This appears to be what our neighbours are doing, but let me explain.
A few years ago they replaced the traditional Spanish style roof tiles with black corrugated aluminium sheeting which was not only ugly but apparently leaked even more than the tiles and so they decided to take drastic action.
They have moved out for six months and the builders moved in last Monday, furiously knocking down walls and gable ends because apparently, the plan is to now give the house a flat roof. Not only that, they intend to rebuild the first floors and add extra rooms.
I shudder to think of the cost involved and when I asked one of the builders how things were going, he more or less said that they were building the house from scratch. My thoughts exactly and one wonders why they didn’t simply sell up and buy another house?
Spanish roof tiles, if fitted correctly, are not difficult to repair or replace – I’ve done it myself plenty of times.
This is certainly not a job for the faint-hearted and the builders haven’t wasted any time getting stuck in. They start at seven in the morning and don’t stop until five pm and we’re just about getting used to the noise, which has another six months to go. On the other hand, our circumstances have recently changed, so it may well be us looking to move.
There’s been a delay in the Spanish version, but I’m hoping to publish El Ultimo Presidente Ingles sometime in October 2021, when it will be available in paperback and Kindle versions. This is due to having to change horses mid-stream as my original translator went walkabout.
I’m lucky to have found a truly professional translator here in Buenos Aires. She understands the nuances of translation, not to mention the subtle differences in South American Spanish vs Castilian.
UPDATE
Now due for publication in late January or early February 2022.
Whether gel or lead acid, you’d be lucky to get more than two years use from them, but I’m trying with a new gel.
Like everyone, I try to squeeze as much life out of my purchases as I can, especially here in Argentina, but no matter how much TLC I give my bike batteries, they always give up the ghost after 18 months. I once managed to stretch one out to 2 years, but that must have been a fluke. This, in spite of me checking the fluid levels religiously and not leaving the ignition on etc.
If kept in a charged state when unused, the common lifespan of a 12-volt Gel or AGM battery is up to six years. After five or six years of float voltage at an average ambient temperature of 25 ºC, the battery still retains 80 % of its original capacity.
Not being a cold country, one would expect them to last longer since batteries hate the cold, but that’s not the case. Anyway, by the time you’ve run out of friends to push you or you it simply becomes so much of a pain in the rear, it’s time to bit the bullet and buy a new one.
What’s always surprised is how much cranking power you can get out of something so small.
I’ve published two books in the last few years. One is an account of how I sailed a small boat from the Wales to Spain and the other is a political thriller set in Argentina.
I’ve been at this courier work for about three years now, but it’s only since last year that things have really picked up – so much so that there’s rarely a day when I’m not on the bike.
The furthest so far has been La Plata and back, which is about 150kms. Most days it’s 30kms around the city or some days, Bella Vista, Retiro, Don Torcuato.
30kms in and around the city feels like 150kms to La Plata and back, especially if you don’t get the green wave of traffic lights.
My main enemies are:
Traffic lights
All other cars
Buses
Taxis
Potholes
Cobbled streets
Drizzle. Rain, I can handle.
I always ask people to come down/out of from their flats/appts/shops due to not wanting to leave the bike unattended, not to mention the issue of social distancing. However, some people still want to shake hands, would you believe?
And don’t get me on gated communities – they have to come to the gate now because of the hassle of having to provide an ID card, driving license, insurance, having your photo taken and whatever else they can think of.
In March 2019 I was interviewed by an Italian journalist living in Buenos Aires who writes for Versione Argentina and we spoke about the recent launch of my novel The Last British President.
Here’s a short extract and you can read the rest in the link below.
Q: How long have you been an expat in Argentina and when did you feel you had enough material for a book?
I’ve been living in Argentina since 2005, but it wasn’t until around 2013 that the idea of the book came to me. This was during the latter years of the Kirchner regime and in 2016 I wrote the first page, with thoughts of that particular government fighting for space in my head.
I was feeling very frustrated and angry (with the regime) at the time, which perhaps helped lubricate my mind.
Do you remember that glorious and heady day back in December 2007? Well I do and I can’t forget how we watched you receive that stick from your husband as we sipped our Quilmes glued to the tiny TV screen in that little beach bar in Carilo. Oh how we envied you! From First Lady to president as if in some magical fairy tale; and did you look pretty, dressed in that lovely white suit? You were the belle of the ball and we all wanted that first dance with you.
But of course all honeymoons come to an end and soon enough those imperialist Yankees were pulling your chain and ruffling your wonderful auburn locks with talk of cash and suitcases. And what did you do? Quite rightly you gave them a good slapping and sent the US ambassador to Coventry where he belonged without any supper. All great leaders are tested in their first days in the hot seat my precious and if it hadn’t been for the help of Uncle Hugo, it could all have been rather slippery.
Summer is a time for holidays of course and even your place in the world can’t last forever, so it’s back to the office only to find those pesky farmers in their 4 X 4’s moaning and groaning, banging silly pots and pans and holding up all the traffic. Lordy lordy, some people just have it so easy don’t they? But you stuck to your guns, whipped up those congressional stragglers and threw down the gauntlet. Way to go lady! But you didn’t reckon on being stabbed in the back did you? Most of us don’t, so when that fellow from Mendoza jumps ship, it’s really too much isn’t it? So you send him to Coventry too and he definitely doesn’t get a goodnight story for his bedtime.
Oh those were the days and since then it’s been one long roller-coaster hasn’t it? Just when you think it’s safe to dip your perfectly manicured toes in the water, a nasty croc comes along and tries to savage you. And that’s after you’ve raided the piggy bank to give your money to those poor wretches with sixteen children and two goats. The cheek of it, to pile lie after lie on your shoulders and accuse you of making off with all that loot. I mean, a president’s got to eat hasn’t she? Yes she has, so to make amends you get some mates together and deliver a master-stroke of stealth and cunning, and give back to the people what they always wanted back. But unfortunately you chose wrong and ended up with a string of petrol stations and a dead cow. But heck, you’re patient and those two little windswept sisters will one day come crawling back to mummy, just you wait and see. And if ever you need a rock solid shoulder to lean on, they’re always there aren’t they?
But those snappy crocs just won’t go away and before you can say International Monetary Fund you’re overrun with crazy ungrateful zombies marching outside your house making a God-awful racket and setting the dogs off. Then those loony unions and their truckers bring the entire country, yes your country, to a grinding halt and someone steals your lovely boat and won’t give it back until you fork out a few million and send it to some bloke in New York. The cheek of it!
It’s at times like this when you wish you were back on those sun kissed Seychelles beaches topping up your golden tan, sipping a daiquiri and checking the piggy bank hasn’t been nicked since you last looked, but that overweight, chain smoking anarchist who ponces about the stage with a silly microphone goes and spoils it all, so you get one of your mates to write him a strongly worded letter on live TV. Live TV no less! Reminds me of when I sent a similar letter to my bank manager; but would he listen? Heck no, so your secret’s safe with me, don’t worry love.
Time for a lie down in a darkened room for you my girl before those nasty vultures start a swooping and a snooping. God knows they’ve been up there long enough.
If only Willy Moreno were there to hold your hand and whisper sweet nothings in your ear right now. He doesn’t take any nonsense and really knows how to stick it to those snivelling, lying media types who’ll print anything for buck or two. No sir, he doesn’t mess around, which is more than we could say for that long haired lover boy and his bike. What is it with you and VP’s anyway? The first one shafts you and this one doesn’t know diddly and now he’s banged to rights, or soon will be if you hadn’t taken pity on the kid.
You see, it’s tough being surrounded by anarchists and backstabbers only to find that, worse than taking dumb questions from some equally dumb Yankee Imperialist students in Harvard and some other place you can’t remember, some stinking Arabs are actually baying for your blood. Yes! They want to kill you!
You, who have strived your entire and let’s face it, successful career, for the betterement of well, mostly you actually. But let’s not digress. You’ve some hotels to attend to, a broken ankle, another lawsuit from slime balls who want to steal your money and all you want to do is crawl into bed and cuddle your puppies and penguins.
But wait, who’s that knocking at the door in the middle of the night? Couldn’t they have Tweeted or Facebooked you for crying out loud? I mean, how utterly selfish some people are to interrupt your beauty sleep just to let you know that some pain in the ass attorney managed to top himself during the night? Yes, that bloke who reckoned you’d misbehaved with those rag heads in some Middle Eastern country you’d rather forget and not a few hours hence was about to go striding off to the upper school and spill the beans to teacher. For doing what comes naturally to a President; something no one ever seems to understand, namely playing with the big boys but not actually remembering everything because some Neanderthals usually do that sort of thing for you. They will just keep bothering you with details won’t they and now they expect you to actually say something on live TV? With that ankle too?
Lord above, you haven’t trained those monkeys for nothing have you? Why can’t they just open their mouths when you tell them to? Or preferably not at all? And what’s that Bernie bloke or whatever his name is doing by tramping about that posh apartment and looking for clues that you know will never be found. I thought you’d reeled him in anyway?
But no, they still want to see your face don’t they? It’s not enough that you’ve got a meal to prepare, pages to like, friends to tweet and puppies and penguins to cuddle. They always want more, even when you told them you don’t do live TV during the holidays. Have they got no feelings at all? So why not curl up on the sofa with puppy Simon and Peter penguin and join your Facebook friends?
