Letters from Andalucía.
1. My brother’s avocado pear farm.
As most people in my stories are still very much alive, I have changed their names and some of the locations too.
There is a photograph of my brother Stuart hanging in my kitchen. It was taken many years ago on his avocado farm when he was thin and handsome. He is standing leaning on a shovel surrounded by his avocado trees and there is a rakish air to him as he twinkles at the camera. He sports an elegant moustache, his sleeves are rolled up and he looks every inch the gentleman farmer.
This of course was a complete illusion. The photograph was part of an article on people making a living on the Costa del Sol and Stuart had been interviewed as a successful avocado farmer.
He had arrived here in 1987 having been transported from a decadent lifestyle in London by my parents who were anxious for him to start anew. They had bought him the farm and thought that he would enjoy his new life, getting back to nature and eschewing his natural inclination to tread the steady rounds of nightclubs.
Stuart duly sold his house in Hammersmith, having thrown a succession of wild farewell parties, and finally took up residence on his farm near Marbella. There were over 1500 avocado trees of 4 different varieties plus various fruit and citrus trees and the land sloped gently down to the river. The house itself was not beautiful, it was sprawling and rather eccentric but entirely in keeping with its new owner. Looking around this area nowadays it seems incredible that 20,000 square metres of farming land was only a stone´s throw from Puerto Banus and the Marbella Club but this was before the great building boom started in the 90s.
The first few months seemed to go well. Stuart rose early and applied himself to the serious business of running the plantation. I remember him striding through the trees, a couple of dogs snapping at his heels, whilst he noted which trees were growing well and which ones appeared to need treatment. The irrigation system was always of great concern and many hours seemed to be spent anxiously examining it for leaks and damage. Huge sacks of fertiliser were constantly dragged around the farm and my father would pore over the accounts and make plans to improve everything.
Harvest time was approaching and with great excitement we watched the burgeoning thousands of avocados hanging heavily from the branches. The Great Day arrived and we all congregated on the farm to start the picking. I had volunteered to help, as had my father and there were a couple of Stuart´ house guests who had been roped into giving a hand. They appeared looking somewhat the worse for wear having obviously just left a nightclub. However, we were glad for any help we could get, and so we marched down towards the trees.
An extraordinary sight awaited us and we stood in a stunned silence. Most of the trees seemed to have been stripped bare with not an avocado in sight. What on earth had happened! Then we saw the huge tyre tracks of a lorry and the sorry dawn of understanding gently fell upon us. Thieves! They had come in the night and robbed us.
They had been thorough and knowledgeable, having taken the best fruit and leaving the stunted ones for us. It had been so easy for them as there was no proper security fencing around the farm. I don´t think it had occurred to any of us that there was such a thing as avocado robbery. How naive we were and how painful the reality.
The following weeks were spent fencing the property with a reinforced steel fence. Stuart was so angry that he wanted to have gun towers posted around the perimeter like Colditz but we talked him out of it. He gradually calmed down and waited for the next harvest.
News of Stuart and his farm had started to filter back to London with the result that a small trickle of old friends and acquaintances started to arrive at his house. They were all intrigued by his new lifestyle and they all seemed to be in great need of a holiday. They would venture down onto the farm and look around with interest, some of them even offering to do some work, but gradually they would retreat back to the house and patio where they would sunbathe, whilst Stuart would rush up and down organising lunches and dinners and generally looking harassed.
The small trickle of guests became a steady stream as actors, singers and other unemployed people passed through his house. Stuart would entertain them and drive them to all the well loved nightspots of Marbella. He was becoming fluent in Spanish by now and starting to enjoy himself very much with his new Spanish social life. He was staying out later and later and gradually things started to slide down on the farm.
I think it took about six months before we realised what was happening. My father took to visiting Stuart early in the morning, arriving with papers and files under his arm and a look of disapproval on his face as he found him still asleep in bed. Stuart himself dreaded these encounters and I´m afraid there were many arguments and a great deal of stress in the family. Yes, farming is not an easy life!
2. Stuart’s new restaurant.
Channel 5 in the UK were making a documentary on ex patriots living on the Costa del Sol and one of their subjects was my brother and his restaurant, an establishment well known to all the locals down here for its very unusual and charming setting as well as its eccentric owner. As I have mentioned before Stuart had had a brief and somewhat undistinguished career as an avocado farmer before his final disillusionment set in when he was robbed of his entire crop by unscrupulous thieves. Despite all the security measures that were taken to protect his farm he never really settled down again and he began to haunt the clubs and bars of Marbella.. It was about this time during the 1990’s recession that my husband and I started a restaurant in our house in Benahavis and a couple of weeks later Stuart arrived to take a look. To his great surprise, and ours I have to say, our little restaurant was full of customers and Stuart stood and watched me making out some bills. “That´s it!” he shouted, “I´m going to open a restaurant in my house!”
And indeed he did – less than a week later.
He started by telephoning all his friends and managed to drum up a dozen or so people, or “victims” as they referred to themselves. They arrived en mass and sat around the old family dining table with a look of expectancy on their faces. Meanwhile Stuart was furiously cooking in the kitchen. Every now and then there would be a great crash accompanied by a string of oaths and curses. Finally he appeared and with a look of triumph announced that he had discovered the secret of making tomato soup taste like Heinz. Of course this announcement was received by a great roar of laughter and Stuart´restaurant career began.
Looking at his restaurant today with its lavish bar and opulent table settings and décor, it is hard to imagine its humble beginnings. My brother has always been interested in cooking and entertaining, something he did on a regular basis in London, but of course it is a very different thing when you have to present a bill at the end of the evening. However, he pressed on valiantly serving some very good meals, some indifferent and some downright horrible. It is to the credit of his friends that they stuck by him, proving to be loyal customers despite the fact that they often put up with poor food.
Stuart had hired a cook by now, I think the word “chef” was too sophisticated for the type of food being served and huge cauldrons of beef stew with mountains of mashed potato were ladled out rather in the manner of a school dining room. The mediocrity of the food was more than outweighed by the comical and outrageous behaviour of the owner and the fact that he made the customers laugh so much, more than compensated for the food with the result that the restaurant was full every night.
As the money began to roll in various improvements were made to the restaurant. The kitchen was modernised, more tables and chairs were ordered and Stuart began to buy paintings and artwork to hang on the walls. A new chef, a Frenchman no less, was hired and the standard of food shot up dramatically. A new clientele developed and the place became very smart indeed as well dressed Madrileños and smartly coiffed continentals started to appear.
The restaurant was now a splendid affair with a soaring cathedral ceiling constructed from dark wooden beams. There was a minstrel gallery upstairs where Stuart kept all his music and from where he sometimes burst into song to the delight of his customers. A huge fireplace stood in the centre of the room and French doors opened onto a terrace and the windows were draped in rich, dark curtains. Paintings, gilt mirrors and other artefacts adorned the walls. A grand piano, sofas, a Victorian sideboard plus an assortment of candelabras, standard lamps and consul tables were dotted around the room. Photographs of family and friends stood in silver frames on every available surface, including the piano which was also home to the menu and wine lists. A dozen tables of varying size dressed in white lace tablecloths were crammed into this emporium.
Stuart´ old guest bedroom became the Medieval Dining Room, so called because he had painted the walls with medieval scenes of stags and griffins which leered down on the diners and the library which contained magnificent floor to ceiling bookcases crammed with books became another dining area. First time clients on entering the restaurant nearly always gasped with delight and amazement. It was after all a most wondrous sight.
A new problem now presented itself. The house had not been designed to be able to park more than a handful of cars and now chaos ensued as huge, expensive cars forced their way along the narrow driveway looking in vain for somewhere to park. Rolls Royces, Jaguars, BMWs and Mercedes sports cars squeezed past each other before they were obliged to back up and park on the rough terrain beneath the avocado trees.. At the end of the evening the situation deteriorated as customers in various stages of inebriation attempted to negotiate their way out of the farm. There were a couple of unpleasant incidents with a lot of shouting and so Stuart hired a valet to take care of the parking. This arrangement came to an abrupt halt when the valet was discovered sitting in one of the more luxurious cars listening to the owner’s music and chain smoking Ducados – a rather pungent brand of cigarette! Understandably the owner was extremely annoyed and the hapless valet was given his marching orders there and then. He stumped away muttering dark oaths, his pockets jingling with all the coins he had found no doubt lying around in the cars.
The very next day an enormous bulldozer arrived and work began on building not one but two car parks.
3. THE ROAD TO UGANDA
My favourite dog is a large, yellow Labrador called Tariq, which in Arabic means “he who knocks at the door”, and he is aptly named, having been rescued from a miserable life by good friends who brought him to Robert and me. We were not looking for a dog at that time, but, as I opened the front door and saw this sad eyed Labrador gazing at me intently, we fell in love. Tariq has now lived with us for 8 years and he is the great canine love of my life. We have wonderful long walks together behind Benahavis, where we live, and where there are to be had the most spectacular walks along the river and through the mountains.
One summer evening Tariq and I left for his favourite walk to the lake behind the village. Being a Labrador, he immediately plunged into the water and paddled off furiously after a stick I had thrown, whilst I stood looking after him, lost in a daydream. Some time had passed when I became aware of a rumbling noise and, turning around, I saw a heavily laden Land Rover trundling slowly along the track beside the lake. Dozens of strange items were lashed onto its roof – buckets, chairs, boxes and bicycles – whilst the interior was crammed with equipment through which the face of a large bull terrier glared. A young couple in their early thirties got out and we exchanged greetings.
The woman, who I later learned was called Joanne, wore a short denim skirt and Birkenstock sandals and her partner, John, had a deeply tanned face and a shock of dirty blond hair. He had very blue, alert eyes.
After a few minutes desultory conversation. I asked them where they were heading for and was amused when they said they were on their way to Uganda. I told them they were a little off the beaten track and we all laughed merrily but seriously though, what were they going there for? This is the story they told me and I can never forget it.
John, who was English, and the son of a vicar, told me how he had been the black sheep of the family. His father had always been terribly concerned about him and his lack of direction in life but something wonderful had happened to John a few years earlier which changed his life. It concerned Uganda and the horrors of the tribal warfare and genocide.
His father’s parishioners had, through their various church activities, raised the not inconsiderable sum of ten thousand pounds, to help the victims and survivors of the Ugandan atrocities. This money had been sent to Uganda through the usual ecclesiastical channels but months had gone by and there had been no news of what had happened to it, despite dozens of telephone calls and letters being written by John’s father.
This was extremely worrying for the parishioners and their hard working vicar.
One day, during a heated conversation about this during Sunday lunch, he told John that as he had nothing better to do with his life he should go to Uganda and find out what had happened to the money.
John flew to Nairobi, made his way across the border into Uganda and then on to its capital Kigali. After a fruitless week of investigation he realised that the money had disappeared into the pockets of corrupt officials. He returned to Nairobi and telexed his father saying for god’s sake don’t send any more money. John said that he kept thinking about all the old ladies knitting scarves and making pots of jam for their bring and buy sales. Having alerted his father and knowing that he had a number of hours to kill before his flight home, he went to a bar to drown his sorrows. As he was sitting there feeling more and more despondent and disillusioned, a huge, muscular Australian man came in and ordered a beer. Somehow they struck up a conversation and John told him about the unsuccessful trip he had just made on behalf of his father’s church. The Australian studied him carefully and then told him this extraordinary story.
Bruce had been a mercenary in the Angolan civil war and had made a lot of money. When the war ended he left Angola and was passing through Uganda on his way home to Australia. He stopped at a local bar and was having a beer, standing outside, when a lorry filled with children – there were 82 of them under the age of 11 years - drew up and the driver got out and started talking to an African nearby. Bruce asked the man next to him if he knew where the children were being taken to and the man made the sinister gesture of drawing his finger across his throat.
Bruce finished his beer, picked up his rucksack, and then went and asked the driver of the lorry if he would give him a lift to the next town. The man agreed and Bruce jumped up into the cab next to the driver. A few miles out of the town he killed the driver, throwing the body into some bushes, and then drove the lorry full of children at top speed across the border into Uganda. He made his way to Nairobi airport and left the lorry outside with the crowd of 82 children on board.
Bruce was waiting in the departure lounge, half an hour before he was due to board his flight, when the police arrived and asked him who the crowd of children belonged to. Some had climbed down off the lorry and were jumping about whilst others had gone into the airport looking for Bruce. “You can´t leave these children here”, the police told Bruce. “They are your responsibility. If you don´t take them away from the airport they will be sent back to Uganda where they belong”.
This of course would mean certain death for the children, many of whom were old enough to realise what was going on and, indeed, most of them had witnessed the unspeakable slaughter of their own parents and families.
Bruce, who up to this moment had never felt particularly proud of his life, made an instant and momentous, life changing decision. He returned to the lorry and the children, who clung to him pathetically. He drove them into Nairobi where, using the money he had earned as a mercenary, he founded an orphanage.
John paused at this point in the story and looked across the lake towards the mountains. Bruce had taken him to see his orphanage and John had stayed for 2 years helping him to run it. Now, one year later, he was on his back to Africa with his girlfriend to help Bruce run the second orphanage he had founded – in Kigali, Uganda.
He and Joanne then proceeded to pitch their tent by the lake, where they were going to sleep that night. I put my old Labrador on his lead and said my farewells and good luck to them and then walked slowly home with an overwhelming sense of privilege to have heard their story.
I am at present trying to find the e mail address of both these orphanages in Nairobi and Kigali as I am sure many of you readers out there would also like to send a donation.
4. FATIMA
I first met Fatima, a Filipina, 12 years ago when Robert and I were living in Guadalmina with our 2 year old daughter Bianca. She had arrived with the highest recommendation from our old Filipina who was moving to Madrid and, I have to say, I did not take this recommendation very seriously. I drove down to Barclays Bank where we had arranged to meet and there was Fatima, dressed in a yellow trouser suit, her long black plait hanging down her back and a wonderful smile on her face. This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.
Fatima had recently arrived from Saudi Arabia where she had worked as a maid for a Saudi sprincess for over 7 years. She learned Arabic and was married to the princess´s chauffeur Ahmed who came from Yemen (the poorest of the Arab countries since it has no oil).
Fatima was 6 months pregnant when she fled Saudi Arabia, telling me that she knew she must leave before the baby arrived or she would never get away. Ahmed was very upset by this as he enjoyed his life in Saudi Arabia – it was so much better than his life in Yemen.
So Fatima moved into our house and began working for us. Her English was not so good at this time and it was only after a few weeks that I discovered that her baby was being looked after by a childminder in San Pedro. As Fatima´s duties involved taking care of our little daughter it was only natural for us to invite her 8 month old baby Sarah to come and live with us. Bianca and Sarah became like sisters, growing up together in Guadalmina. It was a very good arrangement which suited everyone.
Ahmed telephoned us from time to time with an increasingly desperate note in his voice. He missed Fatima and wanted her back but she refused to return to Saudi Arabia. A year later he appeared on our doorstep with an enormous bunch of yellow roses for me and, I gathered, the marriage was on again but this times it was on Fatima´s terms and they duly settled into an apartment in San Pedro.
During the time of their separation, Ahmed had returned to Yemen and married a local girl from his village and they had had a daughter. He explained all this to Fatima, who accepted this news with great equanimity as she understood the ways of muslim men and indeed for the next ten years they both worked very hard and every month sent money to Yemen to support Ahmed´s daughter.
Fatima and Ahmed had a second daughter together 3 years ago and they were both delighted although Ahmed said he would have liked a son but didn´t seem to be able to produce one! By now Sarah, their eldest was 12 years old and became a second mother to her baby sister whilst Fatima continued to work hard. I must add this was not for me but for many different people as well, including my mother. Everyone loved her, including her former employer the Saudi princess, who even bought her a car when Fatima learned to drive.
Last year Fatima and Ahmed flew to Egypt to stay with the princess before going on to Yemen where they were going to visit his daughter who was now nearly ten years old.
Nuria lived with her mother and grandfather in a tiny village of Yemen and her father had not seen her since she was newly born although he had diligently sent money to her family.
Imagine their horror when they found the child to be completely neglected and malnourished. She lived in the most abject poverty and misery as her mother had all but abandoned her to live with another man. Nuria´s grandfather was a wicked selfish man who kept all the money for himself. She had never been to school – although there was one in the nearest town – and instead spent her days sitting in the dirt or walking 2 miles to fetch water. She had never eaten anything apart from bread and a few vegetables and as a result had not grown and was the size of a four year old child. Her situation must have seemed completely hopeless and probably she would have died within a few years, if not months.
Ahmed, who is a gentle person, was so angry with the grandfather that he had to physically restrain himself from attacking the tormentor of his little daughter. After a fierce argument Ahmed told him that he was going to take Nuria away and bring her back to Spain. The old man didn´t like this as he had become used to the money so he demanded 3000 euros in return for letting his granddaughter leave.
With the help of the Saudi princess, the 3000 euros was paid and little Nuria was taken to Egypt where a passport was organised to enable her to enter Spain.
When they arrived in Spain the customs officials stopped Fatima and Ahmed, saying that Nuria´s passport could not possibly belong to her as she did not look 10 years old. They were extremely concerned and on hearing the story the look of outrage and pity on their faces was marvellous to behold.
We all met Nuria of course and she looks like a little pixie. She is intelligent and fast learning. She calls Fatima “mama” and of course her father Ahmed must appear to be a knight in shining armour. It is just like the story of The Little Princess. Her face when she first saw the apartment in San Pedro with its bathroom and colour television. She had never seen anything like this as where she came from they had no electricity or plumbing of any description.
She now speaks fluent Spanish and goes to school where she is starting to catch up after 10 years of severe neglect. She is a happy and bright little girl who we know will be a credit to her family here and probably to Spain, the country which took her in and has done so much to help her.
6. Rita´s trip to America via the local hospital in Marbella.
The other day I was invited by my old friend Caro to her house outside Ronda. I always look forward to seeing her as we have lots to talk about as we have known each other for over 25 years. In fact, we met through our first husbands, both of them actors, who were working together on the film Chariots of Fire – but that is a different story!
The road to Ronda, up the winding mountain road, is spectacular, and I felt very relaxed driving along listening to my favourite music. It is only a 45 minutes drive to Ronda itself and Caro lives 20 minutes the other side of the town, so I reached her in time for an early lunch.
We had settled down with a glass of wine each and were busily regaling each other with news, both comic and sad, when my mobile phone rang and I found myself talking to an officer from the Marbella Police Station. It is a strange phenomenon, but, like many people, I immediately assumed I had done something wrong and, for a split second, I was almost relieved to hear that my mother had collapsed and had been taken to hospital by ambulance. (I reiterate that it was really only a fleeting moment of relief!) Apparently she had been lunching with friends at the Tiberio Restaurant where a fashion parade was going to take place after lunch, when she slumped forward, her eyes closed. The ladies at her table ignored her and it was only the intervention of another friend Gloria, who came over to the table, and asked them what the matter was with Rita. “She´s tired”, was the answer. “ No she´s not”, replied Gloria,” she´s ill!” and rushed off to call an ambulance.
As my conversation with the police ended, my phone rang again and it was Gloria herself. She was now at the hospital with my mother and my brother Stuart had also arrived.
I wended my way back down the mountain and then drove furiously along the motorway to the hospital, not the excellent Costa del Sol hospital, but a smaller, private one near the old port of Marbella. There, standing in the foyer, dressed from head to toe in ice cream pink, was Gloria, her white hair swept up with a huge pink bow perched on top.
“My dear, what a day I´m having. Victor´s here in the intensive care unit He came in last night.”
Victor is Gloria´s 90 year old husband.
I eventually tracked down my mother who was lying in bed in the emergency department, her arm attached to a drip, whilst our dear Filipino Loida, sat by her bedside, a concerned look on her kind, round face.
Rita was conscious and looking slightly ashamed when she saw me walk into the room. This was not the first time this had happened and I already had my suspicions. “Did you have anything to drink?” I asked. “Only a glass of champagne” she answered guiltily. We both knew that her doctor had told her never to have a drink during the day, that she should wait until sundown. As my mother only ever eats fruit for breakfast, just a single glass of wine or champagne on an empty stomach before lunch is enough to make her feel dizzy and unwell. Oh dear. The hospital staff were bustling around and a charming young doctor entered the room to talk to me. They had run various tests on my mother´s heart and they insisted she stay for at least 24 hours in the hospital under observation. At this point she began to look anxious and said that she couldn´t possibly stay as she was due to leave for London the day after tomorrow and was then taking a flight to Hollywood the following Tuesday. The young doctor looked very surprised at this as my mother is almost 80 years old.
I secretly telephoned my brother, who had left the hospital, five minutes before I arrived, and told him what was happening. “She must stay in hospital and have her heart monitored.” he boomed down the phone. “ She can´t just jet off to Los Angeles like that!”
The resident cardiologist, Dr.Said, turned out to be Lebanese and very thorough. He listened patiently to my mother whilst she explained that she absolutely had to go to Los Angeles as she was due to then fly to Las Vegas with my younger brother to see a show in Caesar´s Palace or some such venue.
“We need to discover what exactly is making you feel dizzy and faint,” the doctor said. “I am 80% certain what the matter is, but I would like you to remain here for 24 hours and then I will be 100% certain.”
Rita looked at me doubtfully whilst the doctor and I exchanged glances. Loida, still clutching my mother´s clothes , which had been hurriedly stuffed into a supermarket plastic bag, shot me a knowing look.
“ Yes,you stay in hospital, Rita! We will come and get you tomorrow evening.”
To my great surprise and relief, my mother capitulated and was wheeled off into the bowels of the hospital to be fitted with a 24 hour monitor. This was a wonderful example of the authority that Loida wields in our family.
On my way out of the hospital I bumped into Gloria again, fresh from visiting Victor. She grabbed my arm, babbling excitedly.
“ My dear!You can´t possibly let Rita go to Los Angeles. It´s the most FRIGHTFUL risk! I have a friend who was taken ill in America, you can´t imagine the expense in the hospitals there, they won´t even let you past the reception if you don´t have the insurance. She was insured, naturally, but it wasn´t ENOUGH, it was a complete NIGHTMARE, she´s not the only one you know, Maggie Rendall was telling me only last week about someone she knows got taken ill there and her husband had to take out a huge loan to pay for it, practically mortgaged the house, it was dreadful! I wouldn´t let Victor fly to Las Vegas, it´s irresponsible of Rita to even contemplate it.”
I mumbled something acquiescent and fled !
The following evening I returned to the hospital and Rita, Loida and I sat in Dr. Said´s office whilst he shuffled through his reports. The results of the tests made sober reading.
Apparently there were four things wrong with her heart, each one in itself not particularly serious, but the combination of all four made the cardiologist very concerned. He strongly recommended that Rita not go to America. She should go home and lie down for a few days.
My mother thanked him very much for his trouble and concern and I drove her home. I noticed that her suitcase was already packed and standing by the front door.
“I cannot postpone this trip. I am eighty years old next month and if I don´t go now, then I never will and Alex will be so disappointed.” she said. “If I stay here and rest I know that nothing will happen and I will have missed a trip of a lifetime, so I am going.”
And so, the next day we drove her to Malaga airport and off she flew to London, where, according to my children, she took them for lunch in Claridges and even had a glass of wine, though she made sure she had eaten half her lunch before she took a sip.
She has now been in Los Angeles for a week and apparently is feeling very well indeed. I am full of admiration for her fearless and persistent desire to press on.
7. Furniture Overload.
I am writing this surrounded by so much furniture that I could be sitting in an emporium, although it is in fact a humble 2 bedroom apartment, crammed with most of the contents of a 4 bedroom house that we moved from 2 years ago. We are having a new house built and so the move to this apartment is supposed to be temporary but , as often happens with those who are brave or foolish enough to build a house, it appears we shall be here for another 2 years. It is rather like living in a second hand furniture shop and my legs are covered in bruises where I keep bumping into the furniture and falling over unseen items that lurk unseen spitefully waiting to trip me up..
We also have a storeroom downstairs in the underground garage but this too is bursting at the seams with all manner of things – furniture, dozens of boxes of books and other paraphernalia too ridiculous to even mention. All these things have accumulated over a period of 30 years and for some reason we are loathe to let them go.
Like many people, we hang onto our possessions in the mistaken belief that somehow, some day they will come in use but 99 times out of 100 they never do. It is always the one time when something gets thrown away that we discover we really needed it and so then we vow we will never get rid of anything else “just in case”.
We own far too many things and it is silly!
Occasionally, Robert and I venture into the storeroom intending to instil some order into it but the mountain of heavy boxes and the shelves groaning under the weight of junk defeats us almost immediately. It would take a team of young, stout hearted, able bodied men to lift it all and it is just too much for our middle aged constitutions to deal with.
We gaze hopelessly at each other and then guiltily shuffle out of the room , locking the door behind us.
There is no getting away from it but we are slaves to our possessions. I have watched in amazement as some friends of ours cart their furniture backwards and forwards between Paris and their house in the countryside, five hours drive away. The furniture is nothing special and the work involved, particularly as they do it themselves to save money, just doesn´t seem worth the huge , back breaking effort.
My brother lives in a house crammed full of Victoriana. His living room is a sight to behold dominated by a grand piano, 2 victorian sideboards, 3 sofas, a dining room table that can seat 14 plus an assortment of bookshelves, ottomans, occasional tables and a television the size of a cinema screen. This is all most impressive but his garage is stuffed to the gills with leftover furniture too and my brother simply cannot bring himself to get rid of it. So I know that we are not the only people with a hoarding problem.
We did once make a serious attempt to rid ourselves of our useless items by loading up our two cars and driving to the Manilva boot sale at 5 o clock in the morning hoping to set up a stall and sell it all. Unfortunately we didn´t realise that we would need a permit and we were brusquely turned away by a policeman. The horror of driving home and putting everything back in the storeroom will live with us for ever.
Then last week something rather wonderful happened. We were standing in the storeroom as usual, gazing at the mountain of junk, and I suddenly found that I had had enough. I started to drag things out of the room. A Kenwood mixer with bits missing, a moth eaten tent that didn´t even belong to us - some nameless person had left it behind years ago- picture frames, saucepans, canvases with our first grotty attempts at painting, baskets, lampshades, roller skates and all sorts of things that we hadn´t used for years. Robert looked alarmed when I announced that we were simply going to place it all by the rubbish bins outside. He started to protest then a wave of common sense descended on him and he rushed to help me cart it all away.
Oh, the feeling of liberation that washed over us. It was the greatest high we´ve had for years! Within an hour everything had been taken away by happy builders and other passers by. One man´s junk is another man´s serendipity…. Now we have only the furniture to contend with but I feel we´ve taken a step in the right direction. There is hope for us yet!
8. A Bridge Too Far
I learned to play bridge a few years ago, not because I was terribly keen to do so but mainly to humour my husband, Robert, who was definitely very keen. A wonderful old American gentleman in his nineties taught us and after each lesson which left Robert and I mentally exhausted, Sidney would rush out and play a round of golf! He had more energy than many people half his age.
Sidney managed to teach us the basics of bridge and from then on we were on our own.
Robert, being the more enthusiastic player, regularly trawled his address book looking for other bridge players and I found myself once or twice a week reluctantly accompanying him to strange houses for a game.
I have to say that I didn´t really enjoy myself very much during those dark, early days of bridge. Many people took the game far too seriously and, in a few cases, were positively unpleasant. It is a miracle that I still play bridge to this day – though I limit it to a few close friends who always make it an amusing and fun experience.
One memorable evening in the youthful years of my bridge playing, we were invited by an Iranian man, recently come to live in Marbella and anxious to make friends as quickly as possible. He arranged a bridge evening at his house and invited a dozen people he had obviously just met at a bridge club. We were a motley crew, a smattering of nationalities including Irakis, Iranians, Belgians, Austrians, Japanese and me.
I found myself partnering a tall, excitable Iranian called Sami and I sat down rather nervously opposite him. Within a few minutes he started to criticise my standard of play. I pressed on gamely but then suddenly he roared at me “Why did you ignore my 3 clubs?” It was very unpleasant and I leapt to my feet , threw my cards down and announced that I wasn´t going to continue playing as I had come here to enjoy myself and not be insulted. I swept out of the house and marched off down the street, leaving my partner and others astounded and at a complete loss. The host and Sami came running down the street after me, begging me to return. The host actually got down on his knees and begged me please to return and that nobody would shout at me again.
Naturally I relented as I didn´t want to ruin the evening for every one else but I felt that I had made my point. To this day I will only play bridge with my friends. Far too many people spoil this wonderful game by being aggressive – needlessly.
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