Friday, 19 April 2013

Time to go home?

I wrote the other day that the bluebells in Castrelos Park were coming up white. Today I have read in the Guardian that bluebell woods in the UK are on the decline. Well, I thought that was already the case with all sorts of restrictions on picking them because they are an endangered species and so on. Now, however, I read that they are under even more threat because some unscrupulous people have been introducing Spanish bluebells to English woods. Imagine, Spanish bluebells!!! I never realised that plant piracy took place on this scale. But it seems that Spanish bluebells, paler blue and not so perfumed as the good old English variety, are perhaps taking over and making sights like this a thing of the past. 
I’d better hurry home and see them before they disappear for good. 

 I also read that they arrested Rolf Harris as part of the Jimmy Saville investigations. This rather odd man painted a portrait of Her Majesty, for goodness sake!! What is the world coming to? It’s a good job Margaret Thatcher is gone or they might be investigating her as well. We managed to miss all the fuss of her funeral although we did see some of the newspaper coverage. One of the oddest items I came across was the Independent’s feature on fashion on show at the funeral. Here is a link to the pictures, if it still works now , including a photo of her granddaughter, Amanda Thatcher, suddenly thrust into the limelight by doing a reading at the funeral. 
We may have missed that event but our social life has suddenly improved in this last week of our current stay in Vigo. 

Yesterday we had lunch with our friend Colin from Pontevedra. He’d come to Vigo to visit the Apple store, trying to replace the missing cable for his i-pod shuffle. Neither the Apple store nor MediaMarkt were able to provide him immediately with what he needed. He may have found it by going back to the Apple store, such as it is, a poorly equipped little shop on Puerta del Sol, later in the day. 

This inability to find electrical items is one of the peculiarities about life here. I was recently in MediaMarkt with another friend who wanted to buy a new battery for her digital camera. They told her they had sold out and were not expecting a delivery for another month. Another whole month!!!! 

Then yesterday evening we went to another concert at the Centro Social Nuevacaixagalicia. We purchased our tickets online on Wednesday. It’s just as well we did. Had we relied on turning up to buy tickets we would have gone tonight instead because the webpage told us it was Friday. It was only when we tried to purchase tickets that we found out the truth of the matter. A friend of ours suggested that we had misread the webpage as the concert is being repeated tonight in Pontevedra. We are not convinced, however, and think their webpage manager needs some training. 

Anyway, we made it to the concert, lots of Tchaikovsky and very good too, and then went on to have “un vinito” and some nibbles with friends. It’s quite amazing that at 11 o’ clock in the evening a bar will cook you a tortilla, not just serve you up something they made earlier but make you a fresh one. English bars who grudgingly sell you a packet of crisps should take note. 

Finally today we had lunch out with yet another friend. All good but perhaps it is time we went home before our waistlines expand. 

Sitting now in the cafetería on the corner near the chess club, I have just seen one of those oddities of Spanish television. The news reporter went seamlessly from a sports report to an advert for some brand of milk and its related products. As she told us of the benefits of drinking milk and eating yoghurt there was nothing to show that this was not some mini-documentary apart from a little sign in the corner saying “publicidad”. And then back she went into something about Rafa Nadal. Astounding! I wonder whether the milk company pays her to do this. Somehow I don’t see Kirsty Walk doing the same thing on British television. 

Another thing to look out for when we head back on Sunday.

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