421: Life's a beach and then you die

     Sorry not to write so many blogs these days. They really must take 4th place behind trying to maintain a minimum level of fitness, trying to improve my Spanish by progressing from Basic to Intermediate, and preparing for English lessons. The trying to keep a level of fitness moves up and down the to-do list depending on what the scales report in the morning. They reported bad news this morning so I'm just back in from a run/walk along the beach. Salou is a bit like a ghost town now most of the tourists have gone home and it's lovely running along the sand listening to the waves of the Mediterranean gently lapping onto the beach. This is the life.
     I try not to have too many chocolate 'goodies' in the flat so as not to be tempted, but returning from a run, with the endorphins whizzing around, there is almost always a craving for some food. This morning was no exception. All I could find, that wasn't a 'proper' meal, was a foosty old carrot. Better than nothing at all, but only just. 
     It's been a busy old week. Last Saturday I went to Tarragona, 25 minutes on the bus, and met my Russian friends Sasha and Natalia who had travelled South from Barcelona to meet me. We had a very nice lunch in El Corte Ingles and then went off to view the old Roman ruins and amphitheatre.
      On Sunday, after church, I took the train to Cambrils and walked back to Salou. A beautiful walk along the coast. And with it being Sunday, there were no immigrants hawking their wares on the no-man's land between Cambrils and Salou forcing pedestrians onto the cycle path by filling the available pavement with trainers, sunglasses, football shirts, hats etc.
   Two encounters with Spanish bureaucracy this week. On Monday I visited a police station in Tarragona to register my presence in Salou. In the 'unlikely' event of Brexit going '****-up' I wanted to increase my chances of not being evicted from Spain. I took every piece of paperwork I had ever owned, just in case they might ask for it. In the event the 'interview' went quite well. Apart from the 'tasa'. They almost finish the paperwork and then send you off to find a bank to pay 12 Euros 'tax'. Why you can't pay it on the spot eludes me. You return, post-haste, waving a receipted piece of paper, and they hand you your registration card. The next brush with bureaucracy was at the offices of the INSS (Spanish Social Security) in Reus. Of course, I had taken the wrong form but they gave me the right one and kindly allowed me to fill it in at the desk rather than sending me away to book another appointment for another day. I left there with a stamped piece of paper in my sweaty little mitt and a promise that they would send me something through the post. Whether that will be a Social Security number or a medical entitlement card remains to be seen.
     And now it's time to make some soup for lunch - with the rest of the foosty carrots.
      And finally, talking about carrots....