Archive for June, 2013

Is Bitching what it is all about Now?

Living in the north-west corner of Spain, life is a little bit backward compared to what we were used to in England. Seven years ago, this was very frustrating but, with time, it got better.

We never wanted English television, which was good, since we couldn’t get it here anyway and, although we didn’t watch any television when we lived in England, it was always nice to see a few moments of this programme or another, whilst we were on holiday.

Well now, seven years and four months into it, we have English television…..

And we’re loving it. Well, to some extent.

Now contradicting myself somewhat, why is English TV so bitchy? I’ve watched three or four showings of Come Dine with Me and just what is this programme supposed to be about? Is it Big Brother in the kitchen, or is it about cooking? I’ve seen one competitor pull another to bits, another competitor who didn’t give a hoot about anyone, as long as she won and I’ve seen scores issued on personality rather than for the quality of the food. Is bitching what attracts the viewing? It definitely seems that way. Or have I got it wrong – does one competitor pull another to bits, because winning is truly based on who is the nice person?

Give me Simon Hopkinson any time! Now there’s a real man – he has no airs and graces and he doesn’t have to swear, bring sex into the conversation, or bitch about other chefs to be appealing.


‘One Point Ten’?

On a few trips to the south of Spain (we live thirteen hours away in the north-west area of the country), we enjoyed the occasional glance at English television, so we decided that hmm, maybe Sky television might be something we would now be interested in. Last December, Hubby spotted an advert for such a service and a young Spanish guy came to visit us. Having done his research on the internet, Hubby was able to gather some information which would help the young man and so it was for me to explain. In Spanish, I explained that we needed a satellite dish of one point nine metres, explaining that this measurement would be just a little less than Hubby’s height. The man agreed. It must be in steel. He agreed. And the angle was to be twenty eight degrees east of south.

Two weeks later, two men arrived at about half past ten in the morning. The box for the satellite dish looked somewhat small and, in Spanish, the conversation went something like this.

“We ordered a one point nine satellite dish.”
“Well, this one isn’t one point nine.”
With a smile on his face indicating that I should be happy he said, “No. This one is one point ten.”
My head tottered from shoulder to shoulder as I tried to decipher what I had just heard but I couldn’t make sense of it. My skills with mathematics diddn’t help me … .

It took me thirteen hours to work out that his one point ten was indeed our one point one (zero).

Lost in translation, I suppose!