FLYING CARS, FLYING PIGS — AND STILL NO BLOODY WATER BILL

Thirty years in Spain, a mountain of paperwork and technology that knows my shopping list but still doesn’t know I’m ME.

Life in Spain after thirty years together was never going to untangle itself overnight. But between Spanish bureaucracy, missing water bills and technology that refuses to recognise me, going solo in Mijas has become an adventure fuelled by Red Bull Light, custard creams and a determination to keep laughing.

Antonio is still in residence. Not romantically. Por favor. Before somebody in Fuengirola buys a hat. He is still eating the custard creams and sucking his teeth every time he glimpses a wire. You would think, being an electrician, he might have made his peace with them by now.

“Uf, Michel… complicado.” I open a Red Bull Light. He reaches for another biscuit. Whatever we thought we were doing today will take a little longer. One cable requires coffee. Two require a discussion. Three and we need Paco. Paco is coming mañana.

Meanwhile, I’m untangling thirty years of being one, personally and professionally. You don’t realise how much is joined together until you try to separate it. An account. An email address. Something ordinary suddenly requires three appointments and your mother’s inside-leg measurement. You imagine going solo means finding yourself. In Spain, it means finding your NIE and somebody prepared to certify that you are the woman holding it.

I embraced technology. Learned it in my own way, usually because there was a business to run. What I hadn’t realised was how much of my daily life had been copied, automated and bastardised into systems now personally offended that anything has changed. Banks. Doctors. Electricity. Even the custard creams.

“Would you like your receipt emailed?” No, cariño. In the bag. Antonio will have eaten the evidence before I remember my password. We can pay for coffee with a watch, but obtaining a water bill apparently requires permission from the descendants of Ferdinand and Isabella.

Spanish Bureaucracy and the Missing Water Bill

The postman hasn’t delivered mine. I just want a copy. I’m offering to pay somebody. Surely that should help? “Online, señora.” Online sends me to the office. The office requires an appointment. Booked online. It’s a Spanish roundabout with somebody moving your exit.

This isn’t a Challenge Anneka moment. It’s a mountain expedition, and these stilettos were NOT bought for climbing. First, prove who you are. Then prove where you live. Next, presumably, a sworn statement from the tap. I’m not asking to buy the Guadalquivir. I want to pay for my shower.

My new best friend is the notary. I bring documents; he brings a stamp. We see so much of each other we’re practically pareja de hecho. Outside, artificial intelligence is transforming civilisation. Inside, everything depends on whether I’ve brought the original. Then the lawyers. Then another signature. Then somebody wonders why I end up in hospital.

My doctors are wonderful. The nurses are amazing. Their kindness has carried me through frightening moments, and I don’t forget that. But the records. Madre mía. My medical history spans decades; I understand systems have changed since Adam first plugged in a computer. Nevertheless, I am a current patient with current issues.

Every visit, we return to my trial drug in 2011. Congratulations, Michel! It wasn’t the placebo! Estupendo. Still delighted. Fifteen years later. I appreciate the science is more complicated, but my continuing to arrive with a handbag has been encouraging. After nearly two years of regular appointments, could we discuss the woman here TODAY?

I’ve been around long enough for a Christmas party invitation. We don’t discuss the Christmas party. We never stop discussing 2011. It’s Back to the Future with a cita previa, and I’m paying for parking. If I ever need an amputation, I’m arriving with “ESTA PIERNA” written in lipstick and a notarised declaration around my ankle. A joke. Although I would bring the declaration.

Surely hospital records should benefit from all this clever technology? Amazon knows I’m pouring my last coconut water. “More Red Bull Light? Blue gin? Blue tonic? Are you shopping elsewhere?” Now a warehouse thinks I’m being unfaithful.

Yes to the Red Bull Light, Amazon. Keep it coming. But unfortunately, the consumer of the blue gin and blue tonic has moved on to pastures new. The last bottles you delivered remain in their usual places, patiently awaiting a drinker. You know about the coconut water, yet you’ve missed that rather significant household update.

And how have you missed Antonio? He likes whisky. Blue gin, apparently, is a woman’s drink, suitable for a ladies’ lunch. His phone updates regularly. His opinions could do with the same treatment. Hence his largely garage-based existence, with occasional promotion to looking after Gracie and Teddy. Joking apart, knowing they’re happy and cared for means a great deal. Even if it costs another packet of custard creams.

That’s the Spain I keep bumping into: modern technology alongside some remarkably dated assumptions. Yes, I am the woman making the decision. Sí, yo. No, there isn’t another grown-up you need to telephone. I love this country’s warmth and generosity. But I’ve learned that “no se preocupe” can sometimes mean we’re all going to stop worrying until Monday.

My front door can spot the neighbour’s elbow before the rest of him has decided whether to visit. The office door is equally observant. Nobody knows where my post is. My music plays automatically. My clocks change themselves. Even the lamps understand appointments. My lawyer, charging me organ by organ, can’t send a message saying he’s an hour late. “Michel, voy con retraso.” I could have visited the notary. Keep the relationship alive.

And then there’s the fire. Our electric log-effect fire has worked perfectly for nearly twenty years. Never asked for a password. We understood each other. On Sunday, after the clocks went back—thirty years would have been useful, but an hour will suffice— friends were coming round. I’d been missing without leave. I wanted company, conversation, a welcoming glow. A little life beyond paperwork.

I switched it on, purely for the effect. BUPHHH. Out it went. Nearly twenty years of faithful service, and it chooses THAT evening. But I have an electrician in residence! Here! Sustained at considerable expense by custard creams!

Except it’s Sunday. Electrical assistance, apparently, is a separate arrangement. The biscuits remain available seven days a week. REALLY, UNIVERSE? REALLY? The postman has disappeared. So has the previous occupant, Mr E. Now the main-board fuse has joined them.

I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but I’m asking serious questions. Are they together? Somewhere, is there a man drinking blue gin, a postman holding my water bill and a fuse enjoying a lovely Sunday? Meanwhile, my electrician is observing the Sabbath between custard creams. I only wanted my friends round and some pretend burning logs.

When Technology Won’t Let You Relax

Other evenings, I just want the dogs, a Red Bull Light and television. Something requiring nothing from me. The television has other ideas. Sign in. Scan this. We’ve sent a code. Where? To the old email address. Of course.

Google, I KNOW I used it for twenty years. I was there. Life has changed. Se acabó. Use the one I keep giving you. I’m on the sofa with the phone, the remote and the expression of a woman negotiating her own release. One dog is on my lap. The other wonders why we’re watching a square full of smaller squares.

The Sofa Governing Board has rejected my application to relax. Password. Passkey. Facial recognition. “Face not recognised.” Well, hombre, I have had quite a day of it. The hair is tousled. The brow is furrowed. But the lipstick is on. Do you need the notary? He’ll recognise me. We’re practically living together. By the time I’m authorised to watch the programme, I’ve forgotten what it was.

We’re entering the age of flying cars. In my world, it’ll be flying pigs before somebody says, “Sí, señora. We recognise you. All sorted.” There’ll be a pig circling Málaga airport. Hopefully carrying my water bill.

For the time being, anyway—we don’t want to alert the system to another possible identity crisis. I’m not an AI version. I’m a woman finding her feet after thirty years.

Finding My Feet, Going Solo in Spain

Some days I can take on the world. Face my mini Frankenstein in the gym with vigour. Give it everything. Other days, another password, another passkey, reduces me to rubble. It’s never really just the password, is it? It’s everything you’ve managed before you reached it.

Then Antonio sucks his teeth at another wire, and somehow I’m laughing again. Gracie and Teddy come close. They know when I need company more than another solution. I’m still putting the lipstick on. Still going forward, even when it takes longer than I hoped.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, someone remembered. White roses and lilies. My absolute, ultimate hug. Delivered to the office upon my return. No message. No note. Nothing to tell me who to thank. Just beautiful flowers and the most extraordinary timing.

After all that proving who I am, somebody remembered something that makes me feel loved. I stood there and let myself enjoy it. Underneath the paperwork, the frustration and the lipstick, I’m still a woman whose day can be changed by white roses and lilies. And that, for the moment, isn’t changing.