Butch has been carried off to the great chicken coop in the sky.

Butch has literally ruled the roost for the last two or three years. His half a dozen ladies were always there for him, for his every need. Not always quietly, not always willingly, but always there. After a short while, we noticed that he hadn’t been wasting his time, because one of the girls was broody. Whenever anyone went into the chicken house, they got a mouthful of abuse from her - “keep away from these eggs, they’re mine”, or the chicken equivalent. Four of the eggs were coming to life.

One by one, it was the turn of each one to break out of the egg, and into the reality of a chicken house in Spain. One didn’t make it. One was very small and weak, and despite being spoonfed some egg and milk, we knew that it was never going to make it. One morning, there it was, gone. It seems that the mother had squashed it - who knows…

Two of them survived. But they weren’t old enough to have names. Might as well make sure that it was going to be worth our time thinking of names. Which was the right decision, because after about 10 days, we heard all the chickens screeching, and the dogs barking. The two little ones had found a hole in the pen of the fence, and the dogs were doing their duty, of protecting us from all comers - be it burglars or baby chicks. One of the chicks managed to find a corner to hide in, the other wasn’t fast enough, and the little hunting dog found herself a tasty lunch. The last one remain, and was named Sausage.

It’s very difficult to tell what sex baby chicks are, we certainly couldn’t figure it out. So whether Sausage was a he or a she, we didn’t know. But has time passed, (s)he got bigger and bigger. His/her father, Butch, was big and strong, and his/her six aunties looked after him/her.

As time passed, and Sausage got bigger, gradually bigger than the aunties. And we did catch Sausage mounting one of the girls, but, hey, we all experiment at some time or other (don’t we???)

But finally we could deny it no longer, Sausage was a male Sausage. And Butch noticed that Sausage was male as well. He didn’t want to share his girls. Fights ensued, Butches huge haunches and massive talons always won the day.

But time passes, and Butch began to slow down. Until finally, Sausage started winning the fights, the food, and the women, and Butch was demoted. But it seems that, in the world of chickens, winning isn’t enough. So over the last weeks, Sausage was mercilessly attacking and beating Butch. Butch retreated, bloody and down, to the places that he used to send Sausage to. And his weight was so great, that he could hardly walk.

Finally, the decision was made. Butch is never going to have a good life, he is just going to get more and more bloodied. We caught him one day, hidden away from the others, head buried in one corner, obviously ready to die. And this morning, there was loads of noise, and again, loads of blood.

“OK, I know, I am going to have to put him down for his own good”. We don’t know anyone who has chickens, who don’t have at least one cock, and he would just be going from the frying pan to the fire. “When we get back from the supermarket…”.

So the plan was to empty the other chickens out of the pen, tempt him out with some food, and hit him really hard with the spade. If I knew how to do it, I would neck him, but I don’t, and I think that I would probably cause more pain unnecessarily. So the spade it is, then.

When I found him, he was lying on his side, in a most unchicken-like pose. Not moving. Perhaps he is dead already? I carefully use the spade to pull him out. He might be on his last legs, but those talons are still very sharp.

As I pull him, he seems to move his legs around the spade. Perhaps he isn’t dead? Who knows? I know that chickens can run around without their heads, it could just be reflex. So lets get it over with. I raise the heavy old spade over my head, and SMACK. Ouch, I felt that. But he must be dead now. A couple more full-on smacks to be sure, just in case. Lets get it over with as easily for him as I can.

Rather dis-respectfully for an old geezer, he is going in a black plastic bag. Far too old for the pot.

So I let the girls back into the pen, and they rush around. But I know that they are looking for food, not Butch. I wonder if any of the chickens will even notice that he isn’t there.

Then into the pen comes Sausage. Leader of the pack. King of all he surveys.

But for how long?

At long last, I managed to get my Residencia.

The Residencia is a credit card sized plastic card, with a photo and fingerprint, and address. It is the equivalent of the identity card which the Spanish carry, but for foreigners. In Spain, as in many other countries, it is a legal requirement to carry your identity documents, and it is widely used - for example, when you want to pay for something using a credit card.

Up till now, I haven’t needed one. I have tax status here (lucky me!) which means that I can pay tax in Spain, and for the last few years, that has been all that I need. But I am obliged to carry my passport, which is bigger. Better to carry a credit card around, easier on the pockets, etc.

So when it got round to time to renew my wifes residencia, after five years, I decided to bite the bullet. All you need to do is fill in a couple of forms, provide photos, and make a payment. Simple. Except that I lost count of the number of visits to the police station in Malaga. Four or five. Luckily, the queue isn’t huge for Europeans - the one for non-Europeans stretches out of the door and down the street. But there is no reasons why it should take so many trips. After handing in all our papers, we were told to come back when they were verified, which takes a few weeks, and when we went back, we were given a form to make the payment at the bank - about six Euros. So you trot off to the bank, then another queue to show that you have paid. Of course, there are a dozen ways to simplify this, but the system here is that, whatever you want - or are required to have - you have to queue. The mentality seems to be, that no-one works, and everyone has time to visit these offices three or four times. A recent visit to the Social Security payments office took three trips, as nothing can be done by post. Also, at one point, we were told that we had to go to a different office for our residencia. There is a sign on the wall in the police station, pointing out that a new office is opening in November (it doesn’t say, but it was November 2005!), and at one point we were told that our documents “might” be in the other office, which involved queuing right outside the office, and then being told that the papers weren’t there, and that we had to go back to the original office.

But it’s all sorted out now, and for 5 years we are covered. And you can guarantee that by the time we need to renew, there will be another simple - it changed a lot in the last five years. But I’ll bet that it will still take 18 months to do…