Raelha buys a car

I have finally become a proud (erm, well, sort of) car owner at the grand old age of 34. Having successfully managed to avoid any automobile purchase before this point it became necessary now that I'm on my own and living halfway up another mountain. The car itself is the same one I've been driving around since I got to Asturias except now it´s officially mine. One thing I am proud of is having successfully conquered the bureaucratic process it takes to transfer car ownership. When we first got to Asturias and bought the Skoda (for yes, it is a not-quite-so-fine example of Czech engineering) the actual process of going to tráfico in Oviedo to put it into the ex´s name was possibly, no, make that definitely, the worst red tape nightmare I've gone through in Spain – though, having dealt frequently with the system, I hesitate to add that I suspect it will retain that glorious title forever. The original purchase was made from an ageing fellow, who appeared jolly enough to begin with and, after us having proffered cash for the vehicle offered to take us into Oviedo himself to guide us in the process of changing over the documentation. As recent arrivals in the country we were more than happy to have a guiding hand, though it turned out that he knew only a gnat´s breath more about it than we did. Imagine traipsing around one government office after another to get hold of all the different documents you have to fill in and hand over to be stamped only then to have to take them to another office for collection, and only after you've taken ten million photocopies of each one. This is the only time where I've actually seen Spaniards queuing up quietly to be seen to in turn, except the fellow we were with seemed oblivious of the system and insisted on pushing in each time, talking loudly at the civil servant who was trying to deal with the person who had actually waited to be seen, and not listening to a word he was told in response. Eventually I figured out what was going on and dragged him across the office floor each time to get our numbered piece of paper and wait in line. All this, of course, instigated sympathetic looks from all and sundry when they realised that we had to tackle the system with him in charge. If only we´d realised before.

Next you discover that the stamped road tax form that the seller has to present is not in his possession and he has no idea of where he last saw it, necessitating a further journey to a separate government office half-way across the city (why they don´t just group them all together is beyond me, I suspect it´s all part of one big joke to brighten up the lives of the poor souls who work in these dreary places day after day: “no, I´m very sorry sir, we don´t deal with that here. You need to go to the Office of Let Us See Just How Far We Can Push You Before You Turn Red and Steam Pours From Your Ears located in Taking The Piss Street, it´s not far away, honestly” and then time how long it takes you to get back, tomato-faced and exasperated. It quite often happens that when you do finally find your way to the second office they have no idea what you´re on about and send you down the corridor (if you´re lucky), round the corner to the next building (if you´re not so lucky), or all the way back across the city (if you´re damn unfortunate) where they realise in the original office, that oh yes, we do have that form here after all and I don´t know who you spoke to before but we can sort that out right here and now. Arghhh. And then, finally, when you´ve paid all the taxes involved and photocopied everything apart from your bumcheeks, worked off all of the last week´s meals travelling around the city and made your way back into tráfico, papers in hand, eyes gleaming with the knowledge that you´re finally on the winning track, they tell you that the ID you have is the wrong one and that even though it´s valid to buy a house you need a proper resident´s ID to buy a car, which, after a trip to the main police station, you realise takes a matter of months in itself to acquire.

So, after the hassle of buying the car the first time, and yes, all of the above really did happen, with perhaps a few name changes here and there, I was determined not to undergo such a painful struggle this time around, especially considering that, despite the lack of embarrassing seller it would involve traversing the city with the ex, who was never a very patient man. So, a week before I nipped to tráfico had a quick chat with those at the information desk and prepared all the documents I was told I´d need beforehand, plus photocopies, and communicated to the ex what he´d need to bring. Perfect, I thought, nothing can go wrong, and nothing did. It were as if someone was making up to me all that I´d had to go through the previous time. Even when it turned out, in the treasury department, that I was missing a photocopy of a form that hadn´t been mentioned on the information sheet given to me in the traffic department, the guy behind the desk, when I asked him where the nearest place to photocopy, on discovering that I was only missing the one, took the sheet from me and photocopied it himself! At no extra charge!!! Believe me this never happens. I was in a fine mood, floated all the way to tráfico where there was no queue at all, handed over all my documents and hey presto, the car was officially mine.

I even managed, after some rather persuasive talking, to get insurance from Línea Directa (yes, we have Direct Line over here too, and the little red phone with wheels on the ad) for over €100 less than the ex had been paying, despite not having any no-claims bonus whatsoever, a fine coup on my behalf.

Anyway, this all happened in October, though I’ve been waiting since then for an Internet connection at home, having also moved house. More on that later, oh and wish me luck with my very first MOT (or ITV as it’s called here) in a couple of weeks’ time.

kaput...

I must be jinxed. There's no other explanation.

In the last few months I've had to deal with numerous household items either failing to work completely or needing repairing.

To give you an idea:

The seals on the back windscreen of the car needed replacing. Everytime it rained I had a puddle in the boot of the car, and not just a drop of water, a real, jump-in-it-and-you'd-get-soaked affair. Water is still entering, somehow, thought the front and filtering down to form a deep puddle in the driver's footwell. Oh, and the passenger window, also at the front, will go down at the touch of the button but needs to be hauled up manually afterwards, though it sometimes refuses to budge. Now it's starting to warm up, I'm going to have to get it fixed. The driver's window is on it'sway out too. Ahh, and the other day, after shopping in Lidl (yes, happily, Lidl does exist in Spain as well), I went to start the car but the key refused to fit into the ignition. Strange, I thought, and checked my key ring just to make sure I hadn't picked up someone else's keys by mistake, but no, they were mine alright. After a bit of persuasion, swearing and coaxing I managed to get the key in, but then it wouldn't turn, and it wasn't just because the wheel had locked. Eventually, and feeling rather foolish, I had to call the insurance company for their roadside rescue. Then, just as the mechanic arrived, and despite 20-odd minutes of fiddling with it before I'd even resorted to calling, the key magically turned and the engine started. Apparently the anti-theft system needs looking at. Although I've since gotten used to the quirks of this and can manage to get the car started on most occasion with no hassle.

The other biggie is my computer. Specifically the graphics card, which I hope to replace shortly, though the rest of it can't be far behind. It currently takes me three or four goes to start up the pc - up from one or two attempts a few weeks ago - and then it freezes at the slightlest hint of any animation or video, and also sometimes without, and requires rebooting again. *Sigh*

On top of that, the washing machine and fridge are on their last legs, as well as the toaster, though I'm hoping they'll last out a little longer. *Crosses fingers* Oh, and I sat on my glasses a few months ago (don't ask) so could really do with some new ones, they're about 10 years old now anyway and I know my prescription's changed.

What else? Well, the bread machine conked out a few months ago, but Lidl had some in (which is where the car not starting incident occurred - I returned, triumphant to the car park with my new purchase, before realising I couldn't take it home) for a bargain €45 so that issue was solved. I had a few problems with the hairdryer, but managed to rewire the plug and that's helped some, though it's still complains at every use. The iron stopped working completely but that was fairly easily replaced.

This last week, the strimmer decided to play up - I hadn't used it for months and when I finally decided to get it out on Monday and pulled the starter cable, the damn thing gave a wimpish sputter before dying on me and leaving the cable extended. Ugh. Then there was a gas leak: my gas bottles were running out after only two weeks, which was weird, since they normally last at least three weeks. After an embarasisng incident when I had friends round for lunch and my last bottle unexpectedly ran out on me half way through cooking the food, I decided I had a real problem. This week the nice man from the gas company managed to find the leak for me and will sort it out completely some time next week. It's good to know the house won't be exploding any time on the near future. And finally, also this week, the toilet cistern decided not to seal once it had been flushed and emptied out my water tank. It took me a while, and some copious swearing, to figure out what was happening. I went to get a new part on Friday, but was given the wrong one so I'm still currently making do with the mop bucket to flush the loo.

Hmm, I think that's it. I'm not sure I have anything else that can go wrong on me now, but I'll be sure to let you if it does.

You know you´re having a bad week when...

...you get an unexpected phone call meaning your partner has to rush out of the house just before you´re about to sit down to lunch and then go to work. At ten minutes before you´re due at work he still hasn´t reappeared with the car so you get the bike out of the shed and start racing down the hill. Half way down you meet your partner in the car - it transpires he had a puncture and had to change the tyre - in an admirable ten minutes as it turns out - so you exchange modes of transport and head down to work (while he trundles back uphill with the bike) getting there only five mintues late.

Upon going to get a new spare tyre you are informed that they no longer make that kind and so you need to buy two news ones so the back tyres are balanced, meaning the puncture cost you twice what it normally would have.

Going back into work a distraught boss meets you with the news that the new teacher she had employed to teach the 4-8 year olds (the most demanding and tiring classes for us) and who had been doing a good job, has suddenly announced that she´s leaving for employment elsewhere that very same day and has left us in the lurch. Much changing of the already full-to-bursting timetable ensues (and name-calling of said teacher) and we are all given a couple of extra hours to accomodate the younger classes. I said it before and I´ll say it again, phew!

Guess who´s looking forward to a rest at the weekend?!

Dole scum! On how to become unemployed in Spain

Last week I was informed by Cris, my boss, that for her to be able to give me a permanent contract in October I need to be officially unemployed. A little strange I thought, but then again, we are in Spain, home of ridiculous bureaucracy and neverending paperwork.

So that is why I have spent three mornings this week, my supposed week off, at the unemployment office, or INEM, as it's known here. To begin with, I had to find the place, which you would think would be simple. I checked the address on the offical INEM website - it was to be found in a town down the valley - printed out a large scale map showing me exactly where the street was and off I went. I spent five minutes walking up and down this street, map in one hand, address in the other, before I realised that I was in the right place but the INEM office most definitely was not. A lovely lady in a perfumería informed me that it had indeed been on that street but had moved a few months ago and kindly gave me directions, stupid bloody website.

This did not bode well and I felt the little enthusiasm I had for dealing with yet more Spanish bureaucracy wane as I made my way to the new office. Once I eventually got to the place, I discovered it was not what I had been expecting. Let me tell you, the unemployment system here differs greatly to the one back in the UK - or at least the one I had to deal with many years back.

For a start, you only have 15 working days after the end of your contract to ask for unemployment benefit. Fortunately, even though blissfully unaware of this, I went on day 14. Even so, I encountered problems almost straight away as I apparently should've gone to the Ministry of Education on my arrival in Spain to have all my academic qualifications recognised (never mind that we're all in the European Union), so when it came to putting them on the computer we hit a problem, which the nice man there solved by ignoring the rules and putting me down as having a Spanish degree in Spanish language. Next up, my driving licence. Can I drive? I most certainly can? Do I have a car? No, but I can use my partner's. Very good. How long have I had my driving licence? I remember this one because I passed on my mum's birthday when I was seventeen. Ah. It transpired that because Spaniards are not allowed to drive until they are eighteen, the system would not allow a date which made the driver seventeen. I even got my licence out - still one of the old folded paper ones - and showed the date to the man who indeed admitted that I had been seventeen on passing my test. But the computer could not be persuaded and in the end we had to change the date to a year later. Great stuff, we were getting somewhere. However, I then discovered that to register yourself unemployed you also have to take a copy of your old contract (tick) and an employer's certificate, which of course I didn't have in my possession.

Reading the information I was then given, an employer's certificate is a signed and stamped letter from the employer stating that you've been working there for the last 180 days. So, after a mad dash to see Cris at the academia, this is what I returned with the following day. But no, the following day I was informed that an employer's certificate is an official document that gives lots of boring details about social security paid, etc. and didn't we tell you abut this yesterday? Grrr. This is where I panicked a bit. I was on day 15 without this complicated certificate and hopes of a permanent contract seemed to be going down the plughole. Luckily for me, the people in the Spanish job centre are very unlike their UK counterparts and offered to start the process with the documents I did have if I took them the certificate the following day. Which is what I've just been doing.

Now I just have to wait for my request to be processed and the money to appear in my account. I'm not sure how much I'll receive as it's linked to how long you've been working and how much you've earned. I was informed that I've only worked long enough for four-months benefit - not a problem as I know I'm officially back to work in October. The other good thing is that I don't have to show I'm looking for work - none of those horrible booklets to fill out stating exactly what you've been doing to find employment. I suppose they don't need it - limited benefit is incentive enough.

So now I have one extra day before the weekend to relax and congratulate myself on successfully navigating yet another Spanish bureaucratic nightmare. Well done me!

Gazpacho in March

Yesterday I had a wisdom tooth removed. I'd been very blase about the whole affair. Last year I had the first one done and spent a month worrying about it beforehand - mostly due to Matt's ghastly tales of what happened when he had all four done at once under general anaesthetic and then spent two weeks in agony unable to eat properly, losing a stone in weight as a result, and some of the feeling in his lower lip, permanently. However, although they took about half an hour to get it out, in about six different pieces, the most pain I felt was a severe jaw ache at having to keep my mouth open so wide for that long.

This time, the worries didn't start until we were in the taxi on the way to the hospital (I was briefly cheered at one point when we passed a dental surgery called 'Poo' - I think it must have been named after the Asturian coastal town of Poo which is a pretty little place despite the moniker. Since I've been here I've also found a Boo, a Lada and a Nora).

So, I started fretting in the taxi, and then during the hour-long wait at the hospital. (Why do they do that? You're given an appointment for 10am, you arrive on time, or even ten minutes early, and then they make you wait for an hour to see someone.) When I was eventually called in, I shuffled nervously to the chair and was, to my relief, given a huge quantity of local anaesthetic. Then my nerves fluttered again when I saw the trainee nurse - she looked like a slightly older version of one of my eleven-year old students. Oh dear.

After the dentist had unsuccessfully tried to lever the damn thing out I started to fret even more, especially when she grabbed my jaw at the front and warned that she'd be using 'a bit of force'. Then, even worse, came the drill - here we go for another half an hour at least, I thought and steeled myself for more trauma and jaw ache. I was so busy trying to make myself relax that I thought I'd heard incorrectly when the dentist said, with some satisfaction, 'there we go, all finished.' But no, the rogue tooth had indeed been removed, and in one piece at that. I positively floated from the chair and bounced out of the room to a very surprised Matt who had been preparing himself for another long wait on the very uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room. And that was that.

The worst part about having this tooth taken out is eating, or slurping as I should say (closely followed by the vile salt-water rinses I have to perform after every 'meal'). I have been prohibited from chewing for a few days, and everything I imbue has to be cold. No hot, or even warm foodstuffs at all, ugh. It's only been twenty-four hours and I'm daydreaming about crusty baguettes and warming soups already. It wasn't so bad last time, as it was a hot and sunny May. Gazpacho in the middle of March when it's cold and rainy just makes me miserable. I've also been surviving on yoghurts, stewed apple, hummus and fruit smoothies. If anyone has any ideas on some tasty, filling, savoury and veggie mush I can eat I'd be very grateful!