The Spanish have so many wonderful things going for them, that I can only lament that I spent the first thirteen years of my life living elsewhere.
My parents felt the same way, and loaded up the car in Norfolk for what would become a one-way trip south back in 1966.
And he we are - or at least, here I am (my parents having duly succumbed many years ago, surrounded by friends, to one of what used to be Spain's greatest attractions - coñac at five pesetas a tot).
I live quietly, having learned a few vital lessons about life here:
Never lend your money to friends, or start a newspaper - which comes pretty much to the same thing.
Steer away from brandy.
Never keep the nub end of a joint in your car's ashtray (long story).
Always order the tarta al whisky after a good lunch.
Spain's Whisky Tart is a sort of vanillery helado thing, with a few crushed nuts and a bit of sponge, and a miniscule squirt of hootch to add flavour. Imagine that - an alcoholic ice-cream!
When you order it in one of this country's one million better restaurants, then the maître will bring a bottle of scotch and either baptise your desert in that generous devil-may-care way so typical of the Spanish, or even leave the bottle next to your plate for you to drown your bowl of ice-cream a tu gusto.
As a young 'un, I used to have the flan with a tinned peach for pud; good in its way, but nowhere close to a whisky tart.
In fact, I think I'll indulge myself right now - the essay needs a picture, right?
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