tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84379641560846972172024-03-13T04:21:13.070-07:00The Partridges Ate my BrocolliAnthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-91605854934131635672013-09-09T10:19:00.002-07:002013-09-10T13:52:49.901-07:00Name and address witheld<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPUHCPSUCsc6FFAlvjug_tveiv60pQbRp40Z_CnTpD-vUwR_cwQWWjW5C4Y_sGGn0RQlzTVZsQza6uXTwGbz5a0a3Z9KgCyGT-HxzHQu5FbpgY9C1xi1STBvByQNjS6D3CYSiTRAA14U3/s1600/Pen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPUHCPSUCsc6FFAlvjug_tveiv60pQbRp40Z_CnTpD-vUwR_cwQWWjW5C4Y_sGGn0RQlzTVZsQza6uXTwGbz5a0a3Z9KgCyGT-HxzHQu5FbpgY9C1xi1STBvByQNjS6D3CYSiTRAA14U3/s1600/Pen.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">Why, oh why do those people who write complaining letters to
publications sign off with a ‘Mr Angry’ or ‘Unhappy’ or even ‘Tim Portugal’ (which
presumably stands for timid). If they hold certain views and wish to bring them
to the attention of the public then why are they so afraid to stand up and be
counted. Do they think that those of us who disagree with their views will seek
them out in order to throw rotten fruit, poke them in the eye with a sharp
stick or make a night time visit to their homes and set fire to their agapanthus?<span style="color: red;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">If you look of the letters pages of our English speaking
newspapers you will find dozens of such anonymised opinion holders with diverse
gripes, the most popular being the police road checks; the fact that the pace
in southern Europe is slower than we northerners are used to and the motorway
tolls. Re the road checks, frankly I don’t know what the fuss is all about. In
every country in the world the police are paid out from the taxes collected
from the population – you and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So think
of your fine as a tax but this tax is a tax which you can legally evade,
unless you are stupid enough to drive around with a missing dust-cap from your
tyre’s air valve or a windscreen cleaner jet that washes the car behind. In
cases such as these you fully deserve to be escorted to the nearest Multibanco
and made to pay up. Perhaps we should be applauding the police instead of
castigating them for keeping those who are uninsured, over-the-limit or driving
unsafe vehicles, off the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">And isn’t it pleasant to sit and read a book whilst whiling
away a few hours at Telecom in order to ask why your phone/internet account
doesn’t work. What would you be doing instead, lying by the pool collecting
melanomas? Ditto the Post Office and the Financas</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As to that hoary old chestnut, the motorway tolls. C’mon,
it’s a no brainer, you have three choices, use the motorway and pay the toll, use
the motorway and find a large truck to tailgate so that your number plate will
not be read as it approaches the gantries; or use the EN 125 coast road...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Personally I prefer the EN 125. It is the least boring
option for it fully exercises the mind as you contemplate what caused that
coach by the side of the road to finish up on its roof, why that car that was
indicating right turned left and why there are skid marks on the roof of that
house. Furthermore, should you be travelling between Fonte Boliqueim and Guia
you have the added bonus of stopping for a rest and having deep meaningful
chats with young ladies who seem friendly but appear to have no-one to talk to.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them, well the ones on the right
(if you are travelling westward) are obviously super intelligent and have a
first class degree in marketing as their Point of Sale material is quite
superb. Day-Glo colours and eye-catching styling; not to mention their USP’s
(unique selling points which I can’t mention unless the country in which you
reside deems you an adult) .However on the left there is one young lady who,
seemingly, cut the lectures and sadly failed the course as she stands or sits,
in the shadows wearing, what appears to be camouflage colours. I really have to
low down quite dramatically as I near her area otherwise I’ll miss her.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">But back to the point in question ….. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>what was the point-in-question? Oh yes, my
mind was becoming side-tracked – name and address withheld. Why do the letters editors
allow this? This blatant pandering to wimpish cowards hiding behind the skirts
of anonymity. Or, heaven forfend, could it be the editors themselves making
their own views public?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to be
told!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com0Portugal39.399871999999988 -8.22445400000003726.509658499999986 -28.878751000000037 52.290085499999989 12.429842999999963tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-76578612705185296962013-08-18T04:29:00.000-07:002013-08-19T13:32:05.400-07:00Lost in Translation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">There I was, in the middle of breakfast (toast and marmalade
for those interested) when Filomena arrived. Nothing unusual in that for she
arrives every weekday morning at the precise time of 9:07 and, knowing us Brits
are interested in such things, presumably to the exclusion of all other things,
proceeds to give me the daily weather report.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I knew something was wrong, seriously wrong, when the
morning’s opening line was not the usual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Bom
Dia, muito calor’</i>, followed be the weeks forecast, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the time of high-tide at the nearest beach and
the fact that parts of the uk were in flood. But what really gave it away were
her shoulders which were in rapid repetitive Gallic shrug mode, the beating of
her ample breast and the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Immediately jumping up and placing a sticky hand on her arm
I asked what the problem was. Between hyperventilating sobs the only words I
could make out were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">meu, marido and morreu</i>
my, husband and died. Now although over the years I had only met the man on
perhaps a dozen occasions, I really liked him. Whenever I saw him and whenever he
spoke to us he was smiling – a proper smile, a smile where <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the eyes also smile, he was charm personified,
even when he pruned our two-hundred year old olive tree just before winter set
in and the need for firewood was at its height.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I called Sophie in and explained, she was both upset and horrified
that Filomena had come in that day and would not take the day off. No she couldn’t
do that as she ‘needed to work as usual’. “Stay with your daughter” said Sophie
and let me do something for you, can I make you some food?” Now Sophie’s answer
to any crisis is to make food. Someone’s ill, make food. a failed eye test,
make food. The dog’s been run over, make food, but Filomena was insistent that only
she makes the food. Just as well as for I don’t think Sophie’s signature dish
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Salade tiede of mousserons. mussels
and crosnes </i>would have gone down too well with the natives of our village.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Eventually I managed to understand that the funeral was at
10:30 the following day at the church in the old town and knew that I needed to
be there to show my respect to the family but never having been been to a
Portuguese funeral and come to that, not many church funerals at all, I needed
a quick update on procedure. Flowers to the house, flowers to the church,
flowers to the undertakers, no flowers?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I telephoned my Portuguese neighbour/language teacher.
“Anthony, are you ok?” she said. When I said yes she shrieked at me to get off
the phone I was costing her a fortune - she was in New Zealand. This was not my
day and I hadn’t even managed to finish my breakfast.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The following day at ten fifteen and flowerless I, with
approximately one hundred others, was at the entrance to the church and watched
the coffin being taken in. I took a seat at the back and stood and sat when
everyone else did and scanned my fellow mourners. I saw Filomena up near the
front with her son-in-law but they were the only people I recognised. After the
service I followed everyone out of the church and, hatless with the sun
directly overhead and the temperature in the mid-thirties prepared to dutifully
follow the cortege to the outskirts of the town. I looked at the hearse
bedecked in flowers, to which I had not contributed and did a double take, for
there, directly behind the hearse with his nose almost touching the rear window
was Philomena’s late husband’s twin brother. I never knew he had a twin but he
had to be as he was identical. He was even wearing the same watch with the red
and black fabric strap, the only difference between the two brothers was that
this one wasn’t smiling but then I reasoned, he wouldn’t would he, following
his late brother’s body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dodged behind a
parked van and made my way back to my car thinking, well between all that
breast beating and sobbing anyone could miss a few words from the phrase ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A mae do meu marido morreu’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>My husband’s mother died.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcUS0ZpSqQUp5E1QEw4j9jmLSfpZ7uAlfvlX4J_WQ9PLYdWAK1PWo0py9cFZRokMMd452zAb5pLkZLkzjX4rCGUVAuRIhtzGsGgQhxH7m9xqu0BXqhFYF3iMnFLi4cqaRrL2QOENIMgqU/s1600/flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcUS0ZpSqQUp5E1QEw4j9jmLSfpZ7uAlfvlX4J_WQ9PLYdWAK1PWo0py9cFZRokMMd452zAb5pLkZLkzjX4rCGUVAuRIhtzGsGgQhxH7m9xqu0BXqhFYF3iMnFLi4cqaRrL2QOENIMgqU/s200/flowers.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-66402257364925449622013-02-14T07:48:00.000-08:002013-02-14T07:49:15.212-08:00The've Gone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They've gone. They've gone; they were only here a short time but now they've gone and life can continue as normal. Goodbye toast rack. Cheerio cut crystal Au revoir glass domed individual butter dishes with twee butter knives. Until the next lot arrive I can be a slob again and enjoy my ninety second breakfasts with a book. I can once again drink water from the bottle and put sugar in my cup before pouring the coffee. No longer do I have to shut the bedroom door before walking naked into the bathroom because, did I tell you - they've gone. They were amusing, they were fun, they were nice but the nicest thing about them is that they have gone. They are, now, as John Cleese might have said ex-visitors, they are no more. Now don't get me wrong. They were lovely people but in this last case I now have to buy more butter. I find it quite astounding that there are people who, at breakfast when faced with a pristine container of butter insist on digging a huge chunk from the centre. Do they not understand that, in order to butter warm toast without the slice finishing up looking like a Glastonbury field after the festival it is necessary to hold the knife horizontally and slice of a sliver at a time and lay it on aforesaid toast - obviously not. Philistines, they even wanted sardines - in February??<br />
Ok, ok, I'll hold up my hands and admit I have become Victor Meldrew; in fact I'm more Victor Meldrew than Victor Meldrew ever was. Never mind art imitating life - this is life imitating art. Yes, I'm settled in my ways; I no longer like change in my habits, particularly in my own home and why is it that others are more than happy to stay in someone else's house when I prefer not to? Why can't they be more like me and when invited say <em>"Yes love to but find me a little hotel nearby and we'll sleep there</em>". I say this and add <em>'then we are not putting you out and we can meet up after breakfast and spend the days together"</em>. What I actually mean is, my habits are different to yours, my needs are different to yours, the structure of my day is different to yours and the bottom line is my quirks and your quirks don't mix. You cannot bring two families together 24/7 - well you can but not without tension - hence first paragraph.<br />
But now I have three glorious weeks until my sister-in-law arrives and when she does the first thing I am going to do is teach her how to put butter on toast.<br />
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Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-66197263605087030312012-12-02T11:19:00.001-08:002012-12-02T11:31:37.658-08:00Ants<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I know I’ve myself this question before but until now I
never had an answer. However I now know why I am sitting here writing this, this
blog which started a while ago after coming across other life-style diaries.
The only reason I am continuing is because now I have a follower, yes a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>follower, just one but I’m sure she’s
lovely. I know she is interesting because of her personal blog of which she is
prolific and I also now have someone who actually reads my nonsense and follows
my inanities. And this is, as I understand, the be all and end all of blogging.
Not having a following is akin to spending your entire life talking to yourself.
There is a downside of course and that is I now have to continue and even worse,
should my follower un-follow me the rejection could be quite painful. So dear
follower, I beg you, when you stop reading my drivel, don’t tell me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have to write this down, for if I don’t I may forget
how I spent a totally bizarre two hour chunk of my life. It was one afternoon last
week and had you walked into my kitchen at that time you would have found a somewhat
bemused man standing next to a carefully placed blob of marmalade on his white
floor tiles while his eyes swept <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
room’s perimeter as if they were surveillance cameras in south London. Why, I
hear you ask, why would reasonably sane man place marmalade on the floor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fair question and the answer is that I was trying
to trace where the ants were coming from. Ants black, floor white, they should
stick out like the proverbial thumb even if they are minute. You know the ones;
they are approximately 2 millimetres long and meander across surfaces in a
conga-like fashion. Actually, if you think about it they don’t meander, they
are pretty quick on those tiny legs, in fact, size for size I reckon they are
all little Usain Bolts’ and Mo Farahs’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After approximately ten minutes of standing over my
marmalade blob without Usain or Mo appearing the mind starts to wander. Should
I have used fine cut rather than coarse cut, after all you can’t expect a 2mm
ant to carry off a heavy piece of peel. At this stage I realised that I was verging
on the ridiculous or probably already passed into it. I binned the blob
thinking perhaps they prefer Marmite or peanut butter I could set out a row of
delicacies for them to choose – oh hell, madness is setting in I should be
looking out for men in white coats not ants.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I raised my binoculars (ok, it’s a big kitchen) and
surveyed the granite worktop the blinding flash of realisation hit me like a
thunderbolt. Slapping the side of my head and shouting Eureka (as one does) I
looked at the worktop. The granite is of mixed colours, grey, beige and black,
yes black. Do you remember as a child playing musical chairs? When the music
stopped you had to find a chair to sit on, well that’s the answer – when
someone walks into the room the ants rush to the nearest black bit and play
statues – they hide on the black bits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com1Unknown location.35.317366329237871 -7.0312521.897549329237869 -27.246094 48.737183329237872 13.183594tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-11257987802540586592012-10-27T07:47:00.001-07:002012-11-11T00:47:01.655-08:00Algarve Rock Choir<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDvRGaG4Oou9XkgHkz-Vsr-MPN9rD5-R6Dz4Hu2TtxCghgAxCvOoVw22JcwlavPkhByS5huS6KRUUGsYYT4UVHuMtYRYqajKCSvh_MFE5LxbPeCD9OHFLAeSgG32DyDEO9J0xGwwejSLY/s1600/Rock+choir2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoDvRGaG4Oou9XkgHkz-Vsr-MPN9rD5-R6Dz4Hu2TtxCghgAxCvOoVw22JcwlavPkhByS5huS6KRUUGsYYT4UVHuMtYRYqajKCSvh_MFE5LxbPeCD9OHFLAeSgG32DyDEO9J0xGwwejSLY/s200/Rock+choir2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The blog-meister has
metaphorically wrapped my knuckles and castigated me for not having written
anything in yonks. It’s all very well for him, he is probably sitting in his
minimalist office facing a floor to ceiling window overlooking a beach full of
bikini-clad blondes whilst sipping good white burgundy. He doesn’t understand
that we hillbillies have a tough life up here. Between the constant weeding of
the vegetable garden, the uphill battle to stop the pool going green, the
weekly dosing of pesticide that the date palm has to have to keep it alive and
the never ending wall painting, not to mention a plumbing system… ok I won’t
mention the plumbing system. But the bottom line is – hillbillies are, during
the day, busy people and in the evening we are what the newspapers like to call
‘tired and emotional’. So Sir, that’s my excuse plus the fact that I am the procrastinator
of procrastinators and always have been. And frankly I have always felt that if
you cannot write something either of interest or humour then don’t write at
all. But now I have something that I think I should share – well at least share
with the Algarve community.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There is a little
known group of like-minded people down here who call themselves ‘The Algarve
Rock Choir’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This thirty something group
consisting mainly of Brits but also some Swedes, Germans, Dutch, Irish and
Portuguese have one thing in common – they are all delusional. They are
delusional but delusional in the nicest possible way for although they all
believe they cannot sing and most can’t they come together and meet weekly to
belt out (in four part harmony) rock and pop songs from the 60s, 70s and 80s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A while ago I was
invited to one of their concerts (whoops, sorry you rockers out there, gigs)
held in a restaurant in Sao Bras and came away impressed, for what they lacked
in professionalism was more than matched by their fervour. They have an
incredible backing band (unusual in a rock choir) consisting of lead, bass and
rhythm guitars and keyboard, with synthesised percussion tracks. The atmosphere
was amazing; the audience of 150 plus were jumping up and down in their seats
and trying to sing along. (The last time I saw this was when I at a screening
of Jailhouse Rock in 1957)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A few weeks later I
went to a 50<sup>th</sup> birthday party where the choir were singing, they had
added a few other numbers and had improved by leaps and bounds. Two of the female
choir members, with seriously good voices, took some of the solos with the
choir doing the usual <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘woo bob de boop’
type backing. Their repertoire opens with Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’ and
continues, amongst others with Abba, Billy Joel, The Carpenters, The Supremes, The
Beachboys etc.</span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Enthusiastic they are
– if you get the opportunity go and see them, go, even if it’s for just the
chance to see a group of people singing songs you love whilst all moving in
different directions. It’s a hoot but it’s fun.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu_mT6LCc2GlO4-h3e3eWLgLBzyGqlyJOpz2K6P43uOgC5Tm6jQ18ZrpBAMqh7imbPBABpanL_YAOSyYkBpAkDgDYurddPCnfRDJ2c3X26ZqiO-BCV8YC_fRhpNtOu7ohIcIEflVaAQ6s/s1600/Rock+choir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu_mT6LCc2GlO4-h3e3eWLgLBzyGqlyJOpz2K6P43uOgC5Tm6jQ18ZrpBAMqh7imbPBABpanL_YAOSyYkBpAkDgDYurddPCnfRDJ2c3X26ZqiO-BCV8YC_fRhpNtOu7ohIcIEflVaAQ6s/s200/Rock+choir.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-46794327021052631922012-03-01T07:11:00.000-08:002012-03-01T07:11:00.194-08:00The Fifth Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrMmiS1dGVMBaR6Rrei4Q5jkGrmEcg7pp5NRi_T2M_uzRkSeXrRpzAhwmygZCCm5UDIzNf56TQOQBpuk-wvKa_Q66TCyx92o3edHR3G0V-BllHHYNenSEdgniF-WJWHtuFj4vN5a9r7lp/s1600/Crocus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrMmiS1dGVMBaR6Rrei4Q5jkGrmEcg7pp5NRi_T2M_uzRkSeXrRpzAhwmygZCCm5UDIzNf56TQOQBpuk-wvKa_Q66TCyx92o3edHR3G0V-BllHHYNenSEdgniF-WJWHtuFj4vN5a9r7lp/s200/Crocus.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The months
have yet again passed quickly, the croci are coming up, starting their annual
battle against the weeds and as they appear I know that our peaceful autumn/winter
has drawn to an end and that a new season is upon us. This oncoming season is
unfortunately, a season that spans two seasons and is known only to a few. It
is a fifth season recognised to ex-pat’s worldwide as the ‘Visitor Season’
which this year runs, for us, from end March until the last of the buggars go
home. I use the term buggars hesitantly as it does not include my immediate
family (well, perhaps some of them).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">These
intruders into my well-ordered private space can be categorised in various ways
and the following examples have all been our guests at one time. But only one.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The no-car brigade</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - will not rent a car but expect you
to show them the ‘sights’.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The sun worshippers</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - lie by the pool all day while you
bring drinks. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The parsimonious</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - you feed and water them for two
weeks and they magnanimously give you 25 euros at the end of their stay to go
towards their upkeep</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The morons</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - insist on having the TV on all day
whether they are in the room or not</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The thoughtless </span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">– leave the air-con on and open the
windows – also sit on white sofas when covered in sun cream</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The sanctimonious</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - tell me I’m drinking too much wine
with dinner</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The Germans</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> - spend an hour having breakfast and
want fresh orange juice, cold meats, cheeses, toast and both scrambled and
boiled eggs and bring their own coffee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And one
couple who, when we were about to split a dinner bill, complained that they only
ordered one dish to be shared between them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The problem
is that you only find out that they are like this after they have arrived and
by then it’s too late. Our first guests this year arrive shortly and I see problems
ahead. The main problem being the fact that I only know her and Sophie hasn’t
met either of them. We have never been out with them, never been to each-others
homes and never had a meal together – this could be disastrous, thank G-d it’s
only five days. Why did I invite them? Don’t ask, I don’t know. And if you add
to this the fact that they lean, politically speaking, slightly to the left of
Lenin and Marx, certain conversations are out of the question, we shall not be
able to watch the news together without a major heated discussion, which they
would win as they are both highly intelligent and used to debating. I suppose
it could be worse …… no it can’t, I’ve burned my boats, I’ve <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>made my bed, I’ve crossed the line, there is
no going back. My guests shall arrive later this month and I/we must greet them
with smiles and bonhomie because if it doesn’t work it’s not their fault – it’s
mine.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzVaZLH6U6sbzrOyaVtS3llPDw0UwEZ-EepvHXf88w7zEOe1GLSkKEpR8dFij980Jym_YSltAtJNhZkbU0XggG8ZZ7BZScBUrKeGHUukOxjb8sTQxhKe8efIC8pJbPLv3akdyeTRY-ART/s1600/Suitcases.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzVaZLH6U6sbzrOyaVtS3llPDw0UwEZ-EepvHXf88w7zEOe1GLSkKEpR8dFij980Jym_YSltAtJNhZkbU0XggG8ZZ7BZScBUrKeGHUukOxjb8sTQxhKe8efIC8pJbPLv3akdyeTRY-ART/s200/Suitcases.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
</div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-71245909411308139152012-02-23T06:16:00.000-08:002012-02-29T07:18:50.387-08:00Anyone you like<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been here a while now and the more people I meet the
more I realise that ex-pat’s can, and often do, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>re-invent themselves to create personas that
are far removed from their actual selves. I’ve met ex bankers who used to have
a single figure golfing handicap until they “did their backs in”, ex ‘computer
gurus’ who decided they had had enough of jetting around the world and instead
now want the simple life of living in a motor home and ladies who decided to
eschew their designer handbags, Michelin starred restaurants and Louboutin shod
feet for a more simple, down to earth life – think big fish, small pond. I’ve
come across obviously gay men who insist on talking about their ex-wives and
cast off girlfriends and major players in almost everything who can get caught
out on the simplest question. I know singles that live together but pretend to
be married (why is this so important). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve
met doctors who aren’t and men who can’t wait to tell everyone that their
divorce cost them a million. Strangely enough I haven’t met anyone who admits
to a life in Blighty that was not up there with the movers and shakers of Brit
society. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact I would go so far as to generalise that if someone insists
on bragging about their past it’s probably not true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we can all play this game. Perhaps I could say that I
came second in the qualifiers for the men’s downhill in the winter Olympics of
19?? (try to check that in Google) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in
fact second place in qualifiers is generally difficult to check so in future I
may well use this ruse to top these Walter Mitty’s. I could claim second
qualifier place for James Bond stand-in, just missing being the stunt double
for Mark Damon but was an Oscar red carpet walker for Emma Thompson and fathered
a love child with Michelle Pfeiffer (well if you are going to dream you might
as well dream big). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I nearly forgot,
Lloyd George ‘knew’ my grandmother but she was obviously too ‘vanilla’ to be
granted a title.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">However I was a) presented to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the late Queen Mother – b) danced with a woman
who danced with Fred Astaire – c) had Beatle George Harrison, after asking him
for an autograph, tell me to p*** off (apt as we were side by side in a discothèque’s
urinal), and d) chatted with Richard Chamberlain, who played Dr Kildare in the
television series (showing my age here) at our mutual tailors - and e) can finish
up with the fact that shortly after Joan Collins went to Hollywood I gave her author
sister Jackie (of international chick-lit/crap book fame ) a lift to Edgware,
Middx. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m not altogether unknown, whoever
is reading this is one click away from a man who has LIVED A LIFE. Google my
name and you will get 869,000 results and, if you want to risk ‘repetitive
strain injury’ (aka RSI) I’m there somewhere. </span></div>
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</div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-1391791159062323222011-12-19T03:22:00.000-08:002012-02-29T07:19:27.871-08:00Blogs & Facebook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3eKgHHNVFENxqBF_WZwrG5H9d7nXBVbrSJiNLBdrAdL_bDLDQrQmJjuEMl3c25WoGZVW4ahuTKd7-Zahf9T3RqisjQrU0K7WAlHwXtOK99mbN4y0kvP7BV5jujaMdhUScijuS62pPXbi/s1600/Blog+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3eKgHHNVFENxqBF_WZwrG5H9d7nXBVbrSJiNLBdrAdL_bDLDQrQmJjuEMl3c25WoGZVW4ahuTKd7-Zahf9T3RqisjQrU0K7WAlHwXtOK99mbN4y0kvP7BV5jujaMdhUScijuS62pPXbi/s200/Blog+logo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>As this is now my fourth post</strong> I have now officially joined that illustrious band of people that call themselves’ bloggers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I can understand blogs that promote a business or services, I can understand blogs that are written by persons with a particular passion for something they wish to share with like-minded people but I find personal blogs – such as this – somewhat mystifying. Why do we do it? We are not receiving monetary gain – are our egos that frail?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In February this year someone took it upon themselves to count the number of blogs out there and reached an amazing 156 million with rate of 1 million posts per day. Previously I thought it was vanity driven (and many, I know are) but, with the exception of those who crave publicity such as politicians, sportspersons, actors, media folk and C list celebrities etc. I believe most blogs are written anonymously with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nome de blogue. </i>So what’s in it for them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The above quandary has been brought about by my lying awake at 4am pondering as to my reasons for adding to the amount of useless words floating around in the ether. But a thought has just arrived and is nagging away in the corner of my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could the reason be a form of Munchausen’s - praise by proxy. If you agree/ like what I say, I feel good but if you disagree/dislike what I say, well it’s not my name at the bottom and I can still walk around with my head held high. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hmmm, I’m not sure whether I like the new me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whilst on the subject of web writing, last week I received an email from Facebook telling me that Jasmine Higginsbotham (not her real name) wants me to be her Facebook friend. Now Jasmine, with whom Sophie and I had dinner with 30 years ago and have not seen or heard of since, suddenly contacts me and gives me, on my screen, a choice of two buttons to click on. YES, I confirm our friendship or SEE all requests. This is akin to her bumping in to me in the street and saying “hallo, do you like me?” In the unlikely event of this happening I could always say something such as “Well I don’t know you that well but I’m sure if I did we could be good friends”. Unfortunately Facebook doesn’t give you that option therefor rather than be rude I always click the ‘confirm’ button.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, Mark Zuckerberg if you’re reading this, could we please have a third button marked ‘WHY’. Clicking on this could open up a dialogue box in which I could write “Listen you sad person your insecurity is showing. We haven’t been in touch for 30 years and then we didn’t have much to say to each other. Why do you need me to be your 984<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> friend?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ho-hum. I’m off to plant a palm.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com0Portugal37.926867796214395 -7.822266000000013329.750917796214395 -25.872766000000013 46.102817796214396 10.228233999999986tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-27528470505782002842011-12-18T09:02:00.000-08:002012-02-29T07:20:01.374-08:00The Partridges Ate my Brocolli<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">The partridges ate my broccoli</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.</span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No seriously - they did. I should have known they would because Barry told me. He said “put up some netting or you won’t be able to eat your greens”. But what do I know, I’m a townie and what do townies know about veggie growing? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One minute I have a five square metre balcony in London and the next I’m perched on a bloody great hill in the south of Portugal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barry however, knows all about these things but then I would be surprised if he didn’t; he is a man of the soil, he’s a man in touch with nature but most importantly - he is a man with a tractor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He is, I should explain, a neighbour and like myself an ex-pat Brit. He showed up one day astride his John Deere insisting that I needed furrows. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furrows! </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought furrows were wrinkles in the forehead but evidently it’s an agricultural term, like mulch, polyculture and hilling which are words that are alien to me, these words relate to pastimes far removed from my comfort zone. Apparently not only do I need to learn to speak Portuguese but if I want a balanced diet I also have to take on board a new vocabulary in my own language. And Barry, nice man as he is, is the reason I have an aching back, he is also the reason I now possess a pair of green wellies and why my field, once a shimmering carpet of wild flowers, now looks like a showroom belonging to a manufacturer of black plastic irrigation pipes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And that is how it started.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So far I’ve terraced a piece of land and formed a level now given over to vegetables; I’ve built four raised beds and am growing more veggies than our family of three can eat in a month of Sundays. As we harvest a crop we visit friends and neighbours to offload surplus cabbages, lettuces, onions, carrots etc. They, unfortunately for us being occupied in the same manner, offload their surplus melons, rhubarb, broccoli etc. and the only people who profit from this mass barter are the local white goods retailers who are selling out of freezers faster than they can get them into stock. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell’s bells! What became of the urbane, man-about-town sophisticate, who believed retirement in the sun was going to be relaxing each afternoon, swinging slowly in a hammock after a long languorous liquid lunch? Well if you’re interested, he’s surfing the internet for garden sheds, Googling shotguns and gulping down Ibuprofen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But this is not going to be a blog about vegetable growing, well hopefully not – it’s just that, that’s all I seem to have been doing for the last few months and yesterday my aversion to heights was tested to the extreme when Sophie decided she wanted to harvest the olives. Harvesting, to my wife, means I do the bending, climbing and digging whilst generally getting sweaty and dirty and she puts things in the fridge and freezer. Yes, a true division of labour. There I was, roughly fifteen foot (whoops, I’m a European now) five metres above the ground, plucking olives (from a tree that possibly took root around the same time Henry Ford produced his first car) in order for my wife to put them in jars of salted water and stand them on shelves in the garage for three months therefor displacing my half-full paint tins, dried out tubes of silicone sealant and calcified irrigation spray heads, all irreplaceable and </span><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas> <v:path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"> <o:lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"> </o:lock></v:path></v:stroke></span></span></v:shapetype><v:shape alt="Description: C:\Users\Martin\Desktop\Blog pics\Grey partridge.jpg" id="Picture_x0020_3" o:spid="_x0000_s1026" style="height: 31.35pt; left: 0px; margin-left: 205.8pt; margin-top: 116.45pt; mso-height-percent: 0; mso-height-relative: page; mso-position-horizontal-relative: text; mso-position-horizontal: absolute; mso-position-vertical-relative: text; mso-position-vertical: absolute; mso-width-percent: 0; mso-width-relative: page; mso-wrap-distance-bottom: 0; mso-wrap-distance-left: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-right: 9pt; mso-wrap-distance-top: 0; mso-wrap-style: square; position: absolute; text-align: left; visibility: visible; width: 43.95pt; z-index: -251658240;" type="#_x0000_t75"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <v:imagedata o:title="Grey partridge" src="file:///C:\Users\Martin\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.jpg"> <w:wrap type="tight"> </w:wrap></v:imagedata></span></span></v:shape><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">bound to be needed in the very near future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m almost pleased winter is arriving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-55103477507494853992011-12-18T08:59:00.000-08:002012-04-10T12:10:21.851-07:00The Curious Incident of the Bite in the Night<span style="font-size: xx-small;">apologies to Mark Haddon</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwF8W9RkUjIqrH_M62G1__fulXk4rvR03FrPaYlks8yZ4dYeZtd9BIqE_qHJSGECSHmNJw7NEXhGv6rjLKfytQGegxlf4NBC4O0MWo9AkJY5H9myT9gwnYfrCBLvnSoC1VmgVk4XkufY4/s1600/brown_recluse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwF8W9RkUjIqrH_M62G1__fulXk4rvR03FrPaYlks8yZ4dYeZtd9BIqE_qHJSGECSHmNJw7NEXhGv6rjLKfytQGegxlf4NBC4O0MWo9AkJY5H9myT9gwnYfrCBLvnSoC1VmgVk4XkufY4/s200/brown_recluse2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas> <v:path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"> <o:lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"> </o:lock></v:path></v:stroke></v:shapetype></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <strong>I'm writing this while looking out over the valley</strong>. The weather is now cooler but the sun still shines; this really is my favourite time of year. We have had the first autumn rainfall and the hedgerows and fields are no longer shades of khaki but brilliant green; the air is fresh, the dew glistens on the stonework and the streets are once again empty of pink tattooed flesh. For now, in my few square metres of this beautiful part of the world all is well. But life, as we know, is about checks and balances and the past week has not been too great.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was Thursday morning, Sophie was in the UK for a few days and I awoke around seven o’clock feeling somewhat rough and with a high temperature, shivering body and a strange feeling in the face. Staggering into the bathroom I looked in the mirror but what looked back wasn’t me. This person had a lumpen face twice the size of mine, an off centre nose with peeling skin and nostrils in which you could hide your shoes . I don’t know what a stranger would have made of it but it frightened the life out of me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Reckoning I needed some anti-histamine, I headed off to the pharmacy where there were two pharmacists on duty. The woman in front of me waiting to be served, turned to wish me bom dia and, seeing my face quickly jumped into the other queue. Wow, I thought, now I know how lepers must have felt and when the pharmacist took one look at me and said “Health Centre, NOW” I started to get worried.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At the Health Centre I was poked and prodded, given a prescription, charged €50.00 and told I had Herpes. By now I was beside myself, herpes, how could I have herpes - I mean - you know – there’s only one way of catching herpes. Isn’t there? I know it stays dormant – but 40 years dormant? How do I tell Sophie? How do tell the kids? How do I tell the pneumatic blonde cashier at the supermarket – forget the last bit – untrue. I knew it was a wrong diagnosis but I was still worried.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking at the prescription in my hand I realised that I couldn’t go to my regular pharmacy brandishing possible anti-herpes medication without raising a few eyebrows so I took my anonymous self to an anonymous pharmacy where I bought the potions anonymously and drove around aimlessly for a while trying to collect my thoughts. Eventually common sense took over and I made an appointment for the following day to see my own doctor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And just as well. He took one look at me, said it certainly wasn’t herpes and that the first doctor had mis-translated and meant shingles (evidently a similar strain) but it wasn’t that either. It was purely a nasty bite that had become infected during the night, probably from bacteria that was lodged under my fingernails and transferred when I unconsciously scratched at the bite. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was given some antibiotics and some good advice that I would like to pass on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Evidently there are some nasty spiders in the Algarve and when working in the garden or clearing out a shed/garage and particularly when collecting wood from the wood store – wear gloves, thick leather gloves, thick leather gloves that cover the wrist and after you have washed your hands rub some antiseptic gel under the nail. I know I will in future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8437964156084697217.post-55732668443675334592011-12-18T08:51:00.000-08:002012-02-29T07:21:17.475-08:00Parking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With winter on its way I needed a waterproof cover for large umbrella on the terrace and went to my local supplier with the measurements to ask if he could make one up. No problem, I was told, it will be ready in a couple of days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a week I went back to enquire and was told that the woman who was going to make it was unable to do so at the moment as she had to harvest her olives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I rather liked that, I liked her priorities and it made me realise that since I have been here I’ve changed, I’m more laid back; if the umbrella cover would take a while longer, so what. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was then that I recalled my Damascene moment of years ago, the moment I realised that I wanted very much to live here – away from the big city, the noise and bustle and the must do it/want it/have it now aspect of my then life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Loule, at that time, was a much smaller town, with just the main roundabout where the four roads met but it was starting to expand and parking was becoming a problem. To address this, the Camera installed parking meters in each of the four main roads and assigned four men as parking attendants – one to each road. The meters were the old original coin in the slot type with the flag that went into the red section when your time had expired and to complement their new shiny meters they also bought a new shiny wheel clamp. Yes that’s right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a </i>wheel clamp – just one, well perhaps it was a trial, to see whether they liked it enough and whether we hated it enough but the upshot was if you saw a car clamped you knew you were ok for a while.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So there I was parked in the Avenida going about whatever I was going about that day when I returned and saw the clamp – on my car. With no idea what to do and at that time not speaking the language, I phoned a Portuguese friend who said I should meet her outside the Camera with the parking ticket and every possible legal document relating to both the car and myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We met, presented ourselves to the Camera, were duly fined and told that in order for the clamp to be removed I needed to look for the man with the key and that he would be identifiable by his green armband. Off we set, receiving strange looks as we examined all the male arms in the vicinity. It took a while but we eventually found him enjoying a drink in a bar and convinced him to leave and do his job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whilst he was unlocking the clamp I glanced at the meter and saw that it had five minutes to run before expiry time. I pointed this out to my friend with the key and asked why he had clamped the car in the first place. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a well-thumbed notebook, turned a few pages and said. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yesterday Senhor, you were parked in my street and yesterday you overran on the meter but yesterday it was not my turn to have the clamp.”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How can you not love that? </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0QKBlhkZ4Mo2AY00DCS5CmFtacwTi0rkZFQ3g8pgmPiqjdDgvh_xoxpUUx2c8HJ9MPChE6A2_obSP1kIAlFHBFQI1qBxk587HH3fS6OgBqWxxeiW1XwEgOX1g8IlF-3KQRIoMmwdHD1N/s1600/shutterstock_21543571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0QKBlhkZ4Mo2AY00DCS5CmFtacwTi0rkZFQ3g8pgmPiqjdDgvh_xoxpUUx2c8HJ9MPChE6A2_obSP1kIAlFHBFQI1qBxk587HH3fS6OgBqWxxeiW1XwEgOX1g8IlF-3KQRIoMmwdHD1N/s200/shutterstock_21543571.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
</div>Anthony Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04299944506545381332noreply@blogger.com1