Spain - at least the southern and eastern coastal areas, plus the islands - is the 'Florida' of Europe. Many people fly here for their hols (a number lovingly if inaccurately collected by the Spanish Tourist Office), many drive down in their caravans and tents, and many others stay with Mum and Dad who moved over a few years back and bought their home - either on some estate or, with luck, in the back of some quiet pueblo. So we have tourism and we have permanent settlers. The Spanish seem oddly fascinated by the first group (much of whose tourist money stays with the tour-operators in Britain) and less happy with the second group, who buy a house, a car, a washing machine and a sofa and who keep on spending twelve months a year, creating jobs and helping the local economy.
So now, they take away our 'residence cards' in favour of a passport plus blue A4 combo (to be carried at all times) and they start to issue threats to demolish homes which were bought, in every instance, in the faith and expectation that they would stay standing during the final years of their peaceful and bounteous owners on this Earth.
There's a big demonstration in Almería City on January 11th from 12 midday at the Puerta de Purchena. It will be a peaceful opportunity to show the squirrely politicians that we live here too and are a proud part of the community.
I think a lot of Spaniards will support it. Will you?


Postscript: The police have shortened the march appreciably, so as not to affect the traffic. I wonder who told them to do that? It still follows the same route, but the third side of the triangle has been removed. We start at the Puerta de Purchena and walk down the Obispo Orberá and then turn right, down the Ramba (Poeta García Lorca) as far as the 'obelisk'.

(Brief encounters with the world, all human life is out there)

A friend of mine told me a story recently about being in a pub in Manchester. He was enjoying a quiet pint before meeting his brother and going to a football match (City not United in case you were wondering). He struck up a conversation with a man at the bar. Initially they discussed the weather, the state of the country and how quiet the pub was at this time of day (around 1pm).
The man then disclosed that he had enjoyed a bit of luck at the horses and had come into the Star and Cow for a quiet celebration. My friend lamented that he never had any luck backing horses and joked that most of the horses he has backed in his life probably ended up on Blackpool beach. As he raised his pint to his lips for another drink he casually enquired 'So, what's your secret then?'
The man looked at him earnestly, so much so that my friend was unnerved and removed his pint glass from his lips and slowly replaced it on the bar. 'Okay then' the man agreed, 'I'll tell you'. The man then looked about himself to make sure no one was listening and beckoned my friend to come closer. The man was drinking Guiness ( a detail important for the story as you will soon discover).
The man took his finger and used it to 'draw' in the froth of his pint. 'Right, well, imagine this is Jupiter' he began. My friend non-plussed but not wishing to appear rude nodded. 'And Mars is over here...' The man stopped mid sentence realising that the mouth of his pint tumbler was not large enough to contain the universe. Looking above his head at the ceiling the man started again. 'Right, so Jupiter is over here (close to the strip light close to the bar) and Mars around her (next to the Plasma screen), then you have Venus and Mercury, the twins...' The what? my friend thought inwardly. 'Well you see when all these planets are in alignment you choose a horse that begins with the letter C, but don't tell anyone'. The man winked and my friend shook his head, as if to say 'I wont'. 'Now' the man started up again, 'You are probably wondering what happens if they are not in alignment?'
My friend didn't reply, he simply nodded. 'You see I knew you'd want to know that' the man pulled himself up to his full height of well over 6 foot. But before he could unburden himself of any more secrets my friend's brother arrived waving happily from the doorway. My friend made a hasty apology and rushed to greet his brother ushering him quickly back the way he had just come in.
'Don't tell anyone' the man waved from the bar, my friend shook his head 'I won't' and with that he was gone to do some explaining to his brother.

Taxi Driver

I had walked into town on January 3rd. There was still snow on the ground but by midday it was sunny and the walk was turning into a pleasant stroll of discovery. The garage that went bust has now been taken over by some young men who were offering a car valet from £5. As I looked up I saw an acquaintance and his wife heading toward me.
It was too late to cross the road and because I have said that, I think you are entitled to some backstory. The said couple are a well rehearsed double act who love to stop and talk at you, not to you. Everything in their life is always wonderful. When my son was crashing his car and causing us grief, their son and daughter were running Tesco and Wetherspoons respectively, the girl is a checkout operator, her brother a barman, sorry bar manager.
'How are you' the man, a taxi driver, greeted me waiting for my response so that he could share with me how well everything is in his world. 'Fine' I replied, perhaps a bit subdued. 'Did I tell you we are emigrating'. Considering I haven't seen or spoken to these two for years (they used to be near neighbours) I would not have known. 'Are you? ' I said limply before we endured a lengthy pause. 'Oh' I started up again aware that they were waiting for me to ask. "Where are you off to then?'
'Spain' they said in unison. 'I am sick of all these people coming into our country' the bespectacled wife spat. 'We've had enough, haven't we Tony'.
'Aye' the man nodded 'This country's finished, and Wilma is right, too many immigrants. Nah, it's Spain for us.'
I wanted to ask about immigration into Spain, about high unemployment in Spain, what made them think that this was a Shangri-la? But I resisted, partly because I wasn't really interested.
'In Spain you can get British food, there are British communities and they all speak English' the wife chimed in.
'All?' It slipped out before I realised.
'Yeah, they've go to' was the husband's simple explanation. I couldn't help thinking if it might be a new Spanish law or something.
'Aye, they have to learn English, makes sense if you think about it. Lots of British people stay in Spain now '.
I pondered this. Just because Spain takes in British immigrants it doesn't follow that English should become the first language? And, besides, isn't there something tasteless about complaining about immigrants only to become immigrants themselves? But then, what do I know.
I was sorely tempted to ask about learning English as a compulsory langauge in the Spanish education system but as you can imagine I was trying not to. I made my excuses, I was visiting my gran who is a keen campaigner for Spanish to become the first language of the UK, and she would be expecting me. As I waved and walked off they didn't look amused.

Sergio Burns