IN the six years since I bought my home in Spain, my spectacles have become a shade pinker.
I love the country, I love the people, I love the lifestyle - and of course I l adore the weather. OK, I’m not so keen on the Gota Fria but that doesn’t stop me being an unashamed Spanofile.
Having said that, Spain is far from perfect. In fact, there are things I loathe about this country.
The lunatic drivers and useless administrators, shop assistants who chat on the phone when customers need service, electricity companies that have no qualms about leaving old ladies in the dark if a payment is delayed.
And of course, the mañana, mañana mentality in just about every aspect of life. I could go on and on.
When it comes to organisation and administration, Spain is a Third World entity. However much we expats rip into the old country (and there’s plenty to rip into), when it comes to recording information, British bureaucracy takes some beating.
The UK system has been tried and trusted over generations and one simple phone call is invariably all it takes to iron out the glitch.
In Spain, if you ring your electricity, gas and water suppliers with a query, they’ll either be unable to find you on the company database, have your name, address or phone number wrong (often all three) wrong - or say they will call you back. Which they won’t.
This is, of course, a totally subjective opinion, since our individual experiences differ. This applies to hospital stays, too.
The reaction of readers to last week’s article on my recent stay in Torrevieja Hospital suggests that most expats regard the Spanish health service as superior to the NHS.
Yet the same article posted on one of my blog sites – and read more by people in Britain - prompted exactly the opposite response.
Which left me in a state of limbo over my own treatment because, whilst I adored the hospital itself, there were a couple of worrying elements of my six days in dock.
l The ‘mañana mañana’ mentality of the nurses when I pressed the call button. On one occasion I waited ten minutes for someone to come after telling them over the speaker that I needed assistance.
lThe near-sadistic behaviour of one impatient young male nurse when he couldn’t find a usable vein in either of my arms to insert a canula.
l In contrast with my after-care at Rochdale, where I had two coronary stents inserted in 2009, no proper advice on what to do and not to do in the immediate future.
The male nurse with an attitude came to the ‘rescue’ after a canula worked its way out of the back of my right hand, causing blood to drip all over the floor.
He wasn’t happy from the start and things got worse when he couldn’t find a usable vein in either arm in which to insert a new probe. I closed my eyes and froze as he pummelled away at my skin, trying to tempt even a mini-vein out of hiding.
At one point, he thought he found one, only to lose it. ‘’Stop moving!’’ he yelled in frustration, even though I hadn’t budged a millimeter. Problem was that my veins had become so incensed at being treated like a pin cushion that they’d gone into hiding. And this hot-blooded horror was bent on needling them into surrender.
He eventually found a way into my right arm just above elbow level. It felt distinctly uncomfortable. I suspected something was not quite right but his mood alone sealed my lips.
Within a couple of hours, my right bicep was almost solid. The canula had to go – and this time an angel of a nurse descended and soothingly found an entry point in the back of my left hand.
She was typical of the nursing staff of both sexes…sweet and caring. But while it was an isolated incident, he of the black mood left a dark cloud over my overall experience.
My discharge from hospital was also rather strange. Unlike in Rochdale, where I had my first angioplasty, there was no advice not to drive for a few days, and no little card for my handbag, detailing my condition and medication in case of emergency. And no proper details on recuperation procedure.
I can only assume this was because I had been through the same stenting process before – and know the drill like the back of my hand - what’s left of it after Mr Nasty’s needle session.
Well, I do know what I should do.
Basically, it’s a case of eating the right food, getting some exercise and taking things easier. Unfortunately I suffer from an incurable infection called workaholism, which undoubtedly contributed to the events that put me in hospital.
I’m now under strict orders to ease back – with an unwinnable battle ahead if I don’t take my foot off the gas.
And it’s not the angina that I fear most.
It’s my colleagues at The Courier.
Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) November 25, 2011
I love the country, I love the people, I love the lifestyle - and of course I l adore the weather. OK, I’m not so keen on the Gota Fria but that doesn’t stop me being an unashamed Spanofile.
Having said that, Spain is far from perfect. In fact, there are things I loathe about this country.
The lunatic drivers and useless administrators, shop assistants who chat on the phone when customers need service, electricity companies that have no qualms about leaving old ladies in the dark if a payment is delayed.
And of course, the mañana, mañana mentality in just about every aspect of life. I could go on and on.
The UK system has been tried and trusted over generations and one simple phone call is invariably all it takes to iron out the glitch.
In Spain, if you ring your electricity, gas and water suppliers with a query, they’ll either be unable to find you on the company database, have your name, address or phone number wrong (often all three) wrong - or say they will call you back. Which they won’t.
This is, of course, a totally subjective opinion, since our individual experiences differ. This applies to hospital stays, too.
The reaction of readers to last week’s article on my recent stay in Torrevieja Hospital suggests that most expats regard the Spanish health service as superior to the NHS.
Yet the same article posted on one of my blog sites – and read more by people in Britain - prompted exactly the opposite response.
Which left me in a state of limbo over my own treatment because, whilst I adored the hospital itself, there were a couple of worrying elements of my six days in dock.
l The ‘mañana mañana’ mentality of the nurses when I pressed the call button. On one occasion I waited ten minutes for someone to come after telling them over the speaker that I needed assistance.
lThe near-sadistic behaviour of one impatient young male nurse when he couldn’t find a usable vein in either of my arms to insert a canula.
l In contrast with my after-care at Rochdale, where I had two coronary stents inserted in 2009, no proper advice on what to do and not to do in the immediate future.
The male nurse with an attitude came to the ‘rescue’ after a canula worked its way out of the back of my right hand, causing blood to drip all over the floor.
He wasn’t happy from the start and things got worse when he couldn’t find a usable vein in either arm in which to insert a new probe. I closed my eyes and froze as he pummelled away at my skin, trying to tempt even a mini-vein out of hiding.
At one point, he thought he found one, only to lose it. ‘’Stop moving!’’ he yelled in frustration, even though I hadn’t budged a millimeter. Problem was that my veins had become so incensed at being treated like a pin cushion that they’d gone into hiding. And this hot-blooded horror was bent on needling them into surrender.
He eventually found a way into my right arm just above elbow level. It felt distinctly uncomfortable. I suspected something was not quite right but his mood alone sealed my lips.
Within a couple of hours, my right bicep was almost solid. The canula had to go – and this time an angel of a nurse descended and soothingly found an entry point in the back of my left hand.
She was typical of the nursing staff of both sexes…sweet and caring. But while it was an isolated incident, he of the black mood left a dark cloud over my overall experience.
My discharge from hospital was also rather strange. Unlike in Rochdale, where I had my first angioplasty, there was no advice not to drive for a few days, and no little card for my handbag, detailing my condition and medication in case of emergency. And no proper details on recuperation procedure.
I can only assume this was because I had been through the same stenting process before – and know the drill like the back of my hand - what’s left of it after Mr Nasty’s needle session.
Well, I do know what I should do.
Basically, it’s a case of eating the right food, getting some exercise and taking things easier. Unfortunately I suffer from an incurable infection called workaholism, which undoubtedly contributed to the events that put me in hospital.
I’m now under strict orders to ease back – with an unwinnable battle ahead if I don’t take my foot off the gas.
And it’s not the angina that I fear most.
It’s my colleagues at The Courier.
Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) November 25, 2011
