A bad case of the sniffles.

November '91.... and I found myself sitting on a very uncomfortable cane chair inside a rented Spanish villa which seemed, to all intents and purposes, to be halfway up the side of an Alacant mountain. The wind was howling, causing bracts from the bouganvilla growing just by the front door to come crashing in at the window..... it was grey, it was cold, it was getting dark, and I could hear the rain hammering down onto the patio outside. I was not a particularly happy person!

I stood up, with what felt like the imprint of a relief map of the moon cast firmly into my backside, and walked over toward the only visible source of heating that I had discovered thus far. All well and good, though this one after some careful examination revealed itself to have been supplied without the "obligatory big orange bottle" required to make it work. So, with apparently no gas for the fire, I then set about hunting down some kind of suitable substitute.

'Well, there is a gas boiler for the hot water and a stove for cooking, so surely they must have cylinders attached', I caught myself thinking, 'it would just be a question of borrowing the one or the other of those to use for the fire....... and weather permitting, I should be able to go to eat out later, so I won't have to worry about getting more replacement gas until tomorrow.' ..... 'now that's what I call a sound plan!'

As good luck would have it, both were indeed connected to a supply of gas, only it was to the same bloody one, a single bottle via a 2 way tap, which basically meant that it would never be possible to both shower and cook dinner at the same time. 'Never mind though, it is fuel, and it will at least get some heat into here' I mumbled to myself. And, thankfully, it did! After a fight to disconnect it from the boiler plumbing and lug it across the kitchen floor, the heater (after a few clicks of the "piezo") suddenly burst into life with its customary blue flash and faint orange glow, gradually filling the chilled air with a slight warmth and a feeling that all was well again. Well, it certainly was for around 15 minutes....... that's when the gas ran out....... and once again I was plunged back into cold and damp misery.

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It had seemed so simple from the outset, a letter from my old friend Vicente....

'Hello Steve, my old guiri amigo, we are opening a new restaurante next week, just along the coast from the old one.... and it would be great if you could attend. We are also inviting some other friends, a few people whom you might not know, but it should be a good evening. We will be presenting our new menu of seafood and classical French and Spanish cuisine, fine wines from our cellar, and we will even have a musical interlude for your enjoyment.'

Well, that was not so much an invite as a challenge.... and yes, of course I would go.... I'd known this man and his wife for years, they'd shown me many of the delights of the Alicantine panorama, and on top of this, he'd also sold me some pretty serious bottles of the local vino too. In return, I'd entertained them once or twice on their trips to the UK, shown them the London that I knew, took them to the quintessential village of Aldbury, and even introduced them to the perfect delights of a pint of English bitter and a packet of pork scratchings.... kept them well clear of the potato crisps though..... didn't want to appear as being too common!

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So, there I was, "holed up" on this east facing Mediterranean mountainside, devoid of gas, and wondering if it had been a good idea to come in the first place.

As it was, the villa itself was quite respectable. It had 3 bedrooms on two stories. Downstairs were the "open plan" kitchen and lounge, a WC and one bedroom, upstairs were 2 more bedrooms and a large bath and shower room. Outside, to the front there was a large patio, though you did need to scale the 23 steps to actually get from the level of the street to the front door, but was certainly worth the effort once you entered the front door. To the back, and visible from the kitchen window was a small back yard. This contained a staircase which led up to the "trastero" (a small storage room) within the roof, though far more important was the compound area itself, ideal for guarding those elusive orange butane bottles and also all those various other bits and pieces of wood, scrap iron and general junk. Mind you, this one was absolutely empty, clean as a whistle, not even a rusty nail nor discarded barbeque..... a little too clean in fact!

As for butane bottles, these were about as rare as "hen's teeth".

As the words of my "ex-pat" neighbour Jane, would soon inform me:-

'Oooooh darlin, you don't want to go leaving stuff out in your back garden, them bloody gypsies will be over the fence and be off wiv anyfin' they can find as quick as winkin'! Reggie and me, we don't leave nuffin' out, well only apart from what we want them to nick.'

Now, as the modern day quest for recycling anything remotely surplus to requirements might dictate, I couldn't really find any great argument with her last statement, it actually seemed like a kind of charity in a way. If they were enterprising enough to be able to get over that fence and be off with any unwanted items then it was fine by me.... good luck to them, as long as they didn't dump any of their residue in my back garden!

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Except, as was borne out by neighbour Phylis, ex actress and serial bride, on the other side of the terrace some time later, it seemed that it was no great wonder that there hadn't been very much sign of any fuel cylinders neither in, nor around the villa.... because the local gypsies had indeed been over the fence, about a week before, and had stolen the bloody lot! Empty, full, it was all the same to them...... heating and scrap iron, all in one hit. The bastards!

'Hmmmm, neighbourhood watch?' I found myself stupidly asking her through the garden fence.

'So, what about it?' she snapped back as if I had insulted her.

'Well, so a bunch of gypsies scale the fence, pinch your gas, and nothing gets done about it?'

'Well, you don't rely on the neighbours that's for sure, most of them are bleeding foreigners anyway, and you don't dare call the policia because they don't give a stuff!' she replied. 'And even if they did come round, they'd probably only give you a piece of paper to take to some local lawyer so that you could "denounce" them in a civil case.... that's if you knew who they were in the first place of course'

'Yes, right, but........' I tried to interject.

'Too busy drinking coffee, that's their trouble, oh and directing traffic and typing things up.'

'Unless of course you've been murdered, and then you'll need to call the Guardia Civil, and they'll probably do exactly the same, except they'll be wearing a different uniform!'

I briefly entertained the idea that Phylis quite liked the idea of uniforms, though dismissed it as just a folly of my imagination, and returned my attention to the moment in hand.

She paused ever so briefly, then was off again.

'Ever been into a Comisaria before darling?'. 'Around here they are all old dark buildings, peaked caps, and still using the old fashioned typewriters..... Remingtons I think they are, takes forever to make a complaint, so me, I've got my own insurance policy.'

"Jalko" she yelled.

I'd hardly had time to take in, let alone reply to any of her comments, when I found myself extremely thankful for the 3 metre chain link fence positioned between myself and this slavering black and brown monster that had just appeared at its mistresses side. It was the biggest, and certainly the nastiest Doberman that I had ever seen in my life. I can remember those salivating fangs even to today! Don't get me wrong, I love dogs of all kinds, but this one was scary...... very scary, and as I jumped backwards this thing tried firstly to barge its way through the fence, and then decided that coming over the top might prove to be the better option.

'Don't do that!' said Phylis. And in the moment I wasn't particularly sure if she were talking to the dog or to myself, though I was soon to find out.

'You'll make her nervous, and then she'll know that you are frightened!'

'Well, I fucking well am!' I thought.

'Best just to talk to her gently, stroke her with your voice and calm her.' she added.

Calm her? Like I want to be within a mile of this rabid maneater..... no wonder the pikeys don't come over "your" fence, I know that I wouldn't, and I certainly won't be inviting you out for dinner if it meant coming face to slobbering jowl with Jalko over coffee and biscuits after an evening out. I'd rather shovel hot coals onto my nether regions than have them chewed off by this, this, this thing!

'Well, thanks for the information but I really do have to be going now' I lied, 'I have to meet a friend for a drink, then later, much later, I will be out for the evening, all evening, possibly all night, so please ask Jalko not to wait up for me when I get back.' I forced a muted laugh.

'Oh, thats ok dear' she said, 'Jalko hears and sees all, not much gets past her.... not even the gypos!' I could well imagine that!

With this, Phylis gave me a kind of knowing wink, which in turn gave me a touch of the shivers. As she swung away, she made a great theatrical point of swirling her long dark hair around her face. 'Oh, just what I needed most, an outdated thespian diva for a neighbour..... I can just imagine it, she probably made a couple of horror films for Hammer in the 1970's, retired on the paltry wages that she no doubt received, worked her way up the social ladder by marrying ever more famous (and more importantly, rich) men, bumped them off, and collected the insurance. In Debrett's there must certainly be an entry under the title of "The Black Widow" in which they give you all the juicy facts about this lady..... which probably runs to all of about two lines. She disappeared, with precious pooch following in her wake. I was glad, and shaking!