28 January 2022: Odd shops; Odd jobs; & 2 odd jokes.

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Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops

Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable
Christopher Howse: ‘A Pilgrim in Spain’

Cosas de España/Galiza 

Well, the Costa del Crime campaign against Britain’s most wanted crooks has already had a 10% return on investment; one of the ten has been arrested on the streets of Marbella., Recognised by an off-duty cop.

I’ve confessed more than once that Pontevedra’s retail scene is beyond my understanding. We seem to have an extraordinary number of bric-a-brac places. Not selling the sort of  tourist tat that Lenox Napier writes as adorning Mojácar but shops like this one, which has just opened near the market in the old quarter:-

I’ll be walking past it 4 times a day and will report here if I ever see a customer in it.

As I’ve said, we also have a very high number of jewellers. Small items, big prices. Perfect for money laundering, I guess.

The Way of the World 

Someone’s idea of the 6 ridiculous jobs that only the rich and famous need help with, based on what they write on social media:- 

Kitchen equipment curator

Music curator 

Outdoor-shoes de-clutterer

Picture hanger

Coffee co-ordinator

Expectation manager

Quotes of the Day

Both from the estimable Caitlin Moran:-

– British politics in 2022: something that makes showbiz look rational, hard-working, successful and well-intentioned. 

– As many have noticed, Boris Johnson’s darkest talent is contaminating those around him with his own, barely breathing moral standards.


El Caudillo: Franco’s handle and the Spanish equivalent of Der Fuehrer and Il Duce. Originally meant a brigand chief or warlord. Quite appropriate, I guess.

Finally . . .

One of the several messages in my Spam box mister told me You’re not hansom but I find u so manly! Hmmm  . . I’ve never been accused of being handsome before and this is the first time I’ve been told I’m not a horse-drawn cab.

Some ‘celebrity’ deaths are more saddening than others. Barry Cryer – a prolific writer and brilliant comedian of the old school – passed away this week, aged 86. He’ll be more missed – by me at least – than any of the current generation of ‘observational’ comedians. These rarely make me laugh but seem to convulse younger folk. This was BC’s favourite joke, written by him as a teenager:-

A man knocks on the door of a farm house and says to the woman who opens the door:

I’m afraid I’ve run over and killed your cockerel but I’m willing to replace it.

“Please yourself”, says the woman “The chickens are round the back”.

And here’s the joke he told a nurse a day or so before he died. It’s a version of one of my favourites:-

A man and his wife are out walking one day when they spot a bloke sitting alone in a bus shelter on the other side of the road. 

“That looks like the Archbishop of Canterbury over there,” says the woman.” “Go and ask him if he is.” 

The husband crosses the road and asks the man if he is indeed the Archbishop of Canterbury. 

“Fuck off,” says the man. 

The husband crosses back to his wife who asks: “What did he say? Is he the Archbishop of Canterbury?” 

“He told me to fuck off,” says the husband. 

“Oh no!” replies the wife, “Now, we’ll never know.”

My version is set on a bus in Liverpool, with a different last line.

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