Heads in a Spain Spin

I am truly knackered. No, WE are truly knackered. Here I sit with my laptop while my brain is still doing somersaults.

In just over three weeks time, we’ll finally achieve what we’ve been planning and working towards for almost two years. Except we still can’t tie up our life in the UK for good till the boat’s sold. 

In the countdown to blast off, writing out “To Do” lists is a good idea in theory, but in practise, well it’s another matter. On average we’ve got a steady five “tasks” per day, which includes journey’s here there and everywhere.

Plus, as an added bungle bonus the original five jobs always create another five, which need doing NOW or at least writing down. But by the time that happens we truly can’t be assed with either of those options. Sitting watching dross on TV at night helps to rejuvenate the nerve endings though…

So we’re taking a break next week, well some of it. On Monday we’re going to the storage locker for the penultimate time to drop off more rubbish stuff. Then the rest of the week, we’re going visiting friends and relatives. I wish we could say “Goodbye UK” on a permanent basis, but not yet…   

If I took a photo of the storage lockup you wouldn’t believe the number of GREAT BIG boxes there are full of “personal stuff.” I mean it’s not like we’re taking any furniture, it all stays at the boat / comes with the boat when it sells. Our house in Spain is fully furnished anyway, and we wouldn’t change a thing. But blimey, I never realised I had so many pairs of knickers… It’s amazing what “one” finds whilst poking about in the recesses of “one’s” drawers. [No puny pun intended, but it happened anyway]

So by mid November my knickers will be following me to Spain, also in a spin? Anyway this is how it works, or doesn’t:

All our boxes full of bumf will be transported to our Casa on an arctic lorry. I kid ye not, because the huge wagon is shared between us and several other persons belongings, who are also fleeing Britain for a better life elsewhere.

Now where the knickers delivery all falls down (perhaps literally) is as follows:

The nearest road wide enough for an arctic lorry is a fair way from our house. The driver could in theory get the monster truck up the beautifully tarmacked road (without any potholes and with no more than four cars per hour using it). Which would take him to the end of our little road, but definitely NOT down it…

Just think of the embarrassment factor if other people’s garden walls, balustrades, garden gates, garden furniture, trees, plants, hosepipes elaborate outdoor tiles and the odd swimming pool or two get dragged down the road and stop outside our house?

Even if he managed to get the darn thing up the nearest road, he’d still have a job on his hands getting back. Because just like our little road, it too is a dead end, and there ain’t enough room to turn… It’s cleverly designed like that because there’s a beautiful valley sorta gets in the way. Building a suspension bridge in a tiny sleepy part of the Spanish Costa Blanca obviously wasn’t on Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s “To Do” list…

So I have a cunning plan: Get all the neighbours to form a “human chain” then they can each pass one pair of knickers at a time down the washing line line to our front gates. Sorted. Afterwards the womenfolk can get together and have a party, while the menfolk help manoeuvre the wagon backwards down the hill.

Now that really would be top notch entertainment at it’s finest. Spanish, French, German, Brits and Dutch blokes all arguing about which way to go about it. And without being able to understand a word each other is saying. For such a complex task, sign language just wouldn’t do the job. Besides they’d probably just give up and walk the half mile to the nearest bar, for a pleasant conversation of sorts about who builds the best cars…

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