 Posted by: Nicola Cleasby
Filled in: Nicola Cleasby
Two Paragraphs that changed my life…
by Nicola Cleasby
We’ve lived here (Southern Spain) for eight years now and seen a lot of expats come and go, and one of the reasons often seems to be lack of things to do.
So once we’d finished renovating our Cortijo (actually ‘finished’ is bit of an exaggeration, but it will be done one day) I looked around for something to occupy myself. I’ve always loved reading, so writing seemed to be the perfect way to pass the time.
Direction was a bit of a problem at first. I tried just about everything – short stories, contemporary romance, science fiction, but finally settled on paranormal romance as I’ve been a big fan of vampires ever since reading Anne Rice’s ‘Interview with a Vampire’ at the age of twelve.
Then a year ago, I came across a competition on the Harlequin (that’s Mills and Boon to us Brits) website – write a two paragraph blurb for your story, and win the chance to pitch to one of the Harlequin editors.
I was already half-way through writing my paranormal romance, and it seemed like a great opportunity. So I wrote my blurb, polished it, rewrote, polished… You get the picture, but I did finally manage to press the send button.
I had an email the next morning saying I was one of the winners. Now I had ten minutes to sell my story to the editor in a live chat session. I’d never done a chat session before, I’d never pitched to an editor, and my typing is strictly one finger at a time.
But was I daunted? Er, yes.
I don’t actually remember much from the pitch, except the editor was very nice (and I’m not just saying that). But I survived, my fingers have grown back, and at the end of it, I had a request to see my manuscript.
Because of the time difference, most emails from the US arrive in my mailbox overnight, and for a while, starting up my laptop in the morning became an act of true bravery.
The months passed. I tried to tell myself no news was good news. Either that or my story had never arrived at its destination and was floating around in cyberspace, unloved and unread.
 After three months, I gave in to temptation and emailed the editor. She came right back to me – she liked my story and had passed it on for final approval. It wasn’t lost in space, somebody liked my story – it was almost enough.
It was actually another two months before I got the final confirmation. That email has been printed, framed, and stuck on my wall. I still get a little shiver when I look at it.
So that’s how my debut novella The Prophecy, came to be. A two paragraph blurb that pretty much changed my life.
So next time you sit down and wonder how to pass the time, think about what two paragraphs could change your life.
 Nicola Cleasby grew up in the north of England. After training as an accountant, she spent four years working as a volunteer in Zambia, which left her with a love of the sun and a dislike of 9-5 work. She then spent a number of years mixing travel (whenever possible) with work (whenever necessary) but has now settled down to a life of writing and picking almonds on a remote farm in the mountains of southern Spain. She shares the farm with a husband, three dogs, four cats, a horse, two goats and a handful of chickens. It is a perfect place to indulge her two great passions, reading and writing. Recently published (as Nina Croft) her new book is entitled ‘Tiger of Talmare’ http://www.ninacroft.com/index.html
Posted by: TJ Miles
Filled in: TJ Miles
VIRTUAL BULL RUNNING IN PAMPLONA
(or – I think Sally has developed *Tourette’s)
I was recently driving back to Spain from Ireland and made a point of stopping in Pamplona to pay homage to the legendary writer Ernest Hemingway. It was partly Hemingway’s fault that I came to Spain in fact, along with a number of other dreamers. Artists and writers are all let from the same vein in my opinion. Some more arterial than others of course… and so I hope this creates a clumsy lead into the blood sport synonymous with Pamplona
The running of the bulls has taken place on the 7th of July each year for many, many decades and was described so well by Hemingway that you could almost smell the ordure in the streets as well as being deafened by the screaming crowds. Imagine being the poor bull.
I have always wanted to run with the bulls, dressed all in white with a red bandana (me that is, not the bulls). Whenever I resurface this foolhardy ambition, usually after a bottle or two of courage-inducing red wine my guests tell me not to be so stupid. I always quantify it with the fact that I intend running after the bulls and not in front. Closer to the blunt end as opposed to the sharp, so to speak. At least that way I only risk skidding down the street on a flood of diuretic induced panic on the part of the bulls.
When I was there last week, it was an unusually cold February day. A watery winter sun gave no solace in the cutting chill as I was transported through the twisting cobbled streets and crumbling narrow buildings, squeezed into spaces so small as to have barely enough room to have a front door let alone windows. My girlfriend, who is not called Sally by the way, was driving at the time and stopped near the square to take in the scene.
Sally, the trois in my ménage, is my GPS satellite navigation device (that saves countless marriages throughout the world and perhaps should be given free with each first visit to the marriage guidance counsellor, as it would certainly cut down on their workload). So ‘Sally-SatNav’ has become a trusted friend and mentor in many situations of my life.
When I travel alone she comforts, consoles and guides me and never judges me when I get it wrong or ignore her. She never argues back, listens to all my problems and lets me sing to her no matter how bad I am without complaining. Problem is I only just found out I can set alarms on her to warn me that I am breaking the speed limit, locations of speed cameras and points of interest en route.
While travelling alone through France I set an alarm to let me know when I was passing within 250 metres of a hotel. Very handy when tracking down a long motorway and frequent rest stops are required. There are various built in noises you can use as alarms on Sally such as bells and bleeps, but I thought it would be funny to use a mooing cow as my hotel alarm instead. This is fine when in open country but hit a city centre and she goes into overdrive! It’s like a virtual farmyard of cacophonous sounds. “At the next junction turn MOOO!”, “Turn left at MOOO! next roundabout”, “In five hundred MOOO!tres you have MOOO!ched your destination” and so on. Okay, so it was funny the first time it happened. Driving along the Rue de Rivoli in Paris took on a surreal quality for example, as I passed the Hotel De Meurice where, ironically, Salvador Dali frequented during his heyday.
Anyway, back to  Pamplona. I decided to take a walk along the narrow route of the streets to try to get a feel for the atmosphere that Hemingway breathed life into in ‘The Sun Also Rises’. As I walked along the cold shadowed streets, my girlfriend Rita drove slowly behind me, more sensibly in the warm car but with the window down to get a better look at the old doorways and shutters and take some photographs as she passed. As I walked I imagined I could see the flags waving and the people hanging over the parapets shouting down into the street. I felt the tension building as it would in the hot mornings of July 7th each year. The feeling of being hemmed in with all that unstoppable muscle and sinew charging down the street made my heart involuntarily beat a little faster than normal.
I stopped suddenly when I heard a loud “MOOO!” Surely I was imagining it? No, it can’t be! “MOOO!” There it was again. Someone has let them out early! Five months early! Even though I knew it was impossible, I imagined I felt the hot breath gaining on me with every quickened step along the street. “MOOO!” I heard again. It was closer this time. I started walking faster, trying to stay nonchalant and cool, in case anyone was watching. “MOOOO!” I speeded up. “MOOOOO!” So did the sound. It was echoing around the terraces of the houses… “MOOOOOO!” “MOOOOOO!” I picked up my coat tails and ran down the street in a blind panic. “MOOOOOO!” It got closer and closer until I could feel it sucking at my heels. “MOOOOOO!” I was afraid to look round in case I lost my footing and went under the stampeding hooves.
Finally I ran out into the next street that runs alongside the entrance to the bullring  and saw a grandiose statue of Hemingway’s head gloating at my stupidity. Rita pulled up the car beside me and looked incredulously at this panting, sweating wreck of a middle aged fool, just as Sally let rip another, but less resounding “MOOO!” in my direction.
I never knew there were so many hotels in Pamplona.
* Editor’s Note
Tourette’s was once considered a rare and bizarre syndrome, most often associated with the exclamation of obscene words or socially inappropriate and derogatory remarks (coprolalia). However, this symptom is present in only a small minority of people with Tourette’s.[1] Tourette’s is no longer considered a rare condition, but it may not always be correctly identified because most cases are classified as mild.
 TJ Miles is a professional artist and has had his home and studio in Torrevieja for 8 years. He has a nomadic lifestyle but the lure of heady days spent lolling around in the sun and sea finally brought him to his senses, deciding to stay on a more semi-permanent basis. He also runs art classes, exhibitions and writes poetry. What is the art to living in Spain for him? A reasonably stress-free life, a relatively healthy tan on the outside and, hopefully, a sunnier disposition on the inside. Maybe I am just trying to capture some of that youth back and maybe, just maybe, help myself to live a little longer in the process? http://tjmilesart.blogspot.com/
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
ISN’T LIFE MAD?
By Mavis Cruet
My parents had eight children. My father referred to us by number, ‘This is daughter no.1 etc. I sometimes wonder if he ever really knew our names. My mother tended to introduce us with a sort of mini bio. ‘This is Mavis and she likes children and animals’. In a strange sort of way this shaped my life, as I grew up believing that I was the person she described.
It was actually many years later that I realised that I liked neither animals nor children. The guilt I felt was comparable to finding out I was Gengussa Khan. I wasn’t natural. I was a freak. Everyone likes animals and children except Psychopaths and Librarians.
Now, you are probably wondering (if you are still with me, that is) what has this got to do with life in Spain? Well, when my toy boy and I moved to Spain, he wanted to get a dog. I had a million reasons why it would be a bad idea to get a pet of any kind, mainly because we intended to travel a lot and who’d look after it? He saw my point of course and that was that.
One day I went outside and there was a beautiful little red puppy lying under a tree. Yes, I can admire them…. I petted him and went out for the day, when I came back he was gone. Things continued in this vein for a long time. Sometimes the dog was there and sometimes he was not. One day he came and stayed. This was not a good idea. I took the dog to the farm nearby. They had millions of dogs so it must be one of theirs looking for a bit of individual attention.
They said the dog was not theirs but tended to come to the farm every Monday morning and stay till Friday except for the times he was presumably at my house. They thought the dog belonged to Perla, a woman who lived a mile or so further along the road. They called the dog Balzar, I had been calling him Basil! I thought he must have been trying to tell me his name.
Off we go to Perla’s house. No, she said, the dog was not hers. It only came to her on Friday evening and stayed until Sunday night. She thought the dog was mine because she saw him at my house several times as she was passing on her way to the village. She wanted to keep the dog, she really loved him. I said if I did not find the owner I would bring him back to her but she would need to keep him in a secure run or pen.
For the next several houses no one recognised the dog at all, so I returned him to Perla. Delighted to have sorted the problem of the dog, I wondered why I felt so sad all of a sudden. When I reached my home Basil/ Balzar was already there and came rushing down the path. We fell on each other like long parted lovers.
Tune in next week, same time, same place for another gripping installment of the Story of Balzar/Boris. (This is not the end by a long shot!)
Mavis was born in Co Donegal Ireland. Starting writing at 10 years of age.  Got writers block at 11. Began writing again in her teens and has been writing on and off since then. She was the co-founder of the very successful Killybegs Writers Group and was involved in running many literary events. She is an Angel and Fairy Card Reader and in the process of getting her Writers and Artist Retreat up and running here in Alicante. She is currently owned by 3 dogs. and getting married to her darling John, her childhood sweetheart, in May. In other words, she is living the dream.    
Posted by: culebronchris
Filled in: Culebronchris
Pub quiz questions
By Culebronchris
How many land borders does Spain have?
Obviously, there are the pukka borders with France and Portugal. Andorra of course. Then, there are the enclaves of Melilla and Ceuta on the North African coast with frontiers to Morocco. Finally, there’s one with the UK, well I suppose it’s the UK though I never have quite understood the legal standing of Gibraltar.  Strange to think that we got hold of it because a French army commanded by an Englishman beat an English army commanded by a Frenchman in a war between two rivals for the Spanish throne. Five in total then – more than most people think of at first.
How many official Spanish languages are there?
We all talk about Spanish but those of us who live in Alicante know about Valenciano. Now I don’t want to have some local activist popping around with a spray can so I’ll leave the linguistic argument about whether Valenciano is a language or just a dialect of Catalan to people better qualified than me. Generally though the Spanish languages are recognised as being Galician (from Galicia), Basque (from the Basque Country), Catalan (from Catalonia) and then the one that is spoken all over the World, the one we all tend to call Spanish – Castillian. I have purposely anglicised most of those to avoid any arguments about what the languages are called and where they are from. The Spanish Constitution recognises the right of Spaniards to use any or all of those languages but it places a duty on Spaniards to be able to speak, read and write in Castellano. There are other minority languages too – equivalent to Cornish in the UK – that local communities are trying to resuscitate but the official answer is four.
Posted by: Guest
Filled in: Guest
There´s No Such Thing as a Free Lunch.
By Christine Johansson
This week I had a letter from a company offering me a gold plated cross from Caravaca and a Nordic duvet. I would get these stupendous gifts simply by attending a talk at a local hotel on a subject of great interest about health. I thought an extra duvet could be quite useful but to get it I had to be accompanied by my other half. So he was duly roped in.
We set off at 9.45 one Saturday morning and arrived to find a throng of other pensioners, perhaps 80 all-told, the majority Spanish, waiting in the lobby. A rep from the company took us up to the fifth floor and presented the speaker, a smart woman who I estimated to be in her mid 40s. She wore a white lab coat and seemed very professional.
The talk introduced a product based on using magnetic fields to get rid of the body’s accumulation of oxidisation and allowing it to regenerate new cells. Several people in the audience testified to the efficacy of the product, having bought at earlier meetings, and she herself revealed that she was in her early 50s, claiming to looking much fresher and feeling much healthier since she started using the machine in question.
Now, I don’t know one way or the other whether the product really does what was claimed (though Rafa Nadal had testified in a sports paper she  showed to us that the magnetic treatment had cured a shoulder problem). But when it came to the nitty gritty, I just don’t have 1500 spare euros to risk on trying it out to see. Neither did most of the people there. We’d come for the duvets.
The lady talked non-stop, sketched on a whiteboard and fielded questions from 10.30 until 12.50! By 12.00, people were fidgeting, getting up, and going to the loo; yawning and one or two seemed to be nodding off. She kept on relentlessly, underlining repeatedly the wonders wrought by the magnificent machine until, at last, she said she would now be prepared to answer individual queries and take orders. I didn’t see anyone crushed in the rush to the order forms.
We had to hang on for another 25 minutes before we were let out and handed our “free” gifts, which we felt we really deserved after going through what amounted to severe brainwashing. The talk was, of course, in Spanish so I suppose it was good practice but more than 2 hours rapid-fire hard sell in a foreign language is a touch wearing, to say the least. I can now see why people buy time-shares, just to be able to leave!
Armed with our Caravaca Cross and Nordic Duvet, we legged it to the nearest bar for wine and tapas (coffee by that time just wouldn’t have done it!) Husband declares he will never set foot in another demo talk. I hope the duvet is OK!
Guest Blogger:
Christine Johansson is a British Expat now living in Spain after spending 30 years in Sweden where she met her Swedish husband.
Posted by: TJ Miles
Filled in: TJ Miles
DRAG QUEENS AND STILETTOES
By TJ Miles
Every year around this time in Torrevieja we have a wonderful carnival that parades through the streets with loud music blasting, horns tooting and ladies virtually in the altogether in celebration of the coming spring. A lot of time and effort has been put into some fantastic outfits and floats, and it’s worth bracing yourself for a long stand in what is still likely to be a cold evening at this time of year. I wonder do the ladies in the bikinis rub that goose grease on them like the English channel swimmers in an effort to stay  warm while samba-ing down the street?
As part of the festival, on the fringe if you like, a number of other events take place for all ages and interests, from art exhibitions, dance classes, musical evenings and this year saw the 2010 competition for ‘Torrevieja Drag Queen‘. Apparently drag queens are a big thing in Spain. Well they were this night, that’s for sure! I have seen grown men in dresses before but not in 16 inch high heels! They could hardly stand let alone dance. But bless their cotton socks, dance they did. I least I think they were cotton socks, but to be honest I couldn’t’t see that high.
When the first act came on I was quite impressed for a minute until he/she slipped and went down like a sack of King Edwards. Exactly the same scenario as last year. An audience-wide sharp intake of breath created a vacuum in which the contestant valiantly filled, in the best ‘The show must go on’ grimace, with a few samba inspired moves while lying on the floor. He managed to get up and completed the rest of his act a little more carefully.
Another act came out with more sensible shoes and managed to get through without even a hitch of her skirt. When I say sensible shoes I don’t exactly mean in the style of Miss Jean Brodie, although there were similarities in other ways…… The most poignant act was one drag queen who started removing most of her clothes to a melancholic song. It was as if she was stripping layers off her personality and at the end created a far more lasting impression of the pain of pretending to be something she wasn’t for the sake of the approval of society. She should have won first prize but sadly didn’t even make it into the top three.
Last year virtually everybody went A.O.T. (arse-over-tit). Why so over the top footwear? Each time it happened I was breaking out in small fits of giggles. It was quite funny when it happened to almost everyone. This year most of the contestants were a little bit warier and while the outfits were outlandish their dancing was slightly more subdued. Maybe I should go into the cobbling business for large ‘Ladies’ instead of pushing carpet tile slippers.
Has anyone seen the film ‘Kinky Boots’?
|
