The tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with identity crisis continues.
1982. The two Guardia Civil arrive at my house.
"Buenos dias, senora." They greet me with big grins.
At least they're civil. No pun intended.
"Is that coffee I smell?" The big jefe, boss, enquires, his nose sniffing in appreciation of my culinary talents.
He can't really be expecting me to offer him coffee??! Not when he's here to denounce me.
"Would you like some?" I try to smile and be a gracious hostess.
"Well, yes, that would be nice. Muchisimas gracias, senora."
I disappear into the kitchen to get some cups, all the while muttering under my breath.
"Senora!"
"Yes?" I'm expecting them to tell me how much sugar they want in their coffee.
"Have you any typing paper? We seem to have left ours in the office."
They've got to be kidding. First of all they want coffee. Now, to add insult to injury, they expect me to provide them with typing paper so that they can type up my denouncement?!
"Anything else that you'd like?" I try not to speak too sarcastically.
"Can we use your table?"
They place their typewriter on top of the dining room table and proceed to type with one finger.
This is going to be a long process, I just know it.
"Senora, you do know that we'll have to clamp your vehicle?"
"What?" I hiss and splutter. Then my brain kicks in as I recall the butano man who has to have access to the garage when he replaces the butane bottles. "But the butano man, how can he enter the garage if my car is in front of it? With clamps on it, no less."
"Hmm. You're right senora. You need to be able to move your car. But, you must promise not to drive it. Palabara de honor. Word of honour."
I try not to laugh.
"Of course I won't drive it."
"Good coffee, senora. Very tasty." He swallows it in one gulp.
"We're giving you a fine."
"I haven't done anything wrong. I did check with the Customs in Tarragona and they told me all I had to do was take the car out of the country every six months. That's what I have done."
"Oh, don't worry, senora. You won't have to pay the fine."
"I won't?"
"No, of course not. We give you the fine, you appeal the fine. That's how it works."
And then they stood up and left.
How on earth was I to appeal the fine? TO BE CONTINUED
1982. The two Guardia Civil arrive at my house.
"Buenos dias, senora." They greet me with big grins.
At least they're civil. No pun intended.
"Is that coffee I smell?" The big jefe, boss, enquires, his nose sniffing in appreciation of my culinary talents.
He can't really be expecting me to offer him coffee??! Not when he's here to denounce me.
"Would you like some?" I try to smile and be a gracious hostess.
"Well, yes, that would be nice. Muchisimas gracias, senora."
I disappear into the kitchen to get some cups, all the while muttering under my breath.
"Senora!"
"Yes?" I'm expecting them to tell me how much sugar they want in their coffee.
"Have you any typing paper? We seem to have left ours in the office."
They've got to be kidding. First of all they want coffee. Now, to add insult to injury, they expect me to provide them with typing paper so that they can type up my denouncement?!
"Anything else that you'd like?" I try not to speak too sarcastically.
"Can we use your table?"
They place their typewriter on top of the dining room table and proceed to type with one finger.
This is going to be a long process, I just know it.
"Senora, you do know that we'll have to clamp your vehicle?"
"What?" I hiss and splutter. Then my brain kicks in as I recall the butano man who has to have access to the garage when he replaces the butane bottles. "But the butano man, how can he enter the garage if my car is in front of it? With clamps on it, no less."
"Hmm. You're right senora. You need to be able to move your car. But, you must promise not to drive it. Palabara de honor. Word of honour."
I try not to laugh.
"Of course I won't drive it."
"Good coffee, senora. Very tasty." He swallows it in one gulp.
"We're giving you a fine."
"I haven't done anything wrong. I did check with the Customs in Tarragona and they told me all I had to do was take the car out of the country every six months. That's what I have done."
"Oh, don't worry, senora. You won't have to pay the fine."
"I won't?"
"No, of course not. We give you the fine, you appeal the fine. That's how it works."
And then they stood up and left.
How on earth was I to appeal the fine? TO BE CONTINUED
Comments