Old Fool’s Blog

How to stop kittens climbing trees

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 08:42:38 +0200

For those who have been following the story of our three foster kittens, they are thriving... They get naughtier every day, climb our grapevine and are generally a nuisance. (Try sweeping the patio with three kittens hanging on the broom!)

Climbing the grapevine may not seem a serious issue, but it is. The vine means access to the rooftops, and that way, into the village. The village is full of dogs, and now that it’s summer, children. Joe and I are afraid that the kittens will get lost, or picked up by children and taken away.

So I invented the Anti-Tree-Climbing-Device, patent pending. It’s worked so far, but we know it’s just a question of time before they get out of the garden.

The two little sisters, Milly and Mia are waiting to be flown to their new home in Germany. As for the runt of the litter, little Choccy-Paws (the kitten on the right), well, we’re keeping him. He's such an affectionate, funny little character, we can't bear to part with him. Yes, he’s staying with us!

Live Interview with Alex Crabtree of Extreme Writing Now

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 09:17:23 +0200

Alex Crabtree from Extreme Writing Now writes:
Victoria Twead, author of the book Chickens, Mules, and Two Old Fools, stopped in at EWN today for chat. What great fun we had, as we talked about the book (just a bit), the World Cup, El Hoyo, and Joe.
The chat really was more like a chat than a proper interview. Carrie stopped by and the girls chatted about home (England) for a bit. The mood was playful and relaxed. Just how it should be.
Actually, home for Vicky and Joe is now the mountains of Andalucia, an autonomous state of southern Spain. ‘Chickens’ is the telling of how Vicky and Joe came to give Spain a go as a permanent residence.
The book is a pure joy to read as we are taken to the village and shown the wonders of humanity and community. To find out more about the book, read the EWN review at Chickens, Mules, and Two Old Fools | Book Review.
As a bonus, there is a trivia question following the interview. The first comment that has the correct answer will get a free copy of ‘Chickens’, courtesy of Extreme Writing Now.
EWN: Is El Hoyo in one peice after the post World Cup celebrations?
Vicky: No. Definitely not! Foot high grafitti in the square, ‘CHAMPIONS!’, bullet holes in peculiar places, awash with paper Spanish flags, firework debris, etc.
EWN: In other words…pride runneth over, no?
Vicky: ¡Si! Spain are so passionate about football anyway, and winning the World Cup was just mind-boggling for them!
EWN: Were you hoping for an English win of the tourney, or rooting for Spain from the beginning?
Vicky: Haha! Joe and I kept our options open. The English team were just embarrassingly poor, so it was good to have another team to support. And they won!
EWN: Always good when plan B works. Was there a lot of good natured cajoling from your neighbors?
Vicky: Actually, surprisingly, no. The Spanish have a huge respect for English football, and a few of the Spanish team players (eg. Fabregas, Alonso) play for English teams in the Premier League.
EWN: I bet Geronimo is going to earn his beer after yesterday’s win.
Vicky: Geronimo is not to be seen this morning. The last time I saw him was when he was climbing the church tower to ring the bells last night. He may still be in the tower…
EWN: Waiting for the fog to clear so he can climb back down?
Vicky: Probably! He’s such a nice man, though. The dreaded drink is his only downfall.
EWN: All your neighbors and friends seem like such nice folks. Chickens, Mules, and Two Old Fools really made me feel like I was there. Like I knew everyone.
Vicky: Well, it’s nice to hear that. The village is packed with eccentric characters and we’re proud to be one of them. I think they’ll always call us The English, but we have been made so welcome. Yesterday, an old man came round with a bowl of freshly picked cherries that he thought we’d like. That sort of thing happens every day.
At this point, Carrie logs in to join the fun
Vicky: Hello Carrie! Nice to see you.
Carrie: Hi Victoria
Vicky: You’re a fellow Brit, aren’t you?
Carrie: I am indeed
Vicky: From London?
Carrie: not originally but am here now
Carrie: I’m a country girl
EWN: I’ve been to London, Ohio and London, Ontario
Vicky: Ah, like me. I’m a West Sussex/Dorset lass.
Carrie: I’m a bit further up, Gloucestershire
Vicky: Not been to Ohio or Ontario.
EWN: LOL
Carrie: Me neither
EWN: I’m pretty sure that you just didn’t decide in that instant you were staring out the rain streaked window into the dismal English weather that you wanted to move to Spain . How long was the ‘itch’ growing, and did it really take some nerve to tell Joe what you wanted to do?
Vicky: No, you’re right. Moving to sunnier climes was always a dream, and had been eating away at me for some time. Telling Joe wasn’t easy, but I usually get my own way in the end. The secret is to turn things round so he almost believes that it was his idea in the first place. Ooops, he just read that over my shoulder.
EWN: I’ll let you in on a little secret that will get me booted from the Men’s Club.Turning things round so we almost believe that it was our idea in the first place is a universal weakness.
Vicky: I know!!!!!
EWN: Taking notes, Carrie?
Carrie: Don’t need ‘em
EWN: How long did it take Joe to live down his close and personal run in with Indalo?
Vicky: Haha! Poor Joe. There’s still a slight reddish imprint on his backside, but I prefer not to examine too closely.
EWN: LOL…want no part of the ills that may follow?
Vicky: Absolutely!
EWN: Joe is a real stand up kind of man, isn’t he?
Vicky: Hmm… Is that American jargon?
EWN: Well…maybe. I bet he did a lot of standing after that run in! Actually, it just means he is a great , one of a kind gentleman (your chance at bonus points with Joe)
Carrie: Like Alex!
Vicky: Joe is amazing. Short-fused but incredibly gentle, generous and kind. (Joe’s dictating to me here.) Actually, not true, he really does have those qualities, and he cooks a mean curry.
EWN: Was it Joe, or you that named that chicken Fuck? And why?
Vicky: Haha! How did I know you’d ask that! The two black chickens were even more curious than the others. They’d untie your shoelaces, trip you up, look in your pockets, etc. Joe swore at them so often, the two names just kind of stuck…
EWN: Lol…funny thing, I wasn’t even mildly shocked that the name was there. It seemed to flow in so naturally.
Vicky: So far, (touch wood) I haven’t had a bad review, except for some American ladies who liked ‘Chickens’ but were offended by those names. I apologised to them.
EWN: The way you describe your friends, neighbors and family in Chicken, Mules, and Two Old Fools was one of the big hooks (out of many) for me. I have mentioned caricatures and Carl Hiaasen only because your descriptions are not too far over the top and leave me with visual images or references. For instance: Judith reminds me of a more genuine Hyacinth Bucket (Patricia Routledge) with Julia Child’s voice. Did you mean to write them as near caricatures?
Vicky: Gosh! No, not consciously. I think it’s just the way I see people. You know how you can pick keywords from a sentence? Well, I seem to do the same thing with people in order to get their ‘essence’ across. Does that make sense?
EWN: Yes. Makes perfect sense to me. We remember features that tell the tale.
Vicky: May I ask you a question?
EWN: Certainly! I insist…I think.
Vicky: In your amazing review of ‘Chickens’, you said, “Now comes the clincher: I found a couple of awww moments in the book, so I’m sure that some of you ladies will need a tissue or two, especially if you read the same line that sent shivers down my spine when I read it.” My question, and I lie awake thinking about it, what was that line? I can guess, but I’m not sure… (If it’s a spoiler, don’t say…)
EWN: Well…it was the last line. That line tied a pretty bow around the entire package.
Vicky: Well, you’ve surprised me! No, I guessed completely wrong. The Pepa, my favourite Egg Customer, incident reduces me to tears every time I think of it, but I didn’t guess the last line. Thank you!
EWN: Yes…that was the other moment. You are quite welcome.
EWN: The newsletters remind me of letters from home. El Hoyo really is home, isn’t it?
Vicky: Most definitely! Even when we’re away on a shopping trip, or whatever, both Joe and I feel homesick.
EWN: That’s wonderful! Would love to visit sometime. How about you Carrie? Wanna go?
Carrie: Yes, please!
Vicky: Our visitors usually say something like, ‘A bit third-world, isn’t it?’ but after a while, the charm of the village gets to them. Then they understand why we’ve made it our home.
EWN: For some reason, third world doesn’t reside in my vocabulary. I think I could see greatness no matter where I am standing.
Vicky: There are down sides too. Like poor TV reception, trying to figure out what official letters mean, trips to shops are an entire day affair, very cold in winter, etc.
Vicky: Flies. I forgot the flies. And more flies.
EWN: But, those never overcome the companionship and the terrace, right?
Vicky: That’s very true!
EWN: This has been a great joy. I want to thank you and Joe for the time. Carrie? Any questions for Vicky?
EWN: I could actually do this for hours
Carrie: No, I think you covered it all; it’s been interesting to hear about you, Vicky
Vicky: I can’t thank you enough for the fabulous review you gave ‘Chickens’, Alex. It absolutely made my day, well, week, actually. You were too kind. And thank you for this interview, both of you, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.
EWN: You are quite welcome, and thank you for the joy of the tale.
Vicky: You are most welcome.

Like I said, just a wonderfully informal chat that I hope you all enjoyed as much as I did.
Thanks again to Vicky, and to Joe for lending her to me for a couple of hours. And thanks to the wonderful Carrie for stopping in.

Now, as promised, here is that trivia question for a copy of Chickens, Mules, and Two Old Fools:
Q: Andalucia is famous for its variety of small portions of food, usually served with sherry, wine or beer. What are these dishes called?
Be the first to answer correctly here and I’ll send you the book.
Enjoy!
Alex Crabtree

San Juan Festival

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 08:20:30 +0200

This month we had our niece, Becky, to stay. Joe and I were a little concerned that she’d be bored, as there isn’t even a restaurant or bar in El Hoyo. How would we entertain her?

We needn’t have worried because Becky was perfectly happy sunbathing on the roof terrace, flirting with the builders down the street and happily, her visit coincided with the festival of San Juan.

San Juan (St John) is an important event in the Spanish calendar. It marks the arrival of summer and the shortest night of the year. All day, families prepare by setting up tables and chairs and building huge bonfires on the beach.

We drove down to the beach at 10.30pm and joined the jostling throngs. The beach was packed with people, from tiny babies to ancient grandmothers. The waves crashed, bonfires blazed and Spanish guitar music and smoke filled the air. Not having a bonfire of our own, we ordered drinks and watched.

Some groups were barbecuing, others dancing and singing, but, as midnight approached, the atmosphere changed. Encouraged by cheers and applause, athletic individuals jumped over the smaller bonfires, which, according to legend, cleanses the body and soul. Then midnight struck, and, like lemmings, the revellers marched into the sea, en masse, as it is believed that the water will wash away evil spirits. Fireworks exploded and soared into the sky. It was a magical night.

Becky and I went to the beach next morning expecting to see the party’s aftermath. But at daybreak, as the last party-goers drifted away, tractors had arrived and raked and cleaned the beach until not a scrap of charcoal remained...

The YouTube that found homes for our foster kittens

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 17:52:43 +0200

I put together a little YouTube video of our foster kittens growing up, from 0 - 7 weeks. Happily, a viewer watched it and fell in love with the two little girls and has offered them a lovely home. As for the third kitten, little Choccy-Paws, he’s got a home already. Yes, he’s staying with us...

(Please turn on your volume.)

Two Old Fools and Telefonica

Wed, 9 Jun 2010 18:13:42 +0200

Joe and I stared at the computer screen in disbelief. They’d done it again! Telefonica had seen fit to help themselves to the funds in our bank account for the THIRD time.

It first happened last year, in August, I think. I was routinely checking the balance in our account and couldn’t believe that our telephone bill had leaped from the usual 90 euros to 880 euros. So we dialled Telefonica, asked for the English speaking Helpdesk and lodged our complaint.

“There’s obviously been a mistake,” said Joe.

“No mistake,” said Telefonica. “You changed your Plan. You used to have the 24/7 Internet Plan, and you changed it. Now you are being charged by the minute every time you go online.”

“But we haven’t changed anything! We didn’t change our Plan!”

Twenty minutes later, Joe and Telefonica were still arguing, and Joe was getting nowhere.

“As an act of goodwill, I will refund you 100 euros,” said Telefonica magnanimously.

Joe gave up but I was furious. Seething, I phoned the Helpdesk again. I was livid, and Telefonica got both barrels. There was a long, long pause, and finally they agreed. We had been charged far too much. It was a mistake and we were refunded.

Satisfied, we forgot all about it until December when yet again we stared at our bank balance in horror and disbelief. This time Telefonica had charged us a whopping 1,011 euros!

Joe, after calming down, dialed the Helpdesk.

“You’ve made another mistake,” he said.

“No mistake,” said Telefonica. “I can see from the computer what has happened. You changed your Plan. You used to have the 24/7 Internet Plan, and you changed it. Now you are being charged by the minute every time you go online.”

“BUT WE HAVEN’T CHANGED ANYTHING! WE DIDN’T CHANGE OUR PLAN!”

It was déjà vu, but eventually we got it sorted. Telefonica refunded our money and issued the normal 90 euro bill. But now we watched our bank balance like neurotic hawks.

It was the third time that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. In February, Telefonica took 530 euros out of our account.

“But Mr Joe, nothing in this life is free,” said Telefonica. “You changed your Internet Plan.”
Joe turned purple and the vein in his forehead throbbed.

We phoned our bank and got the direct debit stopped. We researched online and found another company, an alternative to Telefonica. (Amazingly, it was BT.) Many phonecalls later, Telefonica reluctantly agreed we’d been overcharged, refunded our money and issued the normal 90 euro bill.

Long ago, we’d accepted that living up a remote Spanish mountain meant that broadband was an avenue of pleasure denied to us. But, hurrah! BT were offering us unlimited broadband, a free router and 400 minutes calling time to anywhere in Europe for LESS than Telefonica was charging us for dial-up before.

The changeover was painless and transformed Joe and me into happy bunnies. Happy that we finally had broadband, and happy that we’d successfully severed all links with Telefonica.

Result!

A bit of an emergency Part 2

Mon, 7 Jun 2010 15:12:59 +0200

If you’ve read Part 1, you’ll already know how we ended up with 3 kittens and their beautiful Mum. We’ve never cared for newborn kittens before, so it’s all been a bit of a learning curve.

To be honest, MumCat does all the hard work. Never have 3 kittens been so soundly washed, fed and protected. Yes, she’s doing a superb job. We moved the whole family from the cemetery into our woodshed to keep them safe, but one morning I had a shock.

‘They’ve gone!’ I gasped. The woodshed was empty; no MumCat, no kittens.

Joe and I searched the garden. No cats. Then we heard a tiny mew coming from the barbecue. During the night, MumCat had carried each one and stashed it behind the metal coal box. Not a very sensible place as the barbecue is several feet high and the kittens were beginning to crawl.

We sighed and kept watch. Sure enough, later that day, one tiny kitten ventured too far and tumbled down onto the paving slabs below. Its terrified squeak attracted MumCat, who picked it up by the scruff of its neck and attempted to jump back up again.

‘This just won’t do,’ I told MumCat. ‘Behind the barbecue is a daft place for your babies. They’ll keep falling out.’

So MumCat and I compromised. I jammed the cupboard door below the barbecue ajar, and spread some bedding in there. Then I lifted each kitten and put it in the cupboard. MumCat followed them, and everybody was content. Joe and I sighed with relief.

Jumping over babies

Tue, 18 May 2010 14:28:37 +0200

I always thought that the Annual Fiesta in our little village was crazy, but there is another I’ve just heard about that really takes the biscuit!

It takes place in Castrillo de Murcia, about 36 km west of Burgos, and apparently dates back to 1620. To celebrate Corpus Christi, men dress up as the devil and jump over babies born during the previous 12 months. The babies are laid out in rows on mattresses in the street.

Then, wait for it, the devil, known as El Colacho, leaps over the babies. This is supposed to cleanse the babies of sin, guard against evil and illness, and thus ensure them a safe passage through life.

As an added extra, the organisers of the festival, the shadowy brotherhood of Santísimo Sacramento de Minerva give chase and terrorise townsfolk and spectators throughout the day.

Only in Spain...

The festival takes place on the 6th June but perhaps I’d recommend that visitors leave their babies at home with a sitter?

P.S. If you are planning to attend the fiesta, or visit lovely Murcia, check out my friends’ Bed and Breakfast. It’s a converted 19th Century flour mill (see pic below) on the GR7 Rambla Benito. Rex and Nicky and their chickens and ducks will make you most welcome.

A bit of an emergency Part 1

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 14:06:41 +0200

Our village is home to many feral cats. They seem to survive very well on lizards, grasshoppers, rodents and are skilled raiders of the rubbish skips. Although wild, they are clever. They recognise the hoot of the fish van and wait patiently in the square for it to wend its way down the mountain and into the square. In return, they ensure that the village is a rat and mouse free zone.

Joe and I are familiar with this particular cat because of her blue eyes and Siamese looks. We’d noticed she was pregnant, but we certainly didn’t expect her to give birth in the street right outside our front door.

I had the camera handy, and managed to record what happened next... Please make sure you have your volume turned up as you watch.

(50 seconds)

Most original chicken coop - ever!

Thu, 1 Apr 2010 11:57:06 +0200

This has to be the best chicken coop I’ve ever seen... I thought our chicken coop, with its water feature, stencilled walls and full-size mirror was pretty cool, but this has given me a severe bout of coop envy.

Apparently it was made by an inventive chap in Norfolk to house his four rescued battery hens. He even managed to sell the front half of the Morris Traveller on eBay for £95.

A great lesson in recycling!

Beware the Killer Caterpillars

Thu, 18 Mar 2010 19:42:51 +0100

In an effort to get fitter, Joe and I have started to take daily walks up the mountain. It’s worth it for the view from the top and we see something new every time.

Last week, we spotted what looked like a four foot long, wriggly worm. On close inspection, we realised it was a line of caterpillars, nose to tail. We were enchanted, never having seen them before, and I mentioned it on Twitter later.

What a response I got!

“They’re KILLERS! Don’t go near them!”
“Hate them, hate them, hate them!”
“What is the point of those evil things?”
“Avoid at all costs!”

As you can imagine, I was a little taken aback...

It seems that these are Pine Processionary caterpillars, destined to hatch into unremarkable brown moths. The female moth lays her tiny eggs in a pine tree, up to 300 eggs at a time on one pine needle. The eggs hatch and the caterpillars grow quickly, feeding furiously on pine needles at night. They spin a white fluffy bundle in the tree to house their community until February or March when the colony abandons the tree in a long line, searching for soft soil to bury themselves and pupate.

So why the horror? Well, if disturbed, the caterpillar sheds its hairs. The hairs cause painful rashes, or worse. If inhaled, they can be lethal. An inquisitive dog who has inhaled these hairs needs to be rushed to the vet within 40 minutes. Children and adults can also suffer severe reactions, including anaphylactic shock. Even walking under trees with the bundles can be dangerous as the hairs are often airborne. In addition, the pine trees themselves are devastated by these furry fiends, and often die.

Whew! Yet another Spanish learning curve for us old fools.

Rain, rain, rain...

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 20:03:19 +0100

February, and we’ve now had 10 solid weeks of rain. The locals have never seen anything like it, and neither have we, even back in England. The damage in southern Spain has been appalling and the stories reported on Spanish news tragic. Rivers have flooded towns, roads have crumbled away, mudslides and rockfalls have buried houses and lives have been lost. Our village road is extremely hazardous, and a house collapsed in our street this week. Luckily it was uninhabited.

Joe and his derriere suffer again...

Sat, 6 Feb 2010 18:08:17 +0100

I’ve mentioned before that you can tell the season just by listening to the sounds of the village. This month there are two new sounds; a clicking noise, and braying.

The clicking sound is made by poor quails that are kept in little domed cages and hung on the walls outside houses. They’re females and will be used as decoys later in the season. The cage is set down, the bird calls and the males are attracted. Bang! and the males are shot for eating.

Of course Joe and I heartily disapprove, but that’s what the villagers have been doing for hundreds of years, and I know we’ll never change them.

The braying belongs to Geronimo’s new donkey. (If you haven’t read ‘Chickens’, Geronimo is a sort of village policeman, very kind, football-mad, with a liking for beer and brandy.)

Geronimo tethers the donkey around the village to graze, often close to our house. Joe was concerned the other day because the donkey had wound her long tether round a tree.

‘I’ll untangle her,’ he said, and grabbed her halter. Would she come? No. He tugged and coaxed and pulled... The donkey dug her heels in and refused to move.

Joe shrugged, let her go and walked away. Immediately, the donkey followed, so Joe walked round and round the tree until the rope was unwound. Success!

Joe stopped, and that was his mistake. The donkey nudged him, then gave him a friendly, but meaningful nip in the backside.

I think Joe may have acquired a second permanent scar on his derriere. As you may know, the first was caused by The Rainbow Man (Chapter 27 in ‘Chickens’) and now Geronimo’s donkey.

I do try hard not to laugh, honestly...

The rain in Spain falls mainly on...

Sat, 16 Jan 2010 23:59:12 +0100

Forgive me for talking about the weather, but I’m British so should be excused.

We were lucky with the weather for New Year’s Eve but the heavens hadn’t been kind to us in December. A few days before Christmas - it started. Rain. Not just rain, but torrents, bucketing out of the sky, hour after hour, day after day. We've never seen rain like it in our five years in the village; it just poured...

Now, I know that the UK has really suffered recently from heavy snow, but that is no consolation for the Spanish skies opening and pouring on us for such a long time. Spanish TV showed the floods that were ruining people’s homes, the impassible roads, the mudslides.

Around our village, waterfalls that had never existed before began to spurt enthusiastically out of the mountains. Water coursed down the roads and dry streams became lively rivers. Our poor chickens waded around in thick mud, although it didn’t seem to bother them. The sky turned black, the sun trying hard to penetrate but not succeeding.

The first photo shows a local mountain view and was taken, not at night, but at 3 o'clock in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. The second photo shows a brand new river that coursed through the village where there's only ever been a dry gully before. I took the photo standing on the little bridge leading into the village. Notice the trees midstream.

Then we made an important discovery. Our roof leaks. Water ran down our dining room wall. Joe and I rescued the bookcase then rushed around collecting buckets, pots and pans to catch the water. This continued for days.

When Paco, our next door neighbour came up for the weekend, we showed him. Paco shrugged. “All Spanish roofs leak,” he said, as though that was common knowledge. Do they? We didn’t know that.

So we carried on mopping and emptying our saucepans. It’s strange how you become accustomed to things; after a few days, the ‘drip...drip’ became just a background sound. In fact the drips were often quite musical...

When we finally emerged from our house to go shopping, we very nearly didn’t make it. The only road into the village has never been good, but the constant rain had ensured that it became much worse. Massive boulders had broken away from the rock face and rolled down, blocking the road.

Luckily, someone had pushed them aside into a pile (Perhaps Geronimo with Uncle Felix and his mule?) leaving just enough room for a car to pass. A little nerve-racking as there’s a sheer drop on the other side. But we made it safely down the mountain to the shops to get our groceries.

And finally, while we are discussing the holiday period, I’d like to suggest a business opportunity for somebody.

Although the Spanish don't exchange presents on Christmas Day, we always give our Spanish friends their gifts on the 25th, the English way. Paco was pleased with his brandy, Carmen-Bethina with her bits and pieces and Little Paco loved his microscope. But the present they liked best of all? The big box of crackers brought over by the Gin Twins in October.

Somebody should start selling crackers in Spain; they'd make a fortune.

New Year in our Spanish Village

Thu, 7 Jan 2010 00:57:13 +0100

Our village is so tiny that there are only a handful of permanent residents. Uncle Felix, a retired goatherd who shares his cottage with his beloved mule and two chickens. Ancient Marcia who runs a shop selling sweets, beer and cigarettes and very little else. Geronimo, a gentle, football-mad kind of village policeman who enjoys his beer perhaps a little too much. And us.

Well, New Year's Eve was interesting. The village was filled with people enjoying the holiday and getting away from their city lives. The Spanish have this tradition where you are expected to swallow one grape every time the clock strikes at the midnight hour. Each chime, and grape eaten, will bring luck in the coming twelve months of the year. So Joe and I walked down to the church at midnight as usual, clutching our twelve (seedless) grapes.

If you've read 'Chickens', you'll know our church clock is rather erratic. It usually chimes twice, so at midnight it'll chime 24 times. Sometimes it doesn't chime at all. At midnight, Marcia, Uncle Felix, Geronimo, all the villagers, Joe and myself waited with baited breath, grapes poised.

Nothing.

Geronimo was obviously expecting this hitch, so he began to climb up the rickety ladder to the church tower. We all watched, the village ladies ooohing and aahing as he climbed, Joe and I worrying about how much beer he had consumed earlier.

Well, Geronimo had obviously done this many times before. When he reached the bell, he drew out a hammer from his back pocket. Twelve times he clanged the bell, so loudly that it reverberated round the valley, echoing as it bounced off the mountains. The grape ritual began. I choked on grape number 6 and had to be slapped on the back by Paco, our next door neighbour. Joe got off to a good start but only managed 10.

After the usual round of cheers, kisses, hugs and 'Happy New Year!' we wandered back home, Joe still complaining that Geronimo had rung the chimes too fast. Looking back over our shoulders, we could see Geronimo's silhouette against the night sky, high up in the church tower, taking a hefty swig from his beer bottle.

And so began 2010.

You must be joking!

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 09:47:48 +0100

Joe and I were sitting at the kitchen table with the rain thundering on the roof, discussing writing.

‘You can’t write a proper story in under 200 words,’ I said.

‘Yes, you can,’ said Joe. ‘Come on, we’ll have a go. We’ll each write a Christmas story in under 200 words.’

I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. However, not being one to turn down a challenge, I agreed. We didn’t speak for the next hour as we concentrated and wrote.