They all speak funny Mum (Part I)

Moving to a foreigh country, any foreign country, is almost always a pretty fraught affair, particularly if it's been quite a few years since one could safely be classified a spring chicken. That'll be me then, and, apart from my second six months in Spain during which period it felt like I'd lost everything in a fire, (don't ask), I think I've done alright. Most things you can get sorted straightaway, such as; a car, somewhere to live and a job - which, by rights you really ought to have figured out before arriving. With the confidence borne of a cracking start, you start to tick more things off the list, for example, the taxation system, medical care, and, most crucially of all, a local pub!! I've never really bothered sussing out a dentist because I've always been shit scared of them, and, just like a dog on it's way to the vets, I lock my knees round the corner because I know where I'm going. 

One thing that can only ever be described as an ongoing process, unless you're a linguistic genius who passed the maths 'A' level with a distinction aged eight, is the language. This appears to trouble a healthy percentage of British people in Spain, many if not most of whom seek safety in numbers in giant sized housing estates called "urbanizaciones" where, every local business is compelled to speak basic English for fear of having no customers. This rule of thumb also applies to the local hostelries too, where, if you don't have Sky TV and dish up roast dinners, most Sunday's end up pretty lonely and unprofitable affairs. 

There is however, an intrepid group of non natives who, by dint of hard work, living amongst the locals and patience, experience the real Spain and are much richer for trying. This select group, to a man or woman, tends to forego Eastenders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street in favour of learning the hard way by watching the Spanish television news, (just like I did and still do), and various local outputs, much of which at the outset might as well be broadcast in Urdu. (With the utmost respect to the world's Urdu speakers). Bit by bit the penny drops, and, for the minority it's an investment in time and effort that pays off in spades. Elsewhere, the inexorable progress of brain damage or dementia caused by overexposure to British soap operas continues apace and the unsuspecting devotees get left even further behind.

By this point, born and bred Spaniards figure it out and respect immensely those Brits that mangle badly a beautiful but sometimes complicated language because they try. Bit by bit their "Spanglish" becomes discernible as something vaguely resembling Castellano. The others are treated with contempt and spend half their lives moaning about the staff as the white skin surrounding their tattoos gets redder and
redder whilst they engross themselves in The Daily Mirror. Everywhere else, British people that choose a proper daily newspaper come on in leaps and bounds and make friends everywhere they spend their money and practice their language skills.

Having set the scene and established two clearly distinct camps; those that can't be arsed versus the rest who respect their adopted country and do their best to integrate, this blog entry will be continued, as, in my round about way I get to the whole point of the thing.

To be continued..........................