is popular in Spain, at least amongst the tourists. The original version of Eviva España was composed by Flemish band leader Leo Caerts, with Dutch words provided by Leo Roozenstraten. Flemish singer Samantha (real name Christina Bervoets) made the first recording and went on to record it again in numerous languages, including French, German and, of course, Spanish. Since then, the song has been recorded by countless artists in many languages and has sold more than 40 million copies. Now the title is usually amended to read the more correct "Y Viva España."

Elise and I were in the El Corte Inglés store in Elche a few days ago. We were walking around the in-store Hipercor supermarket, when we noticed some bottles of Hoegaarden beer, a Belgian make. Then we saw some Leffe, then some Chimay, followed by Duvel and several other quality Belgian beers (none of your Stella Artois stuff). Pity they don't sell fresh Leonidas Belgian pralines!

You are reading this on the World Wide Web. Even that has strong Belgian origins, for the WWW was developed at the CERN laboratories in Geneva by the Flemish Belgian Robert Cailliau, together with Tim Berners-Lee.

And then, of course, there's Eddy Wally, the self-styled Voice of Europe, who is world famous in several parts of Flanders…

Straffe koffie

For a long time now I've liked a good strong cup of coffee.

I think it started some 22 years ago, when I was on a business trip to Italy for the EU. My first stop was Milan and there I was introduced to "real" coffee in a small Italian bar. I asked for a coffee and was presented with a tiny cup, apparently filled with foam. Not wishing to show my foreign ignorance of things Italian, I added the sugar that was supplied to the contents of the cup, stirred (thereby discovering the coffee below the foam) and took a sip. Wow! This was coffee as I had never drunk it before, thick and creamy, with a wonderfully full flavour. At every opportunity after, I ordered the same small espresso coffee, and continued to enjoy this new-found pleasure.

Back in Belgium, I drank the usual filtered stuff, but wanted to be able to experience that same Italian flavour, a wish that seemed impossible to fulfil. Then one day, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I visited a trade fair and came across a stand that sold espresso coffee machines that worked with Illy coffee pads, though could also operate with freshly ground coffee. I talked a bit with the genial salesman and he assured me that his coffee would be just like the coffee I remembered from Milan. I agreed, though with little conviction, to try his brew. He placed a pad in the holder, fitted the holder in the machine, placed a small espresso cup under the holder and pressed the red button. A short while later, and accompanied by some very espresso-making sounds, an almost black liquid flowed from the machine into the cup, and a cover of foam gradually formed over the coffee. I took the cup offered to me, added some sugar, stirred and took a sip. I could almost have been back in Milan. This was by far the closest I had come to finding my Italian espresso, and I immediately ordered a machine and some coffee pads.

Since then, I have used the machine almost every day. I have only used the freshly-ground option on a couple of occasions and find it simply not worth the effort: Illy pads do very nicely, thank you.

I soon discovered the rest of the Illy world: Illy cups, Illy glasses (for the mouth-swilling cold water, taken after the espresso), Illy spoons. I have several sets of Illy cups, both limited and standard editions, and only use these cups for dinking Illy coffee: I wouldn't dream of placing a "foreign" cup on the machine, or of using an Illy cup for anything but Illy coffee.

I've just come back from a very pleasant evening with some acquaintances. A nice couple: quiet, interesting, Mac users, and Illy cup collectors. Imagine my horror when Francine (I use an alias to save her from embarrassment) announced that she had gone off Illy coffee somewhat and now preferred Senseo, but used her Illy cups to drink the Senseo coffee! Heresy, I say! Outrage, I cry!

Drinking Senseo coffee from an Illy cup is tantamount to running Windows on a Mac: it can be done, of course, but it merits a punishment worse than death. It's an insult to the Illy cups and Illy coffee. Let's be honest about it, the Senseo output is more of a warm drink than a cup of coffee.

At least Francine has a decent collection of Illy cups. I just hopes she doesn't defile them further…

Hoofdpijn, Rheumatiek…

Some thirty-odd years ago, the late Dutch artist-cum-singer, Tol Hansse, wrote and recorded the number Hoofpijn, Rheumatiek, in which he complained in his usual tongue-in-cheek melancholy fashion, about the way we treat our milieu (he was a man before his time). The chorus could apply equally well to growing old: Headache, rheumatism, water-pipes and gas-works.

This getting old business is a bit of a lark, isn't it?

I mean, I don't feel any older than I did when I was young, so what are all these tricks my body's playing on me? Pills, potions and pomades, that's what life is all about nowadays. You go to the doctor and the answer to all the aches and pains, the gases and all other complains remains the same, "It's the age!"

I started aching some fifteen years ago, but after several years of poking and prodding, it was discovered that I had severe osteoporosis. Fair enough, that at least was an acceptable explanation, even if no real reason (other than it being in the genes) could be given. But now it seems that anything and everything is age-related.

Drops in the eyes against glaucoma, high doses of calcium and additional vitamin D, together with a medicine called Protelos, to combat the effects of osteoporosis, various other concoctions against gout, or trout, or something, along with creams against irritation in places best left unmentioned.

I eat food and my nose starts running; I've lost my sense of smell almost completely; my back aches when I sit too long, or stand too long, or lie too long, or… The hair stopped growing on my head years ago, but now grows in my ears, for heaven's sake.

My body goes out where it used to go in and goes in where it used to go out. Running for anything is a past art. I come into the living-room intending to do something extremely important and haven't the faintest idea what it is I intend to do.

Exercise is limited: I tried jogging some years back and that caused split shins (presumably because of the osteoporosis); gentle tai-chi resulted in a compression fracture of the vertebrae. At least I can walk a lot more here in Spain than I could in Belgium, but it is not something I am particularly fond of. I do, of course, have the vibro-platform that I wrote about earlier, so at least I get to shake it all about now and then. I use the platform every other day, in fact, though am still not at all sure if it actually does anything useful!

Alcohol, you say?

I don't drink alcohol and haven't done so since 1982.

Smoking, you say?

I have never smoked.

Diet, you say?

She Who Must Be Obeyed provides me with what she insists is a well-balanced diet, containing all the vitamins, roughage, proteins and whatever else that a healthy lifestyle requires. Who am I to argue?

So perhaps the doctors (and Tol Hansse) really do have a point about this getting old business: it's not good for you.

What key am I supposed to press now…?

Shame, Shame, Shame

Rugby (the only real sport).

Wales played arch-enemy England on Saturday. England won the match by far too many points to not enough (30 - 17).

The score did not adequately reflect the less than mediocre spectacle provided by both sides. After the match, the players, coaches and managers should have been made to stand with heads bowed in front of the posts, begging the Great God Rugger for forgiveness for such a pathetic display.

Welsh lock Alun-Wyn Jones should have been red carded for his unsportsmanlike, ruthless, callous, and quite deliberate trip. Such behaviour has no place on the rugby pitch, no matter how much it is condoned by namby-pamby soccer players. But apart from Jones's unforgivable tactics, the two teams provided nothing more than a pathetic display of handling errors, unnecessary kicking, poor ball skills, and lack of insight. The players could just as well have stayed in the changing-rooms during the first half, leaving the ref to jog up and down the pitch, perhaps co-ordinating his movements with those of the linesmen—the spectacle would have been just as exciting and enthralling as that put on by the players: a pathetic display of hopelessness.

These are supposed to be professional rugby players? The best of their countries? I went to a rugby-playing school (Woolverstone Hall) in the 1960s. Our sports master was, thankfully, a Welshman called Mr Evans (well, I never), who stood for no nonsense and knew his rugby inside out. If Mr Evans were alive today, he'd explode, seeing such a collection of basic handling errors, lack of vision, and quite unnecessary kicking. The two teams would be down on Orwell Field, practising passing, dummying, side-stepping and all manner of other things rugby, up and down the field for hours on end until they can do it blindly. And no dinner, either.

And as for Alun-Wyn Jones, he'd never play again.

It seems that those who guide the sport have got their knickers in a twist, thinking that rugby is all a question of power. Sumo wrestling it's not, for heaven's sake! Okay, the forwards need to be big (well, big-ish), but the halves and three-quarters do not need to be the large and often muscle-bound entities so often seen nowadays. They must be agile, fast, able to run with he ball, to side-step, to dart in and out, to sell a dummy… Oh, and for this to occur, the ball has to be passed out from the scrum, via the scrum half (who really must know how to pass) to the fly-half and on via the centres to the wing. And line up! And back up! And do all the basic things that rugby requires. And forget the idea that brute force alone will win a match.

Come back, Mr Evans. All is forgiven.