Derrick White

R.I.P Derrick White, 05/09/07.
He lost the battle and we have lost a giant.

CONFUSION ..CONT'D

As Les pointed out, even when a scientist makes a truly great discovery, it is often two or three decades before the Orthodox lobby accepts the breakthrough. From Galileo to Pasteur along with countless other scientists have all been pilloried by the Establishment, not unlike so many artists who have died penniless when not long after death their paintings are selling for sums they could only dream of.
The other aspect of treatments is the tendency to use euphemisms. There is something cosy about a nurse who asks you to 'take a wee seat' or offers you 'a wee cup of tea' or 'we'll give you a nice freshen up with a wee bed bath'. The wee makes it less imperious than the rather English 'take a seat'. However when undergoing treatments of pills (I have lost count) and radio therapy it is not all that helpful to be told, 'you might have a wee touch of diahorrea/constipation/stomach pain' whatever. Or metastasis (the spread of cancer to the bones) 'might make you a wee bit low in energy'. I know this is all well intended but take bone cancer for example. This causes decalcification of the bones, the calcium enters the blood stream pollouting the blood and reducing the oxygen content. The result is absolute exhaustion at the expenditure of almost any energy. Bernice and I went to another bullfight yesterday (she is now an incurable fan) we had to walk up the terraced seats -15 rows only - and at the top I was so utterly breathless I simply collapsed. Apart from the panic and pain, I felt such a prick, unable to climb some steps. The chivalrous Spanish - bless them- gathered round in numbers to help.
The O medical world is also remarkably circumspect in addressing the issue of what happens after all the treatments have been tried. As my pal Les points out, the world of oncology is devoted to extending the life of the cancer patient. None of them seem to be into the business of cure. When one reaches the end of the wire it is only reasonable to ask 'what next'. So far I haven't had a concrete answer. It may be my Spanish. However Bean and I are back in the UK for another wedding (we had to skip the last one for Bean's mother's funeral). I propose to confront either my GP there or the Oncologist/Urologist at the WGH.
Many thanks from so many well-wishers. Will aim for some cheerier stuff next blog.

CONFUSION REIGNS.

The physical side of cancer is bad enough but coupled with the mental stress you don't need any more. The third factor is confusion. Spend some time reading the web pages on cancer and the you will be exhausted just by reading. There is this also this awful rivalry between so-called orthodox medicine and the 'unorthodox'. My learned and loyal friend, Les, in Majorca acts as a filter for me. He devours information, weeds out the crap, and advises on what he believes could be a winning direction. He has great faith in a cancer specialist (non-O) Bob Dowling in the U.S. who seems to be be getting results outwith the normal treatments of radio therapy and chemo. I am yet to be convinced but keep an open mind. Then there are the health food paths from Graviola to Sodi Bicarb plus a few hundred more. The O's seem to be so superior and dismissive on any course of treatment which is not recommended by the medical authorities - almost a form of anxious jealousy. En passant, most doctors would not accept Chemo for themselves - reassuring or what?
I'll return to this shortly

BACK TO WALES

The blog should really be accurate, devoid of hopefullys and perhaps woolly dates, so here a bit more detail. We arrived at WGH edinburgh on 8 June and met with Dr Bolina (Hd of Urology). He has taken me off both Casodex and Zoladex and introduced Oestrogen which is the female hormone. On top of this I had many tests, blood (psa) tests, nuclear medicine, bone scan, chest xray and any other necessary tests.
Leaving me on Oestrogen for time being. Back to WGH Edinburgh on Monday 9th July for stent change and a report on other findings. Wont know till done.
Return to Spain mid-july if WGH consider progress is satisfactory.
One benefit is that we can spend time with Bernice's father. He is an old stoic but there are times when we can tell that his grief is overwhelming. So WGH or no we would have to have been here for quite some time anyway

FACT/FICTION OVERLAP

Don't know how many laws Sod put on the statute book but here's his latest. We packed up to fly SW19 to attend cousin Laura's daughter's wedding, but ended up attending Bernice's Mother's funeral just two days later.

As we were in the UK we decided to attend the Western General Hospital to sort out the litany of aches and pains associated with my prostate cancer. WGH good as gold and thorough as always. Downside they established a clear link between prostate cancer and the multiplicity of pains I had endured. Aches and pains as deduced turn out to be a spread of prostate cancer to various parts of the body especially the bones. Bottom line - it now looks like I have about 18 months to live possibly less. Next treatment is oestrogen which for all you cross dressers out there can make an Arthur a Martha. ( I am really looking forward to this one).

MARGARET - R I P

Beanscene : 11th June 2007

We laid my Mum to rest a week ago today. The day broke overcast but dry and warm. Despite it being a Monday we expected a good turnout of Margaret’s many friends but we were taken aback to find the Church full to overflowing when we arrived.

St. Ismael’s Church at Uzmaston is set in beautiful, remote countryside overlooking the Cleddau river – a peaceful haven rarely found in today’s crowded, busy world. The setting and the Service could not have been more serene.

Then followed the long twenty-mile journey to the Crematorium but as the sun broke through it lit up not only the beautiful Pembrokeshire countryside but also the colourful Freesias atop Margaret’s coffin. It made Margaret’s casket seem to smile rather as she would have. Perhaps the most inspiring moment of the day was on arrival at Parc Gwyn Crematorium to find the Haverfordwest Bowling Club turned out in strength, blazer badges glinting in the sun. They formed two flanks of honour and stood respectfully while the coffin proceeded inside.

We filed in to the reciting of the 23rd Psalm. Again, such a gathering of so many folk they were standing at the sides and back of both upper and lower floors. Other than a brief prayer and the poignant drawing of the curtains there was little left to say and we proceeded into the courtyard where countless well wishers queued patiently to pay their respects to Peter and his family. Mum and Dad were married 3 months short of 55 years.

The final stop was Haverfordwest Cricket Club where many chose to join us for a more leisurely chat over refreshments.

In summary we could not have asked for a more perfect yet spiritual day and we express our warmest thanks to all those who made the effort to join us and to those who were with us in thought.

MARK OF RESPECT

It is only proper to record that Bernice's mother, Margaret Andree Thain, died this morning at 06.50 at one month short of her 84th birthday. Personal correspondences will of course be taken up with the individuals concerned. Margaret Thain RIP.

Toros

Plaudits on bullfighting appreciated, but author is Bernice alias Beanscene, though sentiments are shared entirely. As Bernice has friends dipping into the blog it is helpful for them to identify the source of the comment(s)

Keep reading, it gets better and better.

Los Blancos

BEANSCENE : BULLFIGHTING

My first Bull Fight. What a spectacle, I am so glad I went. I have read the books, Matador and also Hemmingway’s Death In the Afternoon both which provide comprehensive insight into the bullfight culture. The bull ring, with its bright yellow sand, the darkness of the bull and the colours of the matadors bring a contrast which adds up to such theatricality, the like of which I have not before witnessed. It was well attended. Any rumours questioning the popularity of the bullfight’s existence can be quashed.

Around the perimeter of the ring are six specific points of wooden protection points – the safety boxes if you like – where the matadors and picadors run to in order to save their little bottoms getting a fierce horn sent up them.

There was a band of brass instruments, which acknowledges the opening of the corridas (bullfight) and heralds the start of each –there were four on this occasion -and applauds the Pasa Doble - when the matador executes a double twist of the cape around the bull in a balletic figure of eight manoeuvre. Music added very much to the spectacle.

The crowd becomes anticipatory, all gates but two on the ring are closed, eagerly awaiting the entrance of the troupe and another for the bull. Through one appeared two mounted horsemen, sombreros and baroque style black, white and leather clothing displaying the Spanish riding style upon white horses. The horses side-stepped over in rhythm to the brass accompaniment, to underneath the Presidente’s box, president meaning presiding figure rather than President. The horseman raised their hats to el Presidente, who then flings over the front shelf of his box a green silk flag, to order the proceedings underway. The entire troupe then appear, fronted by the Cuadrillas, with their mickey mouse hats on sideways, with tight black short jackets and even tighter breeches. Little flat shoes that look for all the world like carpet slippers with monograms and knee high socks of cyclamen pink.

They drag their capes that they wave in front of the bull – yellow one side, sock-pink the other about on the sand, as if trying them out for the drag effect that they might make on the sand and contemplating what is ahead. Behind them, are the four novice matadors who will show different grades of experience as the evening progresses. These are dressed in the “Suit of Lights” some fantastic tight knee breeches, and the typical short bolero type jacket, the complete outfit with an intricate design of sequins and tiny mirrors sewn in to the matching bolero and trousers, on a plain coloured background. One in a suit of purple with black sequins, which looked like lace and sparkled in the bright sun, the next in turquoise with gold sequins; the next a red suit, with green and gold sequins, and the last white with gold sequins. All had pristine white grandfather-collared shirts and a thin, black tie. They carry a smaller semi-circular cape of red, which has a stick along its upper horizontal in order to handle more accurately whereas the Picadors grab the top of their capes grittily with both hands. Little defence against a raging bull.

Following the Matadors are the 4 surface cleaners, dressed in white smock shirts and white baggy trousers with a wide red sash around their lower waists. They carry rakes to resettle the sand after each corrida. All the troupe except the cleaning brigade wear the vomit pink socks. As they parade in organised rows towards el Presidente, they raise their hats, are acknowledged and then proceed around the ring waving to the crowd which cheers and applauds even though nothing yet has happened.

This is the chance to show off their elegance, arrogance and sheer self-control, because very soon they are alone with something like a half-ton of raging bull in the arena and all the applause in Christendom ain’t going to help one iota. Their elegant little figures retreat to the gate from whence they came to await the roaring bull. One Matador, four picadors. They all cross themselves before re-entering the ring, and then…the bull emerges, fast.

This is a seriously dramatic moment.

Crowds nearest to the bull gate bang on the nearest hard surface to provoke the bull to charge into the ring. The crowd appears to like a very feisty bull, and it is applauded for its boisterousness. It is quite spectacular to see the bull, which has been reared solely for this purpose to come into the ring. The ferocity with which it circles the ring is borne of curiosity and resentment of its enforced confinement. The Picadors flutter their capes and perform speedy escape routes from the charging horns and then, returning to the ring strike at the bull’s shoulders with brightly coloured pics, which they pierce just into the hide of the animal. Acting as an annoyance to the beast this brings down the level of the head to a lower position which is thus better positioned to receive its ultimate blow. Once the Picadors have done, probably all of about four minutes of display, the Matador comes on, striding arrogantly towards this hulking angry animal, yet still cutting a tiny defenceless figure. He interacts with the bull, who circles the Matador in answer to the red cape swirls, and the true bravado is when the Matador has achieved several pasa dobles or faenas, (an effective succession of turns) that he turns his back on the bull and walks away, holding the cape in an unprovocative style. This gets utter enthusiasm from the crowd who applaud immediately. As each turn between suit of lights, red cape, black bull and back again, the crowd roar “Ole!” This is an approval gesture that the Matador is successfully on terra firma. The kill comes quicker and is effected more rapidly than I had expected. The bull is panting, tired and angry. The sword goes in cleanly and hits the cortex of spinal cord so death is instant. This great heaving mass of beef folds its legs and is very quickly gone, a big black mass lying on the sand.

The defeated bull is then removed. In true rural Talarubbias style, this was utterly unceremonious. A one person fork lift drove on to the sand and with an efficient heave ho of its ugly mechanical lifting head was able to remove the beast efficiently if not totally uncaringly. The butcher wagon is parked outside the bull ring, as is an Ambulance.

The excitement of the crowd is also spectacular. The President notes the approval level of the crowd. This is the waving of white handkerchieves. If the crowd believes either the Matador/Bull has done badly they don’t wave their whites. If a good performance then the waving increases. If the crowd believes the Matador has put on an exceptional performance, they then wave profusely and obviously, so that the President is in effect led by them and he too waves a white handkerchief. The prize? The ears of the bull – one ear for medium to good, two ears for good to better and then the ultimate prize, the tail, once more unceremoniously removed. The Matador is presented with his prize to enthusiastic applause.

The brass instruments strike up a triumphant cacophony and the Rakers come out to do their housework on the sand. As this is happening the Matador, if successful, proudly struts around the ring to more applause and is thrown red roses. Once he’s done his circuit, it’s time for the next corrida.

The colour and spectacle left a huge impression on me. I did not come away with a feeling of cruelty, if the Brit sports of fox hunting or deer stalking were to be compared, then I think that they would have the cruelty edge. Because the kill is so quick, the spectacle is not as cruel as some might imagine.

The third Matador of the evening won both ears and the tail for his performance. He was almost acrobatic in his movements, tightly turning to escape the bull’s horns and swishing his cape deftly to and fro. All the time he appeared to maintain an elegant posture, that backward curve held for just a split second overlong, to emphasise the subtlety of his actions – a bit like the golfers when they take a swing and keep the posture when gazing after the ball. To see such a great animal about 10 metres behind the matador who has confidently turned his back on a raging bull is quite breathtaking.

Si, hay circulo, peligroso y teatro. (So, there is circus and danger and theatre.)

Can’t wait to go again.

DIEGO OUR PLUMBER

Diego is our plumber, tiler, roofer and firewood supplier. He is about 50, lean, weather-beaten and short. He has a voice than begins somewhere round his ankles, conditioned by the permanent Ducados stuck between fingers or lips. He is the antithesis of his modern UK counterpart. He is not only punctual but arrives five or ten minutes before the time scheduled; he does a good job and charges very modest rates.
The reason he deserves a mention is not just for his quality of service but to put another nail in the coffin of British racial superiority. Most of the pejorative names allocated to foreigners were coined in good old Blighty – spicks, wogs, dagos, thick paddies, etc.
Surely that’s all history? Take a look at our beloved national hero, Basil Fawlty. His stupid and clumsy employee was a cringe-making racial stereotype. Manuel incidentally was ‘from’ Barcelona, one of the most sophisticated and advanced cities in Europe yet Basil’s regular line to excuse his dopey Spaniard was ‘you’ll have to excuse him, he’s from Barcelona’. Oh how we laughed. If it comes to impeccable service and a genuine desire to please, the UK is so far behind Spain as there to be no contest.
One big job Diego did for us was to completely re-tile the entire floor of the house.
It took about a week. Diego arrived not at 0830 as agreed but 0825 or earlier each day. He brought two men with him from his home in Valdecaballeros, some 30K away.
They were working at 0830 - no brewing of tea or coffee, no reading The Sun, no chat about last night’s TV – simply ‘let’s do it’. Costs? Diego charged an almost unbelievable ten Euros an hour or six pounds seventy. Pretty close to the UK minimum wage. When I didn’t have enough cash, he waved his hand and said next time. Of course we couldn’t allow that so we arranged to leave the shortfall in a local bar in Valdecaballeros.
On smaller jobs he brings his wife, Mariepietra, who sits happily chatting with Bernice on the terrace. One job, the construction in brick of a kitchen unit, he just would not do as he considered there were ample kitchen units in the mueble stores that would do the job cheaper. So his trip was in vain. Charge for the call out? Zilch.

OUR ABOGADO JAVIER

No account of our life in Spain would be complete without mention of our Abogado Javier. In order to grasp the measure of this man one has to purge one’s mind of the images of stuffy Edinburgh or London lawyers – or Madrid lawyers for that matter.
You know the type – as soon as you walk in the door there is the unmistakable ting of a timing device, recording the minutes of your visit which will comprise the greater part of your ‘fee note’ (no vulgar bills for these guys) the lesser part being an indefinable factor called sundries.

Javier carried out the conveyancing for our house here. He met us in a short sleeved shirt with his tie dangling from a hat rack in the corner – in case he had to go to court. We talked of Scotland, Ireland, modern Spain and UK politics. We then slipped off to a local café for drinks and tapas.

We later had problems with a leaking pipe. Javier called his plumber Diego for us. When we needed a kitchen improvement, Javier drove the 25k to our house to meet with Diego to allow him to measure up. (We were in Scotland, packing up). When Bernice said she wanted to work in Spain, Javier offered her some hours in his office. When we expressed the desire to be fluent in Spanish and asked about classes, he said he would give us coaching. In return we improve his English. So we began weekly classes where we presented to each other in the appropriate language and made corrections after each delivery. So far working very well – apart from hiatus mentioned in earlier blog. When we asked about sourcing firewood, he invited us to his finca. There he loaded our Berlingo with Holm Oak; after which he showed us round his finca, introducing us to his chickens, geese, ducks, dogs and cats. On departure he insisted we take a bag of freshly laid eggs.
We regularly meet in the street - Herrera del Duque is a small town – and even if he has ten minutes, he insists we have coffee or a glass. We meet his wife Mimi and though we only met a day or two ago it is kisses all round – both cheeks, unlike the meagre UK one (if any). As for shaking hands - every day is like a Scottish Ne’er Day. Guys you only spoke with that morning, like an old pals reunion. And always time for a chat and a laugh. We think our Spanish is crap but we keep being told it is the perro’s cojones.
Whether flattery or no I cannot say but I think it is because we really make an effort also no whore speaks any English whatever. Even the kids who learn it in school soon forget it because here in the sticks, there is no opportunity to practice. One term the kids seem to love is “Bye Bye” – it sounds so silly in a Spanish accent. Mind you its not all that attractive in English

Can’t imagine the likes of David McLetchie who slowly bled the taxpayer for his personal travel and other expenses, being so enormously hospitable and unmercernary as our Javier, For balance, everyone we meet here in rural Spain simply cannot do enough for us. There is a culture of wanting to please – so absent in most UK transactions. Gifts, drinks, time, patience all given with a grace from a different era.

SORRY FOR THE GAP

We’ve just had the great pleasure of a visit from my son Andrew here in Siberia, the eastern region of Extremadura. His wisdom is only excelled by his IQ and he pointed out that if I don’t add to my blog people will discontinue surfing (is that the word?) it.
So I thought it proper to let my reader(s) know why the hiatus. Frankly, I have been feeling like shit. With the two chemo drugs (Zoladex and Casodex) working together I reached a point where I had more pain than Victor Mature or Charlton Heston could act out (remember the great grimacers?). Chest, stomach, waist, back, groin plus a dire lethargy where I simply lost the will to do anything. I managed to speak directly with the Specialist – literally by walking into his offices in Villanueva de la Serena - he decided there and then to call a halt to the Casodex on the premise that sometimes when Casodex is stopped the cellular reaction is such that the PSA (now 73) goes down.
We’ve yet to see – June 12.
One thing we laymen don’t realise is just how much poison there is in chemotherapy.
It took four weeks of withdrawal from the Casodex for various pains to lessen. When I picked Andrew up from a train at Ciudad Real I was almost embarrassed by the number of OUCHes and AAAHs I had to emit each time a new pain hit me. Thankfully we had a couple of hours drive back to the house so I could explain to him about the chemo and remove any great sense of alarm.
What really pisses me off is that I simply had to see the GP at Talarubias. I told him without drama about the multiplicity of pains (oh, and constipation) and asked him about the side effects of the drugs. Bugger me, if he didn’t go into the internet and start reading. I would have thought a little residual knowledge might have been in situ.
I have now been given pills to settle my stomach, painkillers, laxatives and I have been sent for a chest Xray. In essence the man was treating each symptom individually. My contention was – and I had rehearsed the whole thing in Spanish – that these dolors could not possibly be separate conditions.
It wasn’t until I finally went into a Google search for Casodex and read the guff for myself that I saw each side effect was included in my portfolio including extreme lethargy.
In summary, after nearly 5 weeks off the Casodex I am beginning to feel almost human.
My poor Bernice has had to contend with a semi-invalid at home, while her mother is detained in hospital in Wales with liver cancer, a terminal condition. She’s not had a happy time.
So, got that off my chest – hopefully there will less depressing stuff to follow

PROSTATES

A cheery topic; however all guys of a certain age could do worse than focus on the topic, if only for a moment. My brother Alan in Durban tells me he has recently undergone the 'indignity' of a prostate examination and that his PSA is well within the not-to-worry category. I well recall my first introduction to the procedure known to the medics as a 'digital' examination. In my innocence I thought this was some state of the art procedure not disimilar to digital radio, digital TV or other communications systems. It was only when I lay sideways on the GP's couch with my knees tucked up in the foetal position, that it dawned on me that the digit concerned had nothing to do with electronic technology. The sound of a rubber glove being snapped onto the GP's fingers confirmed my suspicions and when he added that this won't hurt a bit I knew just what the digit was and precisely where it was going.

Apparently he looks for signs of enlargement of the prostate and whether the surface is rough or smooth which can indicate the presence of extraneous growth (cancer to you and me).
If you do find, as a staggering one in three of us do, that you have cancerous tissue in the prostate you will probably be given a brief course of CASADEX for about 2 weeks, then an abdominal injection of ZOLADEX which provides a slow-release drug over 3 months. Both of the drugs have the function of carrying out a chemical castration. The clue is in the first syllable of the first course. I had an off the scale PSA of 961 which dropped back to 1.9 within a short time of starting the course.
Fellow sufferers should be warned that the effectiveness is finite and new combinations of treatment or chemotheraphy are required. My PSA started to rise again after two years, so I now take both Zoladex and Casadex. Result is that I often feel like shit - chest pain, lethargy, remarkable drop in energy and a general listlessness. I now take the Casadex last thing at night so its worst effects hit me while I'm sleeping. I take a painkiller in the morning and the rest of the days are much better.
Any other poor whore similarly afflicted may like to ask me the odd question. Feel free. But it is only one man's experience

SPORT & A BIT ON HEALTH

To beat England on Irish soil is always a joy but with two added ingredients - a victory at Croke Park plus a very convincing one, make the moment all that sweeter. It may not be universally known that Croke Park was the venue of the original 1920 Bloody Sunday. The act was so heinous that many find it hard to believe, but - as an act of ´reprisal´ against Nationalist action- the Brits aka the Black and Tans actually set up a machine gun post in the centre of Croke Park and fired indiscriminately at the crowd. Even Amritsar was not as calculatedly brutal. From then on Croke Park became the shrine of Nationalism and the GAA banned the playing of any English games on its turf. So to entertain the mighty English for the first time on such hallowed ground was an event to send most Celtic hearts racing. As a footnote it was heartening to learn of the dignity with which the boys conducted themselves. Sad the English could only muster such a small group of supporters. English supporters are invariably loud and superior when in the watering holes of the Twickers hinterland but they go kinda quiet in the Celtic fringes.

Rugby joy somewhat negated by the depressing reports that Ronan O´Gara was badly knocked out by the Scots to the point where some papers say the action was ´tantamount to attempted murder´. Not the sort of report we want to hear from the rugby pitch especially in an Ireland/Scotland match. The full facts have not been established but the incident leaves a nasty taste. The Triple Crown, alas, is a wee bit tarnished.

I´ve been a bit critical of the Spanish NHS but it is, quite simply, only different. I have had a quite lengthy meeting with a Specialist urologist. He organised blood samples for my urea, creatinine and PSA (the prostate cancer indicator). I now receive word that I have a fixed appointment at the Don Benito/Villanueva Hospital for a TAC Scan (UK - CT Scan) - so clearly he wants his own records of my health, his own scans and his own files.
I had actually photocopied about 50 sheets of my medical records (all in English) to allow the poor bugger to familiarise himself with my case. Fortunately, he tells me his wife is a Professor of English. Still very time consuming, though.
13 Mar and 13th consecutive day of unbroken sunshine. We didn´t have 2 in a row in Feb.

SCOTLAND WITH SUNSHINE ?

Not really. Feb was a whore of a month - rain just about every day with the associated misery of dark skies, damp air and general cold. The native Extremadurans tell us that the weather is quite exceptional. Must be true as we had Xmas on our terrace in shorts.
March has broken gloriously. Big, big skies above the sierras, vast blue expanses and Guadiana sparkling below the house. Great squadrons of Buitres Leanados (type of buzzard) launch themselves off the montanas and catch the thermals of the newly warmed earth. Their flight is a vision of cool arrogance with hardly a minimal flap of a wing. They cruise over the top of our casa, which for a cancer patient has a certain black humour. I sometimes greet them with "I´m still here, ya bastards".
Still virtually Brit free. Though we have come across a Brit working for a Co. we had to contact.
He has to be the least well-informed man in the Province. He has no Spanish whatever - talks in cliches, refers to native people as ´they´ - all in all he has the greatest English failing of all in Shedloads - he could bore the arse off a stamp collector from Penge.

BIT MORE

Another exemplar might be parking. Granted most small Spanish towns are wholly unsuitable for motor cars but where cars have any access, drivers will park just about anywhere. Pedestrian crossings, school gates, disabled parking all seem to make no difference.

Furthermore most smaller towns have never bothered with yellow lines or parking wardens. Yes, they can be right bastards in bigger towns but in el campo Anarchy rules.

ANARCHY II

Another example could be seat belts. In the early days new cars had a cautionary light on the dash to advise you that seat belts were not being worn. As time went by a little light was deemed insufficient and a variety of warning screeches were incorporated into the cautionary mode. Worse, the longer one left the belt unsecured, the louder became the screech. While accepting road safety is not to be underplayed, the idea of being nagged to death by some electronic autocrat grates on the intelligent individual's sense of self. Here in Spain though the law and the car noises seems to conform with EU standards nobody wears a belt in a built up area. Even when driving with our solicitor when we reached for our belts he declared reassuringly "no es necesario". Whether this is the law or just accepted practice we cannot deduce but the laidback attitude seems to dovetail perfectly with the smoking ban.

Evidence of Anarchy? I think so.

ANARCHY

My learned friend Leo Keohane is writing a thesis on the nature of Anarchy. Initially Jack White became a bit player in the scenario, however JRW seems, like Topsy, to have become the focus of the Opus. Leo´s draft thesis created a whole new range of thought processes for me.

Now living in Spain I cannot fail to associate anarchy with what some might consider to be its spiritual home. Anarchy, like Socialism, has never been tried. The nearest exemplar was probably Catalonia in the 1930´s. Living amongst these philosophical people one has to reflect on the nature of the Spaniard vis a viz Anarchy.

Take one example. The smoking ban which has tyrannised smokers in Dublin, New York, Edinburgh and elsewhere was introduced in Spain in January 2006. The media had countdown warnings of so many days to go. As a great Hispanophile I was fascinated to see how the average Spaniard would react. Anyone familiar with the country will quickly picture the scene - rows of wee men with voices conditioned by many years of smoking black tobacco and glasses of chewy red wine, all addressing the entire bar in tones so far up the decibel scale as to be approaching the pain threshold. The idea of them standing on a clean floor without a hint of ash, matches, dogends and fag packets just seemed perverse.

So it was with keen interest that we visited our normal run of bars in the New Year 2006. We prised open the door and lo and behold nothing - but nothing - had changed. All the wee men still puffed away at their Ducados and Fortunas; the layer of smoke still as dense as their voices.

Why no change? Apparently, all a bar is required to do is state at the door whether it is a smoking or non-smoking establishment. Above a certain square metreage there has to be a section for smokers, below it, it is simply a Yes or a No. Needless to say every bar opted for Yes and even the larger bars, though they claim to have smoking/non-smoking sections seemed completely oblivious to any divisions.

Anarchy? I think so. Too many people associate anarchy with chaos and ferment or as Leo put it - men with Christmas pudding bombs. Anarchy is about the absence of rules and reflects a peculiarly free state of mind. We could see no protests, no civil rights demonstrations, no indication whatever of smouldering dissent. New Year 2006 came and went and Spain´s cafe society carried on as normal.

One caveat, we have only observed rural southern Spain. What happened in the more northern parts and in the sophisticated cities of Barcelona and Madrid (or on the bastardised Costas) we cannot say but somehow one feels that the Spaniard´s great love of food, drink, talk, decibels and smoking will not change much from region to region.

GODS STILL AT IT

Certain ironic humour here. Bought a Lamp which is rechargeable by solar power. Alas no Sun these last 7 days. Ergo No Lamp.

Bought a Chain Saw - wouldn´t start. And this morning our primary source of power, our Generator, packed in - no light, no hot water and no water pump. Drove 25km for meeting with Health Social Worker in Talarrubias - Not In, nice drive tho.

Rain continues Deluge style.

Otherwise spirits amazingly high.

Don´t give up reading, the best is yet to come.

Beanscene Achievements

We have achieved a lot.

New Chain Saw, new Car, a huge delivery of Firewood. Yes, it´s cold. And Damp.
The eagles were soaring over our roof this morning, and through a mist seemed spooky. Today we are to choose a new floor for our Casa, and hoping to get it tiled before our shipment arrives on 26th Febrero.

The highlight of our day is next, Coffee and Brandy in the Meson Carlos, just a few doors up from this cyber shop in Talarubbias, some 11km away from our home.

Hasta Later

THEY FIRST SEND MAD

As the Greeks succinctly put it, whom the Gods wish to destroy they first send mad. Well, the bastards nearly sent me yon way. We left our Borders home, delivered the car to Jim Darling at the car auctions and took a hotel at the airport prior to our flight to Cardiff.

It was probably something to do with the humping of 60 odd boxes (2cuft.each) that either dislodged my stent or tore the surrounding tissue, but the result was severe pain all the way from Wales to Herrera Del Duque. I have now arranged to see medics here as pain is ongoing but will save the next piece of jolly talk for the next blog.

Overall I was convinced the Gods had conspired against me.

Jollier blog to follow concerning our picaresque neighbours and their secretive hunting exploits. The Italian word omerta makes the Sicilians seem positively gregarious next to this band of brothers (literally everyone is a cousin). Let it be known that you need something and Lo, it can be arranged and pronto..

D DAY

Departure day is upon us. House now cleared. Car loaded. Off to see Jim Darling at the car auctions who will take the car and sell it. Then overnight by the airport and fly out to Wales tomorrow. Seems such a hassle when you start. But when all the pieces fall in, it seems a piece of piss. Adios, Dunbar, farewell Cockburnspath.
I have written about half of my new book - the motivation for leaving the UK, (not difficult). The other half can not be written until we have lived in Spain for some time and I can make some intelligent appraisal of the social, political, economic and life-style differences.
This blog should help string some chronological and coherent thoughts together.

TOMORROW - THE BIG DAY (Monday)

What looked like a pin prick of light at the end of the tunnel has hurtled towards us. My great fear was that cancer, hypertension or renal failure would pull me under before I could reach the shore. Now I await the removal van in the morning - (Monday). The removal co. asked if they could clear the house in two lifts. We agreed; so they started yesterday. To quote Bernice, it is hard to believe we could accumulate so much shit. Seventy-odd boxes (2 cubic ft each) were taken away yesterday plus all the furniture except the bed.
As our new home is sans electricity we are leaving all the kitchen equipment - fridge/freezer, microwave, cooker, washing machine etc. Nonetheless our two bedroom cottage had sufficient odds and sods to fill the truck. Moreover, when they return tomorrow morning for the bed, there are another six boxes of clothes and afterthoughts to go.
The house seems a little eerie now, even a bit echoey. I had not realised how much character pictures gave a house. We had accumulated so many pictures between us that the house was awash with them - the sittingroom walls displayed no fewer than eleven. Now the whitewashed walls look anaemic and devoid of life.
Moving house, for most people, involves mixed emotions - nostalgia, sentimentality and some sadness.
For us, the pain is minimal. The one factor that makes the move so utterly positive is the relentlessness of the long Scottish winter. It grabs hold of the country about Halloween and never releases its icy grip (apart from the odd callous false dawn) until May. There may be one or two days in between when the wind drops, the rain stops, the sun breaks through and Scots start talking to each other in the street. But Gabriel at the Lord's elbow immediately whispers "Dinnae spoil them Lord - they'll be enjoying themselves next".
Despite the warmth of so many individuals plus their sincere and kind wishes any regrets pale into insignificance at the prospect of the life ahead.
Blog now suspended till we start again in Spain in about a week

ROUTINE ADMIN

Our old emails at btinternet.com will cease to exist in the next couple of days. The virgin.net address has already ceased to be. Henceforth all email for DOW will be dow.wtc@googlemail.com and for Bean : bernice.wtc@googlemail.com
Mail to Apartado 81, Herrera Del Duque 06670, Badajoz, Spain.

BeanScene

BEAN HERE. Phew, what a week that was. Glad that one's behind us. Exit date too close for the emotional rollercoaster and drama that we went through over the past 7 days. The Whites are made of fighting stuff - lesser mortals wouldn't have seen the light of day.

Weather in Scotland really getting me down. Hostile winds, rain, sleet - however it is perfect packing weather. Didn't know we could hoard such shit. 8 Sleeps left. Yippeee.

Responses to my leaving have been overwhelming - very kind words; sincere sentiments of past dealings and some very touching and complimentary wishes. Leaving party on Thursday 25th January - a Fizzy Tea - a la Bean. 25th January is famous for Alan White's birthday also someone called Robert Burns.

POSITIVELY UPBEAT

See GP who tells me blood toxic counts are down. Looks like I don't need a second stent to help drain the kidney. Hospital doesn't need a PSA (cancer detection) till March, so it looks as if I can finish my dig under the wire and finally stand up taking great lungs full of Spanish air.
Irony of ironies - I spend 5 hours back in the Western General Hospital yesterday waiting for Bernice who underwent an op for a urinary problem. Finally get away at 1830 but poor Bean is shagged out and lost her sparkle from an armful of anaesthesia.
Hopefully no more dreary stuff and this blog can get on with its original mission statement of being entertaining, profane and funny.
Pax vobiscum.

LESS DREARY STILL

Received telephone call from WGH this morning. I was on the agenda of a multi-disciplinary meeting (onconologists, urologists etc). They are not too concerned about the raised PSA (Prostate Cancer Gauge) as it is too soon after the new hormone treatment to see a reversal in the climb. So the cancer scare is less immediate than feared. Told to send them my next PSA reading by email from Spain - which means they are more laid back than one hoped. Still having the blood checked for Kidney malfunction to see if toxic count is down. Main issue is that I now feel fine with nausea gone and lethargy much less in evidence.

LESS DREARY

With our emigration date - Jan 29th - rapidly approaching, I am beginning to feel like one of the POWs in those Stalag movies of yesteryear. You know the genre. Determined POWs start tunnelling under their hut and after many months they calculate they are outside the barbed wire boundary fence. Poor bastards, covered in sweat and grime, physically exhausted and struggling for oxygen finally reach exit point. Gently they dig upwards until a little breath of air establishes they are through. Slowly they widen the hole only to find the barrel of a Mauser pointing down at them. "Not so fast, Britisher, Herr Colonel Krupp would like to speak with you."
However even if I have to postpone our departure date, I WILL make it.

DREARY STUFF

There I was, Thursday 11 Jan, viewing my brand new creation of a blog and wondering how I can make it entertaining, erudite and a joy to read, when the phone rings. "Hi! it's Doctor Black from the Surgery. I want you to get yourself to the Western General Hospital NOW!"
Shit! Apparently my last blood test - taken to monitor my prostate cancer (PSA Level) - showed up new complications; to wit, renal failure.
Off I go. Endless checks, ECG, Scans, blood tests, blood pressure, you name it. Transpires my last stent insertion has developed a blockage, thus preventing the kidney (only have one) from functioning and allowing a build up of toxics, which if not remedied could be fatal.
Stent changed next day under GA. Blood monitored regularly. High toxic levels dropping but not fast enough to satisify medics. Sent home Monday 15th, blood to be monitored by GP. If no significant improvement, go back to WGH for an additional stent to be run from kidney to bladder. Tues 16th, see GP, Dr Black who takes yet another blood sample. He then tells me that PSA Level (from previous blood test) is up - more than doubled since last time. So prostate cancer. is once more threatening.

NEW HOME
Our new pad at Las Veras is in the SE corner of Extremadura known as La Siberia. The regional name alludes to the historic inaccessability of the area. For example, take the old road from Herrera Del Duque to Casas Don Pedro en route to Badajoz and Portugal and it is immediately apparent just how tortuous the journey once was. The new road, the N430, was only opened in 2006. Our house overlooks the N430 and, just beyond, the river Guadiana winds its lazy way to Trujillo, Merida and Portugal's Atlantic coast.

DOWSWORLD

DOW with a blog? Never! Yes folks; me - a fully signed-up member of the Luddite club tiptoeing into the 21st century. Yes, yes, I know; I turned up my nose at computer technology and once was a member of the saloon bar brigade of bigots who boasted of his ignorance of IT. Putting pen to paper and sticking a stamp on an envelope was good enough for me. Mobile phones? Pretentious nonsense for ostententatious starlets and the flash nouveaux riches. Broadband and the information superhighway? What's wrong with the the local library and a decent encyclopedia?

I take it all back. Why? Firstly, it was a real pleasure to follow my son's world travels (with photos) on his blog. Secondly, a cancer diagnosis made me aware of how precious life is and how little time we have to record our thoughts. There were other motivating factors, not least my irrepressible compulsion to vent my spleen in the letters pages of the Press. Also our impending move to Spain will diminish my interest in British politics and the move itself will conjure up many impressions and experiences that could well merit recording for posterity.

The clincher was an article in - of all magazines - The Oldie (issue 210), the house magazine of all those with one foot in the grave. The Oldie was launched by seriously old Richard Ingrams (ex-ed of Private Eye) back in 1992. The Oldie article advocated the use of a blog for writers, thinkers, pholosophers and even grumpy old gits who just want to sound off into the ether.

Well now, sez I, if The Oldie embraces the idea so enthusiastically, why not I. So here, dear reader, is the world of DOW. (I use reader in the singular- just in case). What shape this blog will take, who knows. Hopefully it will be profane, irreverent, often angry and more often than not mischevious and witty.

I express my gratitude to The Oldie for explaining to me what blog meant. It is a contraction of WEB LOG. As an ex-sailor I am fully familiar with what a log is and I now know what the web is so the word is no longer nerdy - it makes sense.