News

Monday

Reached the hotel late last night, barely noticing an exhibition being set up. After an early swim, my husband comes back laughing. "They've found you - the client's revenge," he cries. It is Geriatrico Medico week and some 25 reps demonstrate aids and adaptations for the elderly. An unwary step takes me into the path of a mechanised wheelchair, while hundreds of home staff - mainly nuns - are trying out the equipment. Some swing in hoists, while a group of priests pass round continence pads and plastic pouches. Everyone greets us, and presses samples of continence pads into my shaking hands - somehow they think we've come all the way from London to attend the exhibition. I've got six desk calendars now, each month featuring a different geriatric joke in Spanish.

Tuesday

Brilliant sunshine by the pool as we recover from yesterday. I watch lazily as a group of six nuns in modern white habits stand by the pool, lifting their arms, stretching them. Please let them fall one by one into the pool for synchronised swimming!

Wednesday

Seville brings another reminder of work. While visiting some amazing gardens at the Alcazar we are asked to donate to a home for "Down's children". Each of us gladly gives 300 pesetas, but an extra donation is returned with a stern face and wagging finger. "Too much," I am scolded. In the gardens are a group of young people from the home, who are not welcomed by other visitors - particularly as a couple of the larger boys spit at everyone. "Stop that!" I say loudly in English as we approach. They stop. Whispers of admiration are heard as we pass, my husband whistling Rule Britannia quietly as he marches behind me.

Thursday

Can't waste the sunshine, so back to the pool. A large English party has arrived, and I get there half-way through a story about the auntie who died smoking to the end, her cigarette wedged into the gap between two teeth. "Of course, they took the cigarette out eventually, before they put her in the coffin," I hear. Attention is then turned to fellow travellers. One says scornfully: "Her and her People's Friend, flashing around, laying it on seats. I said: 'May I and my friend pass?' but no, she just turned the pages of her People's Friend - we had to push past as my friend needed to be sick." Not in the pool, I hope.

Friday

It's 7am, and coaches are filling up. The Americans are huge and slow, the Germans even larger, the Israelis stand in groups arguing over politics, while the English shuffle to their coach shouting: "Anyone for the Skylark?". That evening we are approached by an English woman who tells us she arrived yesterday from Bromley but her friends, who were due to arrive on the Tangier ferry, have not. All she has eaten in two days is a pint of milk and three oranges. Shades of Friday afternoons at work - section one money, emergency grants - flash through my mind. There is no escape. "It will be our pleasure to help you," I declaim, and hand over 500 pesetas. "Covers a reasonable bottle of vino tinto," grumbles my husband. Cheap at the price.