I HAVE a confession to make. Again. I fell a little bit out of love with Spain in February.

Maybe it is a growing old thing, but I have found myself growling and grumbling around the Casita more than usual, and the mug bearing the legend ‘Grumpy Old Man’ that I received last Christmas has been spot on.

It might have also had something to do with the lack of rain which has led to my boats being beached (I live on a reservoir which means if I don’t check on the water level daily, I run the aforementioned risk. And guess what happened).

Or it might be the fact that the houseguest still shows no sign of moving from the guest cottage – otherwise known as the Wendy House. You may remember that she moved in for a couple of weeks at the end of April while she found a new place.

It’s now the end of February and, short of a combination of a high-pressure hose and/or Napalm, I can’t think of a way to encourage her to leave.

And before you all say, ‘why don’t you indulge in a spot of unreasonable and unacceptable male behaviour – that will soon shift her?’ I lived with the houseguest on and off for nine years during my, ahem, ‘hell raising’ period –or as she described (in a loud voice) at a party once – ‘Nine Years of Hell!’ So she’s seen it all before, trust me.

Or it may be something to do with the small matter of having my account embargoed last month. This drew with the calm and measured response that you would expect from a caffeinated Celt down to his last few centimos.

If you saw a bald and bearded black clad figure belting seven bells out of a bank ATM as the machine ate his card, I must apologise.

In an effort to find out why I’m currently brassic, I went to my long-suffering Rock n Roll accountant. We’ve been great friends since school – I call him the Alcalde as I think he should stand for public office – and I’m sure that he only takes me on as a client because of the entertainment value I provide.

Plus I introduced the word ‘Unbelievable!’ to his staff, when the DGT hit me with a rather large fine for having the late, unlamented Freelander, on three wheels in a poligono parking bay with no insurance – another classic example of my cr*p car Karma.

After a few loud ‘unbelievables’ in his office, and general mutterings about the way the system treats autonomos in the pretty much the same way that you would get turning up in a Rajoy mask and Real Madrid shirt at a Puigdemont political rally, I hit upon a novel idea to solve my financial malaise.

“Alcalde. Why don’t I just bolt a cabin on one of the boats, drag it back into the water, row into the middle of lake and declare myself an Offshore Tax Haven?”

He looked over his glasses and gave me a weary smile. “That’s not a bad idea. I might just join you!”

So I’m now working on a new plan. The associacion de autonomos de Andalucía fiscal cruise. I’ll keep you posted on my progress…


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