Anger Managing my Manager in Spain

It's that lovely time of the week again, where inside I am slowly dying by degrees. This morning was such a colossal upheaval in my weekend rested constitution, that I felt slightly nauseous. I located my flip flops and managed to struggly out of the seemingly bottomless pits of my bed. I fed the cat, tipping small poo like pellets all over the kitchen floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet, I managed to stumble into the shower to find out I had run out of gas. This won't be a normal event for many people back in Britain, as I believe, all houses have gas coming through lovely pipes in the ground. Things just work. I need hot water. Turn tap. Hot water pours forth. Civilisation achieved, hurrah! But not so here in Andalucia. Oh no no no no no!

Andalucia is in southern Spain. It's famous as the heartland of what tourists imagine as traditional Spain: Bullfighting, Flamenco and paella. If you come here, what you will find, mor likely than not, is just under a million ex-pats crowded along the horrendous motorway-cum-seaside corridor that stretches between Malaga and very nearly Gibraltar. The regional emblem seems to be the crane, builders seem to be a race all of their own, and "we speak English" seems to be the most predominant name for shops. British style pubs are everywhere, and sunburn is the most popular fashion accesory.

So if you hate all that, you can head out into old Andalucia - the Spanish Andalucia where you will see men it exceedingly tight trousers manfully avoiding hernia's whilst terrorising an animal for no apparent reason. The Spain where Flamenco is bravely listened too by people who have never heard of hearing imparement. The Spain of food chucked into an enormous vat and laughingly called cooked, dumped onto a plate and given to you under the pseudonym paella. Paella, I am coming to believe, means "leftovers". Andalucia is timeless, so timeless they haven't changed the name since the Moors were chased out of Spain and the Jews persecuted in what looks like the greatest dent of Medieval intellectual barbarity managed.

Andalucia is so timeless it's gas comes in bottles delivered to houses by a man who only turns up when you are at work: who beats an empty gas bottle with a crow bar to alarm everyone into acknowledging the gas man's existence, and who subsequently takes all your money and has no change. Bastards.

I'm sure Andalucia is lovely. Infact, I know in some parts it is. But today is Monday, and Monday is the devil's work!