The post below which reproduces my Guardian column should have appeared on the day of its publication. Well it would have done had Telefonica not cut off my phone and internet.
Anybody planning a move to Spain should take this series of events as a warning. It started on Friday May 26 when my internet connection died at about 10.15am. Picking up the phone I found the dial tone had been replaced by a series of rapid beeps. So I called Telefonica using my mobile. (The number's 1004 and if you say "Ingles" at the appropriate moment when the recorded message goes quiet you'll get through to an English-speaking operator.)
I was told there was an outstanding bill. That was the first problem. I've made several attempts to change name and address on the bill from the previous owner. Telefonica would only tell me how much was owed if I could provide his full name and DNI number. I dug that out and was then able to find the exact figure outstanding.
In much of the world you'd be able to use one of the various bits of plastic in my wallet or the internet to pay. Not here. Instead you have to go to a specific bank and pay cash. You can't even do it from your own bank which has the standing order. The Telefonica operator told me I'd have to go to the BBVA bank.
So, off I went. Struggling with my abysmal Spanish, I worked out that the BBVA teller was explaining to me that I could only pay the bill between the 10th and 20th of the month. Remember I was doing this on the 26th.
There was a branch of my own bank nearby and so I thought I could at least deposit sufficient cash for me to make another attempt at paying online. By then it was nearly 2pm when the Spanish banks close.
On the Sunday I went to an internet café. I checked my bank account and Telefonica appeared to have been paid.
On Monday morning I called Telefonica to see how long it would be before I was reconnected. I was told it would be within 48 hours, but the money had not showed up yet. But that could just be the speed my bank operates.
Wednesday I was still without phone or internet. This time the operator told me that the money had not been paid. “Go and ask your bank.” I went back to the internet café and checked my account. At that point I realised my mistake. The money that had left my account was for the following month’s Telefonica bill. So, one payment was still outstanding.
A couple of the Telefonica operators had told me I could pay the bill as the Banesto bank on Tuesday or Thursday. I phoned to confirm the days and time, but the operator told me she could not give me the information without the DNI and full name of the person on the account. I called again with the previous owner’s details and now I knew that if I turned up at the Banesto bank with the correct cash and all the details between 8.30 and 10am it would be sorted.
At 8.35am I was in the bank. At noon the phone rang and a recorded message welcomed me to Telefonica.
There must be an easier way…
Monday, June 05, 2006
Help! My friends want to use my office as a guest house
This is my monthly column as it appeared in The Guardian on Friday May 26, 2006. (You can read it in its original form here.)
To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.
You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.
They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.
Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.
There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.
You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.
I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.
This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.
I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.
Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.
In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."
To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.
You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.
They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.
Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.
There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.
You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.
I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.
This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.
I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.
Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.
In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."
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