WHERE DANGER LURKS I suspect that every country has a danger zone of some kind. For example, in Indonesia there are tsunamis, in America hurricanes, in Iraq bombs, in Australia poisonous spiders and in the UK, well, taxes.
However, these life threatening perils are nothing compared to that found in Spain. Here, I have seen grown men, whose boldness is beyond question, go pale and tremble uncontrollably. I have, myself, often felt a cold trickle of sweat run down between my shoulder blades as a sharp stab of agonising psychosomatic pain has struck deep in the pit of my stomach.
I am no mere wimp. I have seen things and been places. I have nearly looked my bank manager in the eye whilst having a full and somewhat too frank discussion about my overdraft. I have experienced a two week summer holiday on the British east coast. Once, I even said a flat no to my teenage daughter and almost kept to it. I have, as they say, been around and seen what horrors life can throw my way.
Hardened and battle scarred, I came to Spain with no fears. There was nothing, so I thought, that could disturb my zen-like equilibrium.
Which just shows how terribly wrong you can be.
Shopping. That is the problem. One simple word with a resonance to men that is more powerful and terrifying than any other found in the English language. If the Gestapo had uttered this one word in the cells of occupied Europe they would have learnt every secret the Allies possessed. No man can withstand brooding too long on ‘shopping’ without his nerve and will-power rapidly dissolving.
My primary objective in coming to Spain was to wean my wife away from the temptations of the UK high street. Foolishly, as it now turns out, I thought that Spain had stood still and that there was little more to buy than endless sombreros and straw donkeys, with a few ‘I Love Marbella’ tee shirts to break up the monotony.
Nothing, tragically, could be further from the truth. Spain seems to have roared into the twenty first century and suddenly gone from a few tawdy flea markets to a horrifying array of brand new shopping centres and sophisticated high streets. I do not think that I have ever seen towns with such a bewildering array of shops and stores. Sadly, it seems neither has my wife, whose iron determination to look inside each and every one has nearly reduced me to tears.
I have, of course, cunningly reprogrammed the GPS system in our car to bypass any form of habitation in a vain effort to keep the family economy vaguely on track. But, predictably, this has proven useless.
My wife’s inability to find her way out of a paper bag seems to reverse itself when it comes to locating shops and particularly boutiques. Using an instinct that is positively primeval, and that in other circumstances would be commendable, she has the precise homing ability of a thirsty camel searching for water in a desert.
There is, of course, a direct inverse relationship between the boosting of the local economy and the traumatic state of my finances. Whilst I am obviously delighted to see Spain doing so well, I am more than a little concerned about how long I can single-handedly sustain their retail industry.
There is also the small matter of Casa Desolada. This has become nothing more than a huge wardrobe with the bathroom, kitchen and bedrooms existing as merely secondary appendages. Needless to say, like most men, my clothes have been relegated to one small drawer and three old metal hangers on the back of the bedroom door.
As to my health and well being, well, I am a mere shadow of my previous self; just another haunted male terrified of those dreadful words: “I am just popping out to the shops…”
Hurricanes, bombs, tsunamis and deadly insects, I cannot take. But UK taxes? I am seriously thinking about it. Copyright Nick Snelling (www.nicholassnelling.com) author of three books on Spain including ‘How to Move Safely to Spain’ (www.movesafelytospain.com)
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