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QUEUES. The
British have a reputation – left over from WW2, I believe – for orderly
queuing, but the way they manage a queue in Tenerife is with numbered tickets.
In the butchers’, the chemist or the Post Office you take a ticket when you go
in and wait your turn. If there’s a long wait you can have a coffee across the
road, nipping back every so often in case the numbers have shot by unexpectedly
quickly. It beats the old system of arguments and pushing.
Even so, there are
always people who consider their time is more precious than yours. One woman
actually asked me in the Post Office if I would say we were together. I was so
flabbergasted that I didn’t say "No" strongly enough, and when my turn came she
tagged along. “I’m with her,” she said to the clerk, and pushed her enormous
parcel across the counter in front of me. “No you’re not,” the clerk responded, raising her
eyebrows at me, “Get a ticket,” and she shoved the parcel back. The woman went
off in a huff – I think she might have tried claiming she was my daughter,
but she was black and I’m not.
When we need a blood
test we go to El Fraile which has a bigger medical centre than ours. Before
they built the new Centre we used to queue in the gardens, trying to hear our
names called over the sound of a dozen full-volume conversations and shrieking children. It was a struggle - the Spanish come up with many variations on our names – Young is not an easy
word for them to pronounce, and they use either of my two Christian names, so
it can be confusing. Also the OH is extremely deaf.
In the new Centre there’s a
Security guard who keeps the noise level within limits and stops queue-jumping.
Besides, we’re old hands now, and if shove comes to push, we’re not backward in
coming forward.
Here's a picture of my eldest, learning to queue at an early age.
QUESO – LO QUIERO
= cheese – I love it! A simple sandwich of tasty Cheddar and home-made chutney.
Macaroni cheese with crispy bacon bits on top. Fresh French chȇvres rolled in charcoal.
Brie so runny you need a spoon. Saint Agur on crusty bread. Freshly-grated
Parmesan on pasta. That cheese with the black rind that costs a fortune from
the deli. The goats’ milk and sheeps’ milk cheese in Tenerife. I’d rather give
up meat than cheese!
QUALITY STREET.
And while we’re on the subject of edible heaven, how about QS? Those purple
ovals that everyone dives for, the gold-wrapped discs of toffee, strawberry creams,
little baby milk choc bars – what a pity I’m diabetic.
QUITTING I
smoked my last cigarette on my birthday - March 24th. Three and a half weeks gone
– a lifetime to come.
