…and the Good News is….

I’m not allergic to red wine!

I took a very disappointing trek up to the health centre on Friday morning.  In fact I had to race up as I had left the house late.  Time suddenly slipped away while I was brushing my face and putting WD40 on my feet.  I arrived, a bit out of breath, with five minutes to spare before my appointment only to be left waiting.  I had chosen what I figured would be the first or second appointment of the morning and I was not wrong, however I had not banked on the strange little doctor arriving ten minutes late himself and reeking of cigarette smoke.  He unlocked his door, donned his white coat and sat down behind the computer, which never functions fast enough for him.  He began talking to it and clicking the mouse and tut-tutting at it.  Then finally he called me in.  He did not look at me, but continued tut-tutting and clicking and, after bashing the mouse a couple of times on his desk, managed to print out a copy of my blood and other bodily functions’ analyses.  Then he read them, mainly to himself, but the upshot, I gathered, was that there was nothing ominous.  I have no allergies, no intolerances and I am not suffering with amoebic dysentery.  I was quite disappointed to be honest.  My heart leaped for an instant when he asked me if I had recently travelled to any at-risk countries because then he could have ordered another test for some rare tropical disease, but disappointingly I had to admit that I had never travelled in any Third World Country.  Ireland didn’t count.

“What now?” I asked as he began his furious tapping and mouse bashing again.  

“What’s this?” he said “some tests are still pending??”  

“Those are the regular ones for my hormonal condition.” I told him, just as he realised the same thing.  

“We will have to wait for the results of those,” he said, plainly delighted that he had a get-out clause, “before we order any other tests.”

A gratuitous beautiful sunset to lift my spirits should I be downcast by life's little hurdles...but I'm not.

“That’s it?”  I asked.  

“Yes, that’s it.” He said

And that was that.  I left.  No colonoscopy or barium meal was ordered and I am not a penny the wiser about my condition and it seems he could not care less.

So I shall continue eating like a bird and drinking like a fish.  Oddly. While I am afraid to eat I feel that the drinking, especially red wine or a brandy and port, in some way makes everything ok.  Well, it does.

Every day has been supremely busy of late and this day was no exception.  After the inconclusive clinic visit I rushed home to walk the doggies, all of them together on this occasion.  Quite a feat I might say, especially as I am struggling to teach Harold how to walk to heel.  Still it had to be done as I was meeting Beverley early to go for a recce of some winter firewood.  She had been reliably informed by a friend that this supplier charged way below the usual rate for his wood so we were very eager.  However, and after a 45 minute wait as he was out on delivery when we arrived to his yard, we discovered that her friend had mistakenly priced for two bags instead of three so in fact this new supplier was the same price as everybody else and actually more expensive than the guy I used last winter.  Bev put in an order, but I declined.  Another good reason being that delivery to my house is a nightmare.  As we live in the heart of the Centro Historico of our lovely White Pueblo access is difficult.  Up windy lanes and with sharp corners to manoeuvre it is not for the fainthearted and certainly not for a five ton lorry.  The man I use knows the terrain and has a method of delivery especially tailored to our home.  If it ain’t broke why fix it?  I just hope he brings me dry wood this year. (Another story for another day!)

Back at base it was lunchtime already and I fed the dogs, but I was afraid to eat, so nipped out to do the little bit of weekend shopping I needed.  All went well and on my return I poured myself a Brandy and port and made some tiny nibbles to go with that.  I indulged myself with watching a bit of daytime TV but pretty soon I had to deal with ‘The Phonecall’ I had been putting off for a couple of days. 

In July I switched my electricity supplier.  But company number one has been billing me for the past two months for 7.09 euros.  Not a lot.  I let the first one go as I thought it was some adjustment but now I couldn’t understand why I was still being billed three months later.  Firstly I rang company number two as the sales lady had been so very kind to me and had spoken such lovely clear Spanish that I knew I could ask her advice and would be able to understand her also.  Unfortunately she told me, very kindly, that I needed to ring the customer service of company number one, which I subsequently did.  It was not too bad, but at the final hurdle I had to ask them for an operator who spoke English.  Sometimes you just need the comfort of being able to argue your point in your own language.  So in conclusion to the inconclusive week that I have had, all round it would seem, there was nobody available to cancel my insurance, for that is what it is, an unsolicited insurance for my white goods, and I will have to wait for a call back on Monday morning.

Still, at least I can pour myself another glass of wine.

...and some gratuitous pumpkins waiting to be made into pumpkin soup and pumpkin pie.

Harold

Harold has come to live with us.  Harold has the most disgusting bad breath.  Poor Harold I can hardly bear to be in the same room as him, because with my current tummy problems there is a real danger of me vomiting.

Harold is a sweetie though.  He is very loving and would love me to kiss him, but I really can’t right now.

He arrived at lunchtime on Thursday, which was a bit tough as I had to introduce him to the Westies, feed him, show him the garden and get him settled in all within only a couple of hours before I set off to school for one of my longer teaching days.  I didn’t know if I would find him alive when I got back at 8.15 or whether he would have been eaten by Westies.  He certainly did not like being left and just as I walked away from the house I heard him barking and scrabbling at the door.  He will acclimatise.

Harold sits with his new siblings in the Westie-mobile, our new mode of transport, especially for trips to the vet which at the moment seem to be very often.  You cannot smell his bad breath from here and the other kids don't seem to mind.

So my teaching day was clouded somewhat by dreadful gory thoughts every so often.  Not while I was actually teaching, but between lessons.  When you are teaching you think of nothing except what is in front of you.  ABCs, 123s, present continuous, past participles, colours of the rainbow and days of the week.  It seemed like a long day, but happily, upon my return, with Bev in tow for a much needed glass of vino, I found all the Westies and a joyful Harold delighted to see me again and even more delighted for the extra person to snuggle up against.  He is very needy right now, but that is understandable.  He has just been abandoned by his owner of ten years and probably simply does not have a clue what is going on.

On a theme of smells, the chestnut sellers have returned to the streets of Alhaurín el Grande.  With the temperatures we are having of late it hardly feels like autumn yet the smell of the chestnuts roasting fills my brain with thoughts of crispy brown and golden leaves piled high and beechnuts and chestnuts crunching beneath my feet.  It makes me think of woolly gloves and scarves, of misty mornings and damp earth.  It is one of the many smells of Spain that sends my thoughts into overdrive. 

Passing through the busy town now after school in the evenings I often catch the heavy scent of Jasmine or Dame de Noche or other olfactory delights that are not so beautiful, but equally evocative.  Diesel fumes from the back of rickety old scooters, the faint whiff of a blocked drain and occasionally the pencil smell of BO from someone who is not as fastidious as they should be.  And now I come home to the overwhelming smell of rotten dog breath.  A smell I will gladly forget as soon as I possibly can,

On Friday morning I had a zillion jobs to do, but managed to give Harold a bath.  He is another dog in my life who, it would appear, hates water.  I had to chase him and carry him bodily into the bathroom and firmly close the door.  It was then that I also tried to scrub his teeth.  What I saw in his mouth made me recoil in horror.  His teeth look like they are melting.  I think the brush hurt him, so I stopped even trying.  Instead I took him to the vet after lunch to book an appointment to get his teeth cleaned and the wobbly, disgusting ones extracted.  His appointment is not until the 31^st of October unfortunately, so we will have to bear the stench until then.  If only I could have switched his appointment with Looki’s, whose teeth are nowhere near as bad.  But his is too close now and he has already begun his course of antibiotics. 

On the whole Harold is a good boy.  I have had to tell him off for marking the furniture and I also had a bit of a battle with him today as he was staring at me while I was eating.  Something that is not allowed in our house.  Eventually he slunk out to the garden, no doubt to eat worms.  But he will get the hang of it.  He does not understand the command to sit, I wonder if it is because he speaks Spanish.  He seems to be getting the hang of The Westie Life here though, which is to follow mum around the house and then find a spot close by to lie down and start snoring, grunting or twitching in your sleep.

And now this morning I am cooking up a batch of food for the dogs.  The house is filled with the aroma of chicken and fish boiling away merrily with Mediterranean vegetables, spliced with the covering scent of incense burning in the front room to cover the underlying foul breath, which somehow does not seem so bad today.  Perhaps the boy is improving, or perhaps I am just getting used to it.