I had to call into the local health centre today. After being registered for three years, 100% legally, all taxes paid, etc., I am told that I am not covered by the Spanish health service, and I have to go to England for a doctors visit.

Excuse me??? I haven’t lived in England for five years, I don’t have anywhere to stay there, and I haven’t paid anything into the UK system for all that time - I have paid into the Spanish system.

So why am I no longer registered? Who knows? The office certainly don’t.

I know the routine. I either come back tomorrow, and see if someone else is on the desk - which will probably get me a different opinion - or I can stand here and not move. Today, I am in a “not moving” frame of mind.

So after 10 minutes discussion, whilst the queue behind me gets longer and longer, I am told that, if I sign a “change of doctor” form, they will allocate me a doctor. “Can I change to Doctor G.?”, I ask. “Yes, no problem”. So I fill out the form, change my doctor to Doctor G - the doctor I have been registered with for the last couple of years already - and everyone is happy.

I hand the form in, and the clerk says, “Oh, aren’t you already registered with Doctor G.?” “Yes”, I reply, “is that a problem?”. “No”, she says, “thank you, that’s fine”.

Another major issue is sorted, and I am back where I was yesterday, legally registered, as I was always entitled to be, with the doctor I want to be with. And all is well with the world.

I remember the summer, it wasn’t very long ago. We had forest fires, we trees and plants dying. Parts of our land had huge dry cracks, I couldn’t see the bottom of them.

That was then. This is now. It’s pouring down.

When we used to live in England, the rain started at the end of August, and lasted until the beginning of the next August. And it was cold. Here, it comes a few hours at a time, and it isn’t cold - but when it comes, it comes.

Down in Malaga, there is a sort of a car park, in a dry river bed, very convenient for locals and visitors to the nearby hospital. It has been raining - hard - for about 12 hours. I have had to pump water OUT of the pool, the cracks in the land have long since filled up and collapsed to make the ground nice and flat, and I can almost hear the orange trees whispering “thank goodness”. Every one knows it’s raining.

Except the guys who have parked in the dried up river, apparently! What’s the matter with these people, don’t they look out of their windows?

12 hours heavy rain, and a car parked in a dry river bed - even if alarm bells were not ringing, you would think that something would be whispering around somewhere. “Move the car”

Well, there’s no need to move the car now. It has been moved. Together with a dozen other cars. They have all be swept downriver - yes, it’s a river now, perhaps something to do with the rain? Some of them are jammed under a bridge, and some of them have been swept out to see.

The real problem is, some poor police driver has to get down into the cars, jammed under the bridge, and make sure that no-one was in the car. Of course, if the cars shift in the floods, the diver would be in real trouble. Fortunatlely, no-one was, they didn’t, and he wasn’t.

But remember, people, when it rains, the water runs into rivers.

Even in Spain.

It’s Malaga Feria again, and the whole city is alive. How come the Spanish manage to have so much fun?

My neighbour has been promising to introduce me to bull fighting. He comes across to my gate, and announces that he is going to buy tickets, do I want to go? I have been waiting for a couple of years for this. Pedro knows Spain. Not only is he Spanish, but he can explain Spain - well, he can explain parts of it. I mean, we could go to a bullfight on our own, but how could we understand what is going on? As English, we were even surprised to find that bullfights are in the arts section of the newspaper, not the sports section.

So the answer is yes, please!

I dash into the house. “Guess what, Pedro has invited me to the bullfight”. I get that look. “Do you know how much it will cost?” “Err… no… I didn’t think to ask”. “Well, sometimes the tickets at the big events are a couple of hundred Euros”

I hadn’t thought of that. We are going on the first night, the names on the bill are well known. Oh, eck…

I needn’t have worried. Pedro got us 24 Euro tickets. “Right up at the top”, he boasts, “we will be able to see everything”. It has been decided that it is going to be a mens evening out - of course - Pedro is Spanish…

So off we trot to the Plaza del Toros in Malaga. Crowds throng around the entrances, and in the nearby bars. “We must have a coffee first” says Pedro. So we walk along the road a little way, to a bar where we can see the counter. Three coffees are ordered, and the explanations begin. Some of the Matadors were local, and all were very brave. The bar we had chosen had pictures of the bullring when it was being constructed in the 1870s. There were no buildings nearby when it was built - now it is surrounded by high rises.

Finish the coffees, a smile and a wave to the barstaff, and we are off. We find our entrance - there seem to be hundreds of doors. We are going in the shade side, which is nice, because it is early evening, but still hot. Shade side tickets are more expensive that sun side tickets. Pedro has invested wisely.

We climb the open staircases to the top, and I am surprised to find that the whole section is divided into boxes. I expected circles of seats, like a circus, but that’s not what I find at all. Each little box has about 18 white plastic seats in it, and ours is shared by about 4 groups of people. There are two rows of about 5 or 6 seats at the front of each box, and further back, there are banks of concrete steps on either side of the entrance. Our seats are at the back, and the floor level where our seats were is about two metres above the floor of the entrance. And of course, there are no safety rails. But we can stand up without spoiling anyones views.

Below us, is another level similar to ours, and more below that. I start to count up the people, estimating how big the crowd is, I get over 12,000, and get distracted. The couple in front of me, an older Spanish couple, have heard my accent. “You are English?” “Yes, and it is my first visit to the toros, so I hope that you don’t mind if I ask you questions about it”. They both beam. “Of course not, this is our culture, the culture of our fathers, and of their fathers, and we are very pleased that you are interested”

To one side is a full band, playing that special kind of Andalucian music which has to be played slightly out of tune to give it that genuine feel. After a couple of works from them, there is a blast from the other side of the stadium - half a dozen buglers announce the start of the spectacle.

The bulls were huge. I had always thought that the whole thing was a little unfair, you know that the bull is going to die. But when you see their sheer size and strength, you realise that it isn’t as one sided as you might have thought. And my new Spanish friends tell me that some bulls survive, and are treated as celebrities - although not many of them.

I remember my first real Spanish Christmas, spent with a Spanish family in the Spanish way. We were welcomed into an intimate part of their life, and that’s the way it felt now. I didn’t see or hear any other foreigners, it isn’t for the holidaymakers, it’s a celebration of Spain, of Andalucia.

One of the parties has the tray of cakes out, and it is passed around to everyone. My friend says no, but is finally convinced by the sheer shouting and calling of the women to accept a cake. The man comes round selling seeds, and another couple who are selling water, cola, beer, and whisky. The scene is set.

There is an organisation in each bulls appearance, in each Corrida. Firstly the horsemen, the picadors, put their spears into the bulls neck. And the bull doesn’t take it lightly, more than once it looks as though the horse is going to be turned over. The second act has the banderillos with their darts, and now the bull is slowing down. In the final act, the faena, the matador takes control of the stage. He has to show his mastery over the bull. The bull may be slowing down, but he can be deceptive, suddenly lunging when unexpected, and thousands of voices shout ‘ahh’ together as the matador nimbly leaps to one side. Finally, the matador goes for the kill.

In one corrida, the matador is not very graceful, not very elegant in his attacks, and the audience is not pleased. If the dance is not done correctly, then it should not be done, I am told.

But then, one matador takes a fast moving bull, leaping to one side at the last moment, and I, and about 10,000 other people jumped to our feet as the bull unexpectedly leaps at him. Finally, his sheer skill tires out the bull, and he goes in for the kill. But it has be to done with style, there is a correct time, a correct way, and this matador times it perfectly. He thrusts forward, takes the bull, and the bull collapses, shudders, and is still. Suddenly, the whole stadium are on their feet, white handkerchiefs waving, shouts of “To-re-ro” ringing out in a supplication to the president of the fight, to offer the man the ears of the bull.

I have been priveliged to take part in A Very Spanish Occassion.