Valerie and Theresa on Andreu Buenafuente’s show on La Sexta (Spanish TV Channel 6) on 4 February.

Have you heard the ‘good’ news? Starbucks is coming to Malaga. Or at least to Malaga airport- when the new terminal opens this Easter.  It’s eight years now since the first two Starbucks opened in Madrid. Today there are 71 of them cluttering up the centres of Madrid, Barcelona and Sevilla. There are also two in Valencia. The next time I fly I shall not be joining the queue.

Why should I? Why, oh why, would I want to drink bland overpriced coffee (possibly faffed around with highly calorific syrups and toppings) out of an environmentally-unfriendly paper cup the size of a small dustbin? Especially and particularly when I can get a proper cup or glass of the stuff in any old spit-and-sawdust bar for a third of the price?

True, in Starbucks there’s no smoking, and there are comfy sofas and chairs, there’s wifi and there are newspapers – though the latter is nothing new in Spanish bars. But do you really need a bucket of coffee? A bucket of milk? Does it make sense that the smallest size coffee you can buy (called ‘tall’) holds 12oz, or nearly two thirds of a pint? Do you want everywhere in the world to offer exactly the same food and drink and lifestyle products – well, more than it already does? Is the quality of your life improved by being able to choose from 960 different kinds of coffee, milk and toppings? Or would you be happy, you know, with just an ‘old-fashioned’ café con leche?

There are times, of course, when you want to savour your coffee in a place with slightly more charm and sophistication than your basic no frills bar with its blaring TV, noisy slot machines, cigarette butt-strewn floor and one well-thumbed copy of Marca. But I’m sure that wherever you live in Spain, you will know a handful of independent coffee shops and teterías, each with its own special atmosphere, décor and menu. How many of these will last a Starbucks invasion?

Yes, yes, I know I sound like parochial and, I’ll be honest, I would love it if Spanish cafés offered skimmed milk and soy milk. And it is also true that when I first set foot in a Starbucks in the UK eight or nine years ago, I loved the sofas and newspapers. And the coffee, well, it wasn’t bad compared to what else was around.

The point is, though, I am not in the UK. I am in Spain -  a great coffee-making, coffee-drinking nation that needs Starbucks like it needs an EU directive banning siestas, puentes (Thursday’s a holiday so we may as well have Friday off, too), or ferias that go on till dawn.

Whether you think Starbucks is simply offering the customer more choice or whether you believe it is a part of US cultural and economic imperialism (16,000 branches, 43 countries), this is what one protester had to say in a message scrawled outside one of its cafés in Sevilla:

“No seas hortera. Tómatelo cortadito y en vaso. Starbucks go home.” Don’t be vulgar. Drink it with a splash of milk in a glass. Starbucks go home.”

Recently I fell foul of La Ley de Falta Uno (The Law of One Thing Missing), which, as formulated by us, states that you can never ever complete a bureaucratic transaction in one go. Even something as apparently straightforward as picking up a registered letter at Correos is also subject to the law, as I discovered.

The letter was addressed to my son, who is away, in Australia no less. Hacienda (the tax people) have been pursuing him and threatening to grab 48 euros (plus fines for late payment) they say is owing from 2007, rather than his rebate of 400 y pico (he’s a poor student!) and our tax lawyer is fighting them at every step. As I’m usually at home, I sign for the letters (and then take them to the lawyer). But this time I found a notification from Correos in my mailbox when I got back from UK. Off I went to Correos in c Aragó. But they wouldn’t give me the letter. My ID was not sufficient to ‘prove’ that I am Eduard’s mother, even though I have Spanish ID with my own maiden name (and so the second surname on my son’s ID is Collins), and we have the same address. Banging my hand on my forehead I remembered the Law. I was so used to signing for Eduard’s mail that I’d forgotten about authorisations. So, resigned and kicking myself,  I trudged home to  grab my power of attorney, back to Correos, and back home, with the letter.

I calculated that just to pick up the letter I walked 28 Eixample blocks (the Eixample is the gridiron part of Barcelona built in the late 19th century). Anyone mathematically inclined can check out the length of an Eixample block and tell me how many kilometres I did.

But sometimes identity crises are not so easily solved, as I will explain in the near future.

You can read all about burocracia, Hacienda, Correos and apellidos (surnames) in the book.

No-one is ever going to persuade me that a cock goes quiquiriqui or kikiriki, no matter what its nationality. After years of beratement (yes, I know this word doesn’t exist but I feel it should) from my students, however, I am prepared to admit that cock-a-doodle-doo is also pushing it a bit. Perhaps the Japanese come closest with the cleaner kokekokkoo.   Take a listen and see what you think.  Kikiriki?

According to sociologist and journalist Amando de Miguel, ‘kik’ is a characteristic sound many birds make and also of things that hit against each other or move rapidly – in the romance-related languages at least. For example, in French, cocks go coquelicot, in Catalan, quiquiriquíc, and in Portuguese, cocorocó. He also makes the point that echar un quiqui is a ‘sweet’ way of saying to have hurried, spontaneous sex (from the English ‘to have a quickie’) – and that by way of association the  cock has always been a symbol of sexual masculinity.

Mm, if you say so Amando. Interestingly, the Greek word for rooster is kíkiros. And rooster, Spanish readers, is a handy alternative for the blush-inducing ‘cock’.

N.b. Any diehard Dylan fans out there will have noticed the title link.  In case not, here it is.

We all know what a Garlic Moment is.  Send us yours and we’ll post the best: they should not only be amusing but also helpful and instructive.  To kick off, here’s Georgina Tremayne from Barcelona with – what else? – a telephone problem.

Fatal Construction

Moving from one apartment to another apartment in the same town isn’t that difficult unless, of course, your mastery of the local language is a -1 on the fluency scale. That’s where www.spanishdict.com comes in handy. But take care. The moment you start feeling cocky is the moment it all goes to hell.

Having cunningly, (I thought), negotiated a new apartment contract with no intention of moving in for four weeks, it allowed enough time to get the internet and phone line working to coincide with our arrival. That was cock-up #1. And that was a long time ago.

Cock-up #2 was going to The Phone House, a ‘middle man’ (think Arthur Dailey) who pushes all sorts of phone and internet deals and lures you inside with promise of English speakers – otherwise you’d name yourself Casa de teléfono, wouldn’t you?

Cock-up #3 was choosing Vodafone, a UK company traded on the London stock exchange. Beware because I wasn’t aware. You can only get near the English speaking help desk if you’re a Taurus, your Chinese sign is a Rooster and you’re fluent in Spanish.

Cock-ups #4, #5 and #6 were getting two dead SIM cards from The Phone House and believing there was a phone line already installed in the apartment. The apartment had been renovated after being vacant for decades and there was no phone line, which led to a visit from Teléfonica, which led to complaints from the neighbors, which led to … oh, forget it.

Cock-ups #7-#10 involved eight trips to The Phone House as the original contract was lost over Christmas and, allegedly, was wrong anyway, more dead SIM cards and I’m pretty sure they invited me back once simply because they missed me.

Cock-up #11 was me. The third new phone number, because the first two were already in use after all, was a handwritten number. I could have sworn the digit for ‘one’ was a seven. It was a European ‘one,’ something that’s only clear to the trained eye. Yes, I thought it was hilarious too. Cock-up #12 was that the line hadn’t been activated.

Everyone remembers cock-up #11, not the three months it took me to get the problem resolved through sheer bloody effort and determination. I want an Oscar.

I suppose it’s like giving birth. Now the pain is over, the result was worth it.

Yep, I’ve been garlicked.

Animals ’speak’ different languages. An English dog responds to “Sit!” a Catalan dog to “¡Seu!” and a Spanish dog to the long-winded “¡Siéntate!” Of course, what they are responding to (or not, as the case may be) is the tone, not the word. My cats don’t care what I call them as long as I put on my high-pitched come-here-cutie-pie voice that just might mean food is in the offing. What, however, do they ’say’ back to me? Well, one of them makes a sound a bit like a seagull in pain, but generally speaking they make a little meow of delight. Or should I say miau, for they are Spanish cats.

The spelling may be different, but a meow and a miau, amount to pretty much the same thing. Dogs in Spain, on the other hand, do not go woof woof, but they do come close to bow-wow with guau-guau, or in Gallego jau-jau. Don’t ask me where the Catalans get bap-bap from. Likewise, cows go muu and sheep and goats behehe, which is of course exactly how they bleat in English, even though we write it ‘baa’. Bees bzzz, cuckoos call cúcu, and while burros don’t quite manage heehaw, iii-aah is close enough. Broody hens, on the other hand, clo-clo-clo as opposed to cluck-cluck-cluck and turkeys, perhaps more reasonably glu-glu-glu rather than gobble-gobble-gobble.

And what of little birdies? How come they tweet in English and say pío-pío in Spanish? Who knows, but in Spanish, Sylvester’s feathered friend Tweetie Pie is simply – and logically – called Piolin (cute little tweet).

Oh well, at least ducks the world over do something very similar to quacking (except in Greek, where they pa-pa-pa). In Spain, they cuac-cuac – or if they’re andaluz, cua-cua. Which reminds me of a Spanish joke. There’s this bloke who’s always boasting to his friend about how clever his duck is, so he invites him to his house for a demonstration. He says to the duck: “Bring me my sweater.” “¿Cuá?” says the duck. “El amarillo,” says the owner, “See what I mean?” (Cuál means which’, so the duck is asking: Which sweater? The yellow one.)

And before anyone mentions the word cock or gallo, that gets a mini post all of its own. Coming soon …