I came home from teaching yesterday and shared this anecdote with my friends on Facebook. I enjoy telling anecdotes and have a great store of them, many of which see the light of day more than once a year. Sometimes I forget to count how many times a particular anecdote has been taken out and aired in any one year.
I am very fond of my Level 9 class - they are in their final year at the academy and they are quite a chatty group, enjoying whole class discussions on impromptu subjects. Yesterday, we were 'planning a day trip' - I offered to pay - and we were having great fun deciding on which film we'd see in Granada before going for a meal. The only problem was transport. There were 9 of us and I was the only one old enough to drive, but we didn't have a car big enough. This brought us to the bus situation here in Alcala. In August, the buses to and from Granada were reduced in frequency and the latest bus from Granada to Alcala in the evening now leaves at the outrageously early hour of 6pm! FR has been doing a spot of activity, including writing lots of letters, speaking to the press and gathering signatures on a petition, so I took the opportunity to motivate my little band to register their protests too. I suspect they may choose to ask their parents for a lift when they need to go, but it proved an interesting topic for a while.
So the bus was no good. One enthusiast suggested we went on bikes but not everyone fancied the 35km ride. And this brought us onto other forms of transport and my experience of riding a moped. As a student, I mentioned that I lived in Staines which was some distance away from my college in Hampstead. I travelled on my trusty steed, Mortimer - a Yamaha moped, blue in colour and really rather sweet. Top speed was just under 30 miles an hour on the flat. Uphill was a little slower. I used to ride along the A4, which went past Heathrow airport and then joined the North Circular - a busy road even all those years ago! For years, in wind, rain, snow and fog, I pootled safely around the roads of London on Mortimer, although I remember arriving home once on a particularly freezing day, and not being able to straighten up or move my hands, so cold I was. Brrrr...
Our conversation had led me onto Mortimer (though I didn't name him to my class) and our accident. It was a bright, sunny day in April and I was riding along the quiet back streets of Mitcham, where I lived, on the way to Wimbledon, where I worked. Suddenly, a blue Metro pulled out in front of me, leaving me no time to swerve or brake hard enough to avoid a collision. I remember hitting the bonnet of the car and sailing through the air. I landed some distance away on the other side of the road, on my backside, looking up at the front grill of a black taxi cab. There wasn't a scratch on me and the taxi-driver, bless him, came running up to me and the first thing he said was 'Wow, that was fantastic; are you a stunt woman? Have you done that before?' He was a charming man and stayed with me until the ambulance came.
I was wearing a skirt and boots and hadn't even laddered my tights, but I had a sinking feeling when I remembered that I had my 'spare' knickers on - the ones you really don't want to be wearing if you have an accident. They had a big hole in them and came up to the waist and were an unappealing shade of beige (pronounced on this occasion as 'beidge' please, to get the full effect.) And I started to giggle. And then I caught sight of Mortimer, who at first glance looked fine - but the second glance showed him to be at least a foot shorter from front to back! Poor Mortimer. He never recovered. I giggled more and the people around me told me it was shock.
I had fractured my knee cap on the handlebars on my way 'up' but executed a perfect landing on my way down - apparently turning a full somersault as I flew through the air. Hence the taxi driver's comment. I remember being surprised that it didn't hurt when I hit the car and I had time to say to myself, 'Well, you're not going to die but it will probably hurt when you land'. But I don't actually remember landing. I guess the brain doesn't record everything though for weeks afterwards, I had a full, slow-motion flashback of the accident - from lots of different angles, including watching it happening to me from a viewpoint somewhere above the action. Very strange.
Now, there is no way I would subject my English class to all this detail, but as we talked about the sensation of being on a bike as a lorry whizzes past you, I mentioned my travels in London on a moped. As I began to say I'd had an accident and damaged my knee, a voice piped up - in perfectly inflected English - 'Yeh, yeh, you've told us that one'. I was momentarily mortified to think I'd already told them but decided instead to be pleased at the excellent intonation and pronunciation. I think this little summary version will become an anecdote in its own right...forgive me if you've heard it before!
Sharing this story on Facebook - in a much simplified version, of course - a friend asked if I had told them about the Cadbury's Creme Egg car. I suspect I haven't.
I'm not sure how, but a friend had an arrangement to drive one of only 5 Cadbury Creme Egg Cars in the weeks around Easter. These are real cars made in the shape of a creme egg - completely bizarre. This particular year, I was a bit down, having split up with my boyfriend of 20 years (he of half a house in France fame). It caused quite a stir when this friend came to my place of work and parked out at the back, where staff on all eight floors of the building could be seen hanging out of the windows - though as it was only 1995, there were no camera phones to capture the scene! He thought it would cheer me up to have a drive out in the car with him on Easter Sunday and suggested we go to Scarborough.
This probably would have attracted enough attention as it was but my sister had the brilliant idea of lending me one of her fantastic handmade fancy dress costumes. If you've made a gorgeous chicken outfit, you want it to be worn more than the once, I guess.
I went wearing a yellow hat which incorporated a large, red, padded beak; a shiny yellow tunic with yellow felt feathers; bright red tights and red shoes with huge padded, three-toed feet attached. I advise against doing anything like this unless you feel very cheerful and happy and don't have the weight of having called the emergency services to deal with your unstable ex the night before...and take a spare pair of shoes, especially if you sister has bigger feet than you. I don't advise you wear this sort of a costume or travel in this sort of a car if you are troubled or weeping - it's not what excited little children expect as they drive past, waving.
It was a bitter-sweet experience all in all and one I think I shall not share with my students. But even I regret the lack of photos for this particular journey!
I forgot to tell you that in Bridlington, where we stopped at a stately home (with the awful name of Sewerby Hall,) there was an exhibition of birds of prey. The attendant there very seriously came over to me and suggested I keep out of sight.
Birds of Prey.
Chicken costume....
Here, the Stig drives a Creme Egg car around a car park. Honestly, we went all the way to Scarborough and back in it!
Casa Rosales
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Friday, 23 November 2012
Monday, 7 November 2011
Me 'n' Pru
I met Pru early '90s - I can't remember exactly which year but it was the year that I went on holiday with my friend Annie and her husband. Two Annies and a Pru together in France! Gosh, our menfolk were brave to take us on, I can tell you.
I didn't know when I met her that she had a chequered history; a dodgy past; that she was, very probably, a split personality. I just know that when I first saw her, I fell in love immediately and that we had to be together.
I wouldn't normally have done something like this and my partner at the time was a bit shocked the first time I took her home - he told me when she wasn't listening, that I should really have consulted him first as he knew more about her type than I did; that I shouldn't have made such a decision on my own. I remember being quite cross - I knew Pru wouldn't let me down, wouldn't spoil anything, would be perfect to take on holiday with us. I'd invited her as much for him as for me too.
Indeed, it was the forthcoming holiday that had prompted my decision to get to know Pru.
Probably since she had a serious illness (for in her youth, she was really rather wild...) my friend Annie has been quite a nervous traveller and she was now - just a few weeks before we were due to leave - feeling a tad twitchy about the holiday we'd planned. We were to cross the channel on a ferry; the first daunting challenge for Annie. She and her husband in one car, me and my partner in another. And then we were going to drive through France, stopping off at various places along the way before reaching Aix-en-Provence, our destination. It was the driving that was making both us Annies feel concern, though for slightly different reasons. Annie's was the amount of driving; mine was the type of driving.
Nick is a sensitive soul and has always respected Annie's fears so their driving style was, at this time, sedate to say the least. My partner was a rubber-burning, hand-break turn maniac on the road - and that's putting it mildly. My fear was that we would lose our friends the minute we disembarked from the ferry in France, as they intended following us - Francophiles that we were - but would simply not be able to keep up. And my partner would be frustrated at having to wait or drive slowly... I could see disaster looming before we'd even packed.
This is where I knew having Pru along would help us perfectly.
Pru was a 1988 Citroen 2CV. I bought her from a nice young man in Horsforth without consulting my partner, who was a bit of a car expert. She was cream and maroon in colour and had all the 2CV extras - such as a flapdown/up roof, no heating, loose wing mirrors, bench seating, removable handbreak and erratic door handles. And I adored her. She was perfect for our France holiday because her top speed was about 68 mph but reaching that speed took a while and inside the car, it felt twice as fast.
Everyone happy! My plan worked a treat. Pru was such a novelty to drive that my partner never noticed our relative snail's pace as we poddled along with the wind in our hair. We did lose Annie and Nick in the end but not until we'd reached Aix-en-Provence and all was fine because we all eventually came back together.
Pru went on to play a major role in my life. She was like a celebrity and I drove every day to work, though some days, I'd arrive frozen as having no heater in the winter in Huddersfield was a bit of a negative. She had a friend - another 2CV - and the owner and I parked our two cars facing each other - so they could talk whilst we worked. Once, as I climbed the hill out of Brighouse, snow falling rapidly, I remember hoping the traffic lights halfway up would stay green so that I didn't have to stop and make a hill start - as I knew I'd have to double declutch between first and second gear, which was tricky. (I still have no idea what it means but it was a technique that my feet and hands seemed to master as long as I didn't think about it at the same time.) I wasn't lucky and to add to the problem, as I pulled on the handbrake, which was located in the dashboard and required a horizontal pull - it just came out in my hand! I've blanked out what happened next but I know we got home eventually. I don't blame Pru; I must have pulled quite hard through anxiety.
I was always cheerful driving Pru - although in the cold weather, singing helped me to keep warm. I remember a work colleague remarking to me that he'd followed me some way and was most amused to see me singing along to the radio as I drove. I didn't tell him I didn't have a radio, I just smiled and tried to look like an Information Manager.
Around this time, my partner and I were such Francophiles that we bought a little cottage about halfway between Tours and Poitiers, in a little village called Lurais - Les Basses Granges, it was called. Still is, and I still own half of it....but that's another story. I remember going out there many times in Pru. Once, on our way back to the ferry, we'd left ourselves a bit short of time but Pru wouldn't let us miss it - no, she positively galloped along, reaching speeds of almost 80 mph and shocking many a Gaul along the way - who couldn't believe their eyes!
And one time, whilst in the cottage, we drove to the Vendee coast to meet my family and some friends who were camping there. The beach is long and the tide was far away when we arrived but as it came closer, we had to move back up the beach several times. And on one of these moves, I managed to inadvertently lose the car keys. Not that we needed them to get into the car - Pru was very particular about who she would let in, allowing her little handle to swivel uselessly if she didn't fancy someone. So we didn't bother locking her. But she did need the key to start her. So we walked to a Citroen garage - me confident that there'd be an easy solution. There was and it didn't involve a new key. For the rest of her time with me, Pru happily set off after a quick tickle with a screwdriver. Seems that was the way most French 2CV owners did it.
Pru went everywhere with me. Eventually though, I traded her in - how could I? I've asked myself a million times how I could have been so fickle in the end. For a shiny little red Fiat too. Common as muck.
Well, the garage that was happy to trade and sent me away in my tarty little Fiat phoned me a couple of days later to say well done, I'd pulled a fast one - or hadn't I known that Pru was a ringer*?
You could have knocked me down with a feather. All that time - all the those miles - I'd trusted her completely. And on retrospect - I'd have her back, just as she was, and I'd never, ever part with her again.
Now this picture is as close as I can get to her - and it's not even her.
*A 'ringer' is a stolen car that has had its identification numbers replaced by a set from another - usually written-off - car, which effectively changes the car's identity.
I didn't know when I met her that she had a chequered history; a dodgy past; that she was, very probably, a split personality. I just know that when I first saw her, I fell in love immediately and that we had to be together.
I wouldn't normally have done something like this and my partner at the time was a bit shocked the first time I took her home - he told me when she wasn't listening, that I should really have consulted him first as he knew more about her type than I did; that I shouldn't have made such a decision on my own. I remember being quite cross - I knew Pru wouldn't let me down, wouldn't spoil anything, would be perfect to take on holiday with us. I'd invited her as much for him as for me too.
Indeed, it was the forthcoming holiday that had prompted my decision to get to know Pru.
Probably since she had a serious illness (for in her youth, she was really rather wild...) my friend Annie has been quite a nervous traveller and she was now - just a few weeks before we were due to leave - feeling a tad twitchy about the holiday we'd planned. We were to cross the channel on a ferry; the first daunting challenge for Annie. She and her husband in one car, me and my partner in another. And then we were going to drive through France, stopping off at various places along the way before reaching Aix-en-Provence, our destination. It was the driving that was making both us Annies feel concern, though for slightly different reasons. Annie's was the amount of driving; mine was the type of driving.
Nick is a sensitive soul and has always respected Annie's fears so their driving style was, at this time, sedate to say the least. My partner was a rubber-burning, hand-break turn maniac on the road - and that's putting it mildly. My fear was that we would lose our friends the minute we disembarked from the ferry in France, as they intended following us - Francophiles that we were - but would simply not be able to keep up. And my partner would be frustrated at having to wait or drive slowly... I could see disaster looming before we'd even packed.
This is where I knew having Pru along would help us perfectly.
Pru was a 1988 Citroen 2CV. I bought her from a nice young man in Horsforth without consulting my partner, who was a bit of a car expert. She was cream and maroon in colour and had all the 2CV extras - such as a flapdown/up roof, no heating, loose wing mirrors, bench seating, removable handbreak and erratic door handles. And I adored her. She was perfect for our France holiday because her top speed was about 68 mph but reaching that speed took a while and inside the car, it felt twice as fast.
Everyone happy! My plan worked a treat. Pru was such a novelty to drive that my partner never noticed our relative snail's pace as we poddled along with the wind in our hair. We did lose Annie and Nick in the end but not until we'd reached Aix-en-Provence and all was fine because we all eventually came back together.
Pru went on to play a major role in my life. She was like a celebrity and I drove every day to work, though some days, I'd arrive frozen as having no heater in the winter in Huddersfield was a bit of a negative. She had a friend - another 2CV - and the owner and I parked our two cars facing each other - so they could talk whilst we worked. Once, as I climbed the hill out of Brighouse, snow falling rapidly, I remember hoping the traffic lights halfway up would stay green so that I didn't have to stop and make a hill start - as I knew I'd have to double declutch between first and second gear, which was tricky. (I still have no idea what it means but it was a technique that my feet and hands seemed to master as long as I didn't think about it at the same time.) I wasn't lucky and to add to the problem, as I pulled on the handbrake, which was located in the dashboard and required a horizontal pull - it just came out in my hand! I've blanked out what happened next but I know we got home eventually. I don't blame Pru; I must have pulled quite hard through anxiety.
I was always cheerful driving Pru - although in the cold weather, singing helped me to keep warm. I remember a work colleague remarking to me that he'd followed me some way and was most amused to see me singing along to the radio as I drove. I didn't tell him I didn't have a radio, I just smiled and tried to look like an Information Manager.
Around this time, my partner and I were such Francophiles that we bought a little cottage about halfway between Tours and Poitiers, in a little village called Lurais - Les Basses Granges, it was called. Still is, and I still own half of it....but that's another story. I remember going out there many times in Pru. Once, on our way back to the ferry, we'd left ourselves a bit short of time but Pru wouldn't let us miss it - no, she positively galloped along, reaching speeds of almost 80 mph and shocking many a Gaul along the way - who couldn't believe their eyes!
And one time, whilst in the cottage, we drove to the Vendee coast to meet my family and some friends who were camping there. The beach is long and the tide was far away when we arrived but as it came closer, we had to move back up the beach several times. And on one of these moves, I managed to inadvertently lose the car keys. Not that we needed them to get into the car - Pru was very particular about who she would let in, allowing her little handle to swivel uselessly if she didn't fancy someone. So we didn't bother locking her. But she did need the key to start her. So we walked to a Citroen garage - me confident that there'd be an easy solution. There was and it didn't involve a new key. For the rest of her time with me, Pru happily set off after a quick tickle with a screwdriver. Seems that was the way most French 2CV owners did it.
Pru went everywhere with me. Eventually though, I traded her in - how could I? I've asked myself a million times how I could have been so fickle in the end. For a shiny little red Fiat too. Common as muck.
Well, the garage that was happy to trade and sent me away in my tarty little Fiat phoned me a couple of days later to say well done, I'd pulled a fast one - or hadn't I known that Pru was a ringer*?
You could have knocked me down with a feather. All that time - all the those miles - I'd trusted her completely. And on retrospect - I'd have her back, just as she was, and I'd never, ever part with her again.
Now this picture is as close as I can get to her - and it's not even her.
*A 'ringer' is a stolen car that has had its identification numbers replaced by a set from another - usually written-off - car, which effectively changes the car's identity.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Bloody Volvo Drivers!
Now for as long as I can remember (which, when I think about it, is a VERY long time) I have been of the camp that does not like Volvo Drivers. I remember saying 'Bloody Volvo Drivers' when I saw one on the road - every time - despite having a very good friend who drove one. Who drove worse than anyone else I knew at the time. Like no one else on the road mattered. Like he was totally untouchable. Like he didn't care.... And he was a lovely man... until he got into his Volvo.
More recently, travelling on Spanish roads, my attention has been drawn not by Volvo drivers but by Portugese lorry drivers. They are the worst on the road. They will ALWAYS pull out in front of you whether there is anyone in front of them or not. They swerve irrationally as you approach them and they go either very, very fast or ridiculously slowly.
Some few weeks ago, we.. sorry, I ...had an accident in our English car. Someone ran into us on a roundabout and smashed the back window and the door. We've had the window fixed and Cesar pushed the door bulge out a bit and now, it doesn't look too bad. Not much different from the other cars around here, actually. But we had some sad news from the insurance company. Because it's not overly new, because it's here in Spain and won't be going back to England and because the estimate to fix it was 1500 euros, they have decided it is a write-off as far as insurance claims are concerned. So after much humming and haaing, we decided we would collect the insurance money and look out for a secondhand Spanish car.
(You know where I am going with this, don't you...)
Cesar took a train at 7am this morning to travel 500kms to fetch his chosen vehicle from Navarra. It's a silver Volvo; (it gets worse) it's an estate; (and worse) it's an automatic. I feel my heart sinking as I write these words. And it gets even worse. He arrived home, very pleased with the car, which had cruised beautifully all the way home and been economical on fuel and was comfy and has leather seats and a sun roof, blah, blah. And we piled into it (what an unfortunate phrase) for a trip around the block.
And someone ran into us and scratched the door and broke our mirror.
Do you think they did it on purpose because they were a Volvo hater? And I am feeling a bit guilty for my bigoted past.
More recently, travelling on Spanish roads, my attention has been drawn not by Volvo drivers but by Portugese lorry drivers. They are the worst on the road. They will ALWAYS pull out in front of you whether there is anyone in front of them or not. They swerve irrationally as you approach them and they go either very, very fast or ridiculously slowly.
Some few weeks ago, we.. sorry, I ...had an accident in our English car. Someone ran into us on a roundabout and smashed the back window and the door. We've had the window fixed and Cesar pushed the door bulge out a bit and now, it doesn't look too bad. Not much different from the other cars around here, actually. But we had some sad news from the insurance company. Because it's not overly new, because it's here in Spain and won't be going back to England and because the estimate to fix it was 1500 euros, they have decided it is a write-off as far as insurance claims are concerned. So after much humming and haaing, we decided we would collect the insurance money and look out for a secondhand Spanish car.
(You know where I am going with this, don't you...)
Cesar took a train at 7am this morning to travel 500kms to fetch his chosen vehicle from Navarra. It's a silver Volvo; (it gets worse) it's an estate; (and worse) it's an automatic. I feel my heart sinking as I write these words. And it gets even worse. He arrived home, very pleased with the car, which had cruised beautifully all the way home and been economical on fuel and was comfy and has leather seats and a sun roof, blah, blah. And we piled into it (what an unfortunate phrase) for a trip around the block.
And someone ran into us and scratched the door and broke our mirror.
Do you think they did it on purpose because they were a Volvo hater? And I am feeling a bit guilty for my bigoted past.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Home is...
It's been a family sort of week. It was very hard last Wednesday morning to walk to the bus stop with my children, kiss them as they got on the bus, wave as it pulled away, knowing that I was leaving later that morning to go to England for a week. I struggled not to drip a few tears on the path as I returned - having forgotten to take a tissue with me. I often forget how easily I cry - I should always carry tissues in good supply!
Mateo was still at home though as he was full of cold, coughing and spluttering and not sleeping during the night, so at least I had both him and Cesar to see me off to the station.
I almost didn't make the trip - as it happens, only because I was feeling bad about something that could have been a whole lot worse. On the Tuesday afternoon, I had gone with Ruy and Romy to the commercial centre about 5kms away and on the way home, we were involved in an accident that completely wrecked the rear passenger side door, including smashing the top part of the opened window. Very luckily, no one was hurt at all. It was a very stupid accident and if the other driver had been as aware as he should have been, it would not have happened at all, but he didn't see me and moved into my lane coming up to some traffic lights on a roundabout - it all happened very slowly and so the impact was minimal though the poor car looks awful. He only lost the cover of his external indicator and it was a large truck. Despite our relatively lucky escape, I felt dreadful leaving Cesar with a car that was in a mess, insurance claims and garage visits and no window on one side. However, I needed to return to England to check the house, take a few more things away that we'd left, see my family and sort some other things out, so off I went feeling a bit miserable.. especially as the only reading material I had was Jane Eyre in Spanish. I now know lots of new Spanish words for feeling miserable, hard-done by, maltreated, outraged, indignant and all the other things the poor girl felt in her early life. (I haven't got very far with it yet!)
I was one of the last onto the very full plane and ended up with a crowd of school children on their first flight on a trip to Scotland, who were SO excited that it was impossible not to be caught up in their enthusiasm for the take off - which I always love anyway. And by the time we landed, I knew most of them (or felt I did) and I do hope they had a lovely time in Edinburgh with John, their English teacher, as they were a delightful bunch.
Having SKYPE, Facebook and email meant that seeing my sister again was just a physical extension of the close relationship we've always enjoyed - we have spent hours on SKYPE in the last few months, with videocam, so it has hardly felt like I've been apart from her. We just picked up from where we'd left off the day before - fantastic!
I hadn't wanted to broadcast my return to England as I was staying at Judy's and would be without my own transport, so the few folks I did manage to see are due a huge thank you for accommodating me so unexpectedly - and sorry if I couldn't manage to see some others who also knew I was home. Next time! I did get to spend a day with my mum though, which was good and something I haven't been able to do for ages and ages for various reasons.
I had a fantastic flight back from Liverpool as the sky was clear almost from Wales onwards and I derive huge pleasure from looking at the earth below - explains why I think Google Earth is so amazing - and was able to pick out various places in Spain that I recognised - including flying right over Valladolid!! I kept thinking that if Cesar and the children looked up (it was about 3.15) they could have waved to me and I would have waved back! But they didn't know and by the time I'd found my phone to text, I was well on my way to Madrid.
I had bought, from ebay, the most..no the MOST.. enormous suitcase which I collected from Altrincham on the Sunday before I came back. I had quite a lot of additional things that I knew I would be bringing back but the case was even larger than I'd imagined. It came up to my armpit when I stood next to it. My brother-in-law brought back some precision scales from work so that I could ensure I didn't overfill it and incur excess baggage fees. I had to take all sorts out to stay under 20kg and the suitcase felt half-empty! So I had to put heavy, but small things into my hand luggage and all the bigger, lighter items into the case. In the end, I think the two were almost the same weight! And somehow, I managed to get the whole lot across Madrid and onto my train back to Valladolid without too much trouble - a fact I am quite proud of.
And oh what joy to get off the train and know my family would be waiting on the other side of the platform! It was just the homecoming I wanted, hoped for ... and got! Everyone talking at once, huggings, kissings, the sharing of important news, the questioning about presents, the holding up of the traffic as we tried to get the huge suitcase into the back of the car and then all of us inside - (and me trying not to look at the plastic sheet over the window)...it was all just lovely. Even coming back to the place we currently call home - which is a little removed from our aspirations for life in Spain - was pure pleasure.
Home is where the heart is - most definitely!!
Mateo was still at home though as he was full of cold, coughing and spluttering and not sleeping during the night, so at least I had both him and Cesar to see me off to the station.
I almost didn't make the trip - as it happens, only because I was feeling bad about something that could have been a whole lot worse. On the Tuesday afternoon, I had gone with Ruy and Romy to the commercial centre about 5kms away and on the way home, we were involved in an accident that completely wrecked the rear passenger side door, including smashing the top part of the opened window. Very luckily, no one was hurt at all. It was a very stupid accident and if the other driver had been as aware as he should have been, it would not have happened at all, but he didn't see me and moved into my lane coming up to some traffic lights on a roundabout - it all happened very slowly and so the impact was minimal though the poor car looks awful. He only lost the cover of his external indicator and it was a large truck. Despite our relatively lucky escape, I felt dreadful leaving Cesar with a car that was in a mess, insurance claims and garage visits and no window on one side. However, I needed to return to England to check the house, take a few more things away that we'd left, see my family and sort some other things out, so off I went feeling a bit miserable.. especially as the only reading material I had was Jane Eyre in Spanish. I now know lots of new Spanish words for feeling miserable, hard-done by, maltreated, outraged, indignant and all the other things the poor girl felt in her early life. (I haven't got very far with it yet!)
I was one of the last onto the very full plane and ended up with a crowd of school children on their first flight on a trip to Scotland, who were SO excited that it was impossible not to be caught up in their enthusiasm for the take off - which I always love anyway. And by the time we landed, I knew most of them (or felt I did) and I do hope they had a lovely time in Edinburgh with John, their English teacher, as they were a delightful bunch.
Having SKYPE, Facebook and email meant that seeing my sister again was just a physical extension of the close relationship we've always enjoyed - we have spent hours on SKYPE in the last few months, with videocam, so it has hardly felt like I've been apart from her. We just picked up from where we'd left off the day before - fantastic!
I hadn't wanted to broadcast my return to England as I was staying at Judy's and would be without my own transport, so the few folks I did manage to see are due a huge thank you for accommodating me so unexpectedly - and sorry if I couldn't manage to see some others who also knew I was home. Next time! I did get to spend a day with my mum though, which was good and something I haven't been able to do for ages and ages for various reasons.
I had a fantastic flight back from Liverpool as the sky was clear almost from Wales onwards and I derive huge pleasure from looking at the earth below - explains why I think Google Earth is so amazing - and was able to pick out various places in Spain that I recognised - including flying right over Valladolid!! I kept thinking that if Cesar and the children looked up (it was about 3.15) they could have waved to me and I would have waved back! But they didn't know and by the time I'd found my phone to text, I was well on my way to Madrid.
I had bought, from ebay, the most..no the MOST.. enormous suitcase which I collected from Altrincham on the Sunday before I came back. I had quite a lot of additional things that I knew I would be bringing back but the case was even larger than I'd imagined. It came up to my armpit when I stood next to it. My brother-in-law brought back some precision scales from work so that I could ensure I didn't overfill it and incur excess baggage fees. I had to take all sorts out to stay under 20kg and the suitcase felt half-empty! So I had to put heavy, but small things into my hand luggage and all the bigger, lighter items into the case. In the end, I think the two were almost the same weight! And somehow, I managed to get the whole lot across Madrid and onto my train back to Valladolid without too much trouble - a fact I am quite proud of.
And oh what joy to get off the train and know my family would be waiting on the other side of the platform! It was just the homecoming I wanted, hoped for ... and got! Everyone talking at once, huggings, kissings, the sharing of important news, the questioning about presents, the holding up of the traffic as we tried to get the huge suitcase into the back of the car and then all of us inside - (and me trying not to look at the plastic sheet over the window)...it was all just lovely. Even coming back to the place we currently call home - which is a little removed from our aspirations for life in Spain - was pure pleasure.
Home is where the heart is - most definitely!!
 |
| Ouch! |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)