All write!

Working it in Gibraltar

2012-01-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

Does anyone out there know for sure what Gib's position is according to European Directives on employment?

Over the past couple of years, I have discovered that Gib's former administration has been notoriously slow on applying European directives on matters relating to the working classes, especially if that has involved making sure that ordinary people could exercise their rights. Take the example of the citizenship rights for Moroccan workers. This is still a scandal based on the denial of rights, and which may or may not be addressed by the new government.

Just on Friday, I was scandalised yet again, by what I interpret to be utterly archaic working practises - the sort you expect emerging from a leisurely read of a Dickensian novel. Not only does the current Gibraltar law entitle workers to only 15 days paid leave per year (the EU directive 93/104, which is cited on said amended piece of legislation, states four weeks' annual paid leave and to most people that would mean 20 days per year statutory minimum) but it can be interpreted in such a way as to require people to work a full year before being entitled to any time off at all. Like I said, archaic.

Las costureras

How does this work in practise? Well, say you got a job in a Main Street shop and started work on 1st September 2011 and had to wait a year to be eligible for your leave. Your employer could tell you that you cannot have any leave prior to 2012 at all. Some employers could make you wait until 1st September 2012 to start your leave, but let's assume that your employer is reasonable and allows you to take your retrospective entitlement of a third of a year's leave that you have accrued at the start of the new leave year in January 2012. That means that you can have a super summer holiday of a grand total of 5 days.

Of course, the more elucidated of us know full well that staff are more productive and loyal if they also have reasonable rest breaks, and they can balance their personal and professional lives much better with adequate leave - hence the European Directive. But the former Gibraltar government saw fit not to allow Gibraltarians the same rights as the rest of Europe. Somehow, as a tax paying citizen of Gibraltar, although I work for a good employer and have my 20 days annual leave, I feel cheated on behalf of my fellow-citizens. And let's be totally clear, while I'm not particularly partisan towards one or other party, it was the GSD that was in power when the Directive had to be imposed in 2000.

Now, I know - although only on a very basic level - that Gib is not fully in the "EC Club". It has followed the UK in many matters, however, and has its own customs and tax arrangements, hence the painfully irritating border "controls" we have to negotiate whenever we want to take a day trip to the beautiful Andalucian countryside that surrounds us. But as a member of the broader EU, Gib surely has to follow EU Directives on a wide number of issues, such as environmental protection issues, and this should include employment law.

Or so I thought. Perhaps I am mistaken and there are those of you out there who can enlighten me on it? Either way, as someone said quite recently in Gib - "it's time for a change".

Posse of Poets

2011-03-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

Some of Gibraltar's poets, or persons who write poetry, gathered at the John Mackintosh Hall for the launch of a self-published book by Sonia Golt, "Love Letters I never mailed," March 24th 2011.

Is there a collective noun for poets? I've had a trawl around the net and in my dictionaries but could find nothing except some questionable suggestions. Anyway, the photo above is as good a collection of poets as can be gathered together on a gloomy March evening to listen to each other's murmerings and musings (a murmer of poets?). The other reason for the bardic invasion of the stage was to launch Sonia Golt's book, Love Letters I never mailed, in which Sonia publishes some of her stories and a novella, all in her inimitable style and mostly with a strong thread of romance interwoven into the plots. She also includes a section which comprises an anthology of poems donated by local writers.

The launch was well-executed. Local "celebrities" were on-hand to provide a little bit of glitz and media-savvy; there was a well-placed and suitably well-spoken politician at hand to give an opening speech and appraisal of the book. (Have I just said ap-praisal?) There were lots of people who knew each other, and most indulged in varying degrees of air-kissing, earings and cuff-links clanging like chain-mail. Some chap, also terribly well-known by all but me, provided wine and nibbles, the local press turned up and there was a guitarist who provided some calming background music to the recitation (a round of poets?) Someone whispered that there were television cameras there. At a gathering of poets? (or rabble of poets?) Gibraltar is either highly literate, or the literati are highly media-sensitive. I have yet to cast my vote on that one. (What about, a sonnet of poets?)

I struggle with taking up the title of poet (a denial of poets?). This is a title conferred to one by others, and I'm not sure that it is earned by merely penning some rhyming words from time to time, or non-rhyming words that by virtue of their complexity, or by reciting words in theatrical terms with a certain waving of the arms to punctuate their meaning. I put words together sometimes, and their rhythm, or the shape they make as they fall together on the page, creates an image or plucks at an emotion, or even shapes a previously amorphous thought into something tangible, and I dare to call it a poem. So to recite publicly a selected set of words was a struggle for me. Hence the shaky delivery and daft expression on my face (below)

Jackie Anderson, looking decidedly uncomfortable in front of mic and camera.

I have to say, that nerves and the sense of impending disaster as my turn at the microphone approached did not detract from the enjoyment I felt at listening to some excellent poetry and discovering that there is an untapped bedrock of talent in Gibraltar and its environs. (A peppering of poets?) Some of it was not so great and some of it was overstated. My offering came across as trite and undeservedly underplayed, but I write, an essentially lonely passtime, and I am most comfortable in my solitude and away from the limelight (perhaps, a struggle of poets).

What the event did do, besides the book launch and the mention of the charity towards which some of the proceeds will be aimed, is to uncover a love of poetry in a small town, and a variety of styles, backgrounds, skills and genres, which makes for a rich soil in which to grow yet more, and more skilled and mature poetry. (A garden of poets?) I'm determined to give the setting up of a writers' group a go, so that some of those that feel that their skills are never quite good enough, can learn from each other and keep growing in their skills as writers - poetry or otherwise - because, as soon as you think you know it all and there is no more to learn, you may as well pour your ink into the sea and chuck your pen in the bin. Unless you are learning, listening and reviewing your work, you may as well stop, because nothing you write nor recite, will ever be any better.

Besides events like this, wouldn't it be great to have story-telling evenings? Or open mic sessions at local pubs? Or jam and slam sessions? Perhaps something on internet radio, or You Tube, where networking is full of mystery and subterfuge and the themes are dark and dangerous (a huddle of poets?). I hope the poets pictured above are with me on this - any comments welcome and anyone who wants to come to a first meeting of a writers' group - media and genre non-specific - leave a comment and I'll let you know when (a council of poets?)

In the meantime, well done Sonia for bringing some of our local poets to the public attention, and giving a few of us the courage to admit that we are not just writers of words, but crafters of poems, weavers of dreams, conjurors of nightmares, tellers of tales, observers of reality and creators of fantasy. A pride of poets, perchance?

Castillo de Castellar de la Frontera

2010-12-07T12:53:00.000-08:00

Under the archway and into the old town of Castellar

It has to have one of the best entrances into any town in Europe. After trekking uphill from the newer and rather more bland town of Castellar, the rewards of walking under this medieval Moorish arch into the old castle grounds wherein lies the huddle of white houses that make up the old town are the breathtaking views and the feeling that for a short while you have a taste of what it might have been like all those centuries ago.

The old town of Castellar de la Frontera was built inside the grounds of the castle - higgeldy piggeldy white houses, leaning on each other for support as they keep an eye from the peak of the hill over the plains that stretch as far as the Bay. On a clear day, the Rock of Gibraltar is clearly visible. People have lived here since the dawn of history. Traces of the stone age peoples who sheltered on this hill have been found nearby, and the ancient remains of a watch-tower was eventually taken by the Romans who settled the area as part of a system of defences stretching from the Bay at Carteya through to the important city of Cordoba.

The town itself and the castle proper was built by the Moslem invaders of Spain as they entered Al Andalus and spread their reign northwards. Castellar, with its strategic fortification, was an instrumental town in the wars between the Christians and the Moslems until 1434, when D. Juan Arias de Saavedra conquered it for the Christian kings.

After that the town lived a sleepy, rural existence until more recent times, when the local area was developed in the 1960s and 1970s, and a new town was built at the base of the hill. The population of the old town was moved to the newer houses, and for many years the old medieval town was abandoned, until some more adventurous - some have said "hippie" people moved in. The little community gradually reawoke and now Castellar boasts homes to numerous artists, writers, pretty rural houses, at least one museum and a hotel.

Perched on a crag at the top of a hill, a little out of the way and surrounded with the greenery of the Alcornocales and the sapphire of the Mediterranean sky, Castellar de la Frontera is a little jewel of a place. Its cobblestone streets meander about the old castle grounds and occasionally open up into cosy squares scented with oranges from the many trees. The view is at once calming and magnificent and the air delightfully clear, which, for those of us living around the edge of the Bay of Gibraltar (or the Bay of Algeciras) depending which side of the border you're standing on) is a novelty and a rare treat to be savoured.

View from a terrace in the old town of Castellar

Pinar del Rey - the King's Forest

2010-11-08T13:35:00.000-08:00

Pinar del Rey in early May

This is just a glimpse of what the forests that stretched from the edges of the Alcornocales down to the Bay of Gibraltar (or la Bahia de Algeciras, depending on what side of the border you happen to originate) might once have looked like. There are just pockets of these woods left now, and this one, on the edge of San Roque happens to be one of my favourite spots for a picnic and a gentle walk on a Sunday afternoon. Covering an area of over 330 hectares, it provides peace, tranquility, the chance to breathe clean air that is tinged with the scent of the pines instead of burned diesel, or that hums with the chirruping of crickets instead of high-speed traffic. Pinar del Rey is like the lungs of the Campo de Gibraltar, and one of the few places around here where you can breathe deeply and smell earth and trees and flowers. I love it.

The woods date back to 1800, when the Spanish King Fernando planted the forest of pine trees and cork oaks to supply much-needed wood for the Spanish Navy, in those days, still a naval force to be reckoned with. After the Battle of Trafalgar, the Spanish Navy found itself in a state of crisis and demand for the wood plummeted. Which is just as well, because we have been lucky enough to have been left with a jewel of nature on our very doorsteps.

When I visited earlier this year, there were groups of school children from the nearby San Roque, taking lessons in the open air, and learning to identify the different trees and plants. I tagged along a little way behind to listen and take the edge off my ignorance but stopped short at hugging los alcornoques. Great way for kids to learn though.

To an utter layperson in terms of nature, as I am, it appears perfect - an area with seating and ready-built barbies for family gatherings which encourage kids to enjoy open spaces; a variety of pathways so you can walk the area with varying degrees of distance and difficulties, and there is what in the UK we used to call a "trim trail" which are regular spots where the fitter amongst us pause in their rambling to carry out more intense exercise. Luckily for me there is usually an old tree stump nearby where I can watch from a safe distance until we all move forward again. There's a Nature Centre with lots of useful information, especially if you really want to learn a bit about the nature that surrounds you. The more demanding routes are in the Northern part of the park. Perhaps I will build up gently towards those over the next few months. Yes, I know it's winter, but provided there's not a deluge, I'd rather be plodding around the hills in 12 degrees than panting about in 32.

Roman ruins and sand dunes

2010-08-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

The Roman ruins of Baelo Claudia

At the moment this ranks as my favourite beach - just a few kilometres along the coast of the Costa de la Luz from Tarifa and the wind blown stretches of the Playa de los Lances populated by scores of kite surfers and their taut, sun-tanned torsos - nestled at the foot of the sand dunes of Bolonia curves a bay that avoids the extremes of the Atlantic surf. Overlooking the stretch of fine sand and rolling waves sit the ancient stone ruins of Baelo Claudia, once an important Roman port and fish salting town.

I guess I do prefer the calm of the ruins, with their scudding sea breeze that tousles the rosemary bushes and scents the air as I walk ancient streets. I enjoy sitting on the occasional, thoughtfully-provided bench watching a lizard warm itself in the morning sunlight and wonder how busy the forum might have been on an ordinary day during the times when the town must have bustled as ships arrived laden with goods to be dispersed towards Sevilla and the north of Iberia.

The town was founded towards the end of the 2nd century BC as an important link with Tangiers and Rome's African conquests. It was important enough to eventually have been granted the status of municipium by the Emperor Claudius and as you wander about the ruins you can find most of the important elements of Roman towns: a forum, where trading and political activity took place, an amphitheatre for culture and entertainment, remains of administrative buildings, a judicial building, the fish salting factory (which I am convinced still smell of salted fish!) town houses and the public baths. The place is a brilliant example of what a typical Roman town would have been like. There are the ruins of aqueducts that fed water to the town, and a sewer system - those Romans thought of everything - not to mention the remains of temples to numerous gods including the Egyptian goddess Isis - to cover all angles, I suppose.

The museum at the entrance to the ruins is very informative, and the major plus of all this is that if you show your EU passport, entrance to all this incredible , in your face, "living" history is absolutely free - and it's only a few euros to those of you who don't have a passport from the EU. Hours of happy learning by school kids could be had here, sketching by artists, scribblings by writers and snapping by photographers. I wonder if it would be remotely possible to lay on a version of a Greek tragedy at the amphitheatre? There's food for thought.

All good things come to an end, goes the cliche, and by the end of the sixth century the town had been abandoned, having fallen victim to an earthquake and later to numerous raids by Celtic and Barbary pirates. But it is a splendid place, where history and nature meet, where you can savour a trace of your past in a beautiful place suffused with light, the distant chanting of the waves and the scent of wild herbs.

Eventually the sea tends to beckon and I take the short walk to the sand and do the usual lolling about in the waves. But Baelo Claudia is an absolute joy.

2010-08-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

Caen, France, 2009 - hire a bicycle

Not totally new, and not unknown in many other cities in Europe, but during a week in Caen last year, I encountered this scheme for hiring a bicycle and thought it was a great idea. This week's hullabaloo about the Mayor of La Linea's "decongestion charge" - yes, it does sound like medication for an unpleasant physical condition - brought it all back to mind.

Now, I'm not saying it's an ideal way of getting about for everyone: I have six kids and I wouldn't want to use one of these to get me to the supermarket for my weekly shop. But surely for the many visitors or workers in Gibraltar, and La Linea for that matter, some of these set up around the border area, in the South District, and about the town would be perfect. Perhaps also at the Eastern and Western sides too. The idea is you leave your car at home for longer journeys, perhaps to one of the beaches in Spain or to the larger commercial centres there, and you pop a pound or euro coin in the slot and you borrow the bike to get you to work at the other end of the Rock, or to visit friends or whatever. You then go to another bicycle hire point and clip your bike back in. At the end of the day you borrow one back. Frequent users will have passes and special rates as will those who hire them all day. The scheme could be run in conjunction with the local authority in La Linea so people can borrow one here and drop it off there and vice verse.

The benefits - we'll reduce traffic and traffic pollution and become fitter. There may even be some revenue for the local governments.

Of course, this sort of thing is too beautifully simple for politicians both sides of the border, largely because it suits politicians of whatever persuasion to stir up problems rather than find practical solutions to them. Alejandro Sanchez, despite his rhetoric, is politicising even further a sensitive situation. If he wants to decongest his city from the blockages of lack of funding, he needs to use creative, imaginative, collaborative schemes to generate the wealth that being a close neighbour of a wealthy city brings. By all means set up a congestion charge around the town - I for one, think this should be introduced in parts of Gibraltar anyway, our air is filthy with foreign traffic filling up with our cheap petrol, fags and booze - but don't do it to stir up trouble between the neighbours; there are enough ill-educated and malicious, bigoted boors on both sides of the notorious verja already doing that.

So back to bikes. A little dangerous on such congested roads with no space to build bicycle lanes, I hear many a Gibraltarian complain. So, how about taking a risk and introducing a no-car zone in the Town with notable exceptions for perhaps the disabled, or ambulances etc.? What about circulating the traffic so some roads are only for bicycles? Not easy, some people will grumble, but I expect politicians to have balls like bulls, not just forked tongues. All it takes is a little courage, a lot of determination and a good pinch of imagination and charm. Other much larger and busier cities have done it, so we can too.

Leaders with cojones is what we need. I wonder if any of them have cuernos like bulls too?

My daughter and I in 2008 - to prove that if I can do it, anyone can!

Dolmen del Pedra Gentil

2010-06-23T13:04:00.000-07:00

It was an utterly unexpected sight. Not that I had any preconception of what I might see. By the time we had arrived at this particular height, deep and entirely lost in the hills of Montseny National Park in Catalunia, the sun was beginning to drop, the shadows were lengthening, the scent of the pines intoxicating, and the husband, busy at the wheel of a Ford Transit suited to the motorway and not to mountain tracks, was cursing profusely, and I was beginning to wonder if we might be stranded in the wilderness for the night. Unnerving to say the least, because the lower hills were shrouded in fingers of mist that crept in between the trees, and I had spent an pleasant hour earlier that day reading up on some of the local legends. Add to that the fact that the local police force were heavily armed and scouring the forest for signs of ETA terrorists, I was more than a little nervous.

The neolithic dolmen looks out over a thickly wooded valley and is reputed to have been the meeting place of witches since time immemorial. Local legends include sightings of demonic creatures, and the raising of terrible thunderstorms by witches wanting to keep the uninitiated away from witnessing their diabolic and bloody rites. It is also said that local witch-hunters would execute witches at this site.

If nothing else, the legends amplify the accepted history that these mysterious stone structures are associated with death and burial, and provide a good deal of material for local story-tellers. I have to say, I felt just as spooked by the silence of the place as I was impressed by its antiquity, and the sheer beauty of the surrounding mountains. We were lost when we found this, but it would have been well worth a trek out to see anyway.

The Queen Vic

2010-06-09T14:06:00.000-07:00

I thought this was an amazing view of one of the world's largest liners - possibly the world's largest liner, I don't know, I'm not too up on things nautical - just outside my front room window. I guess I'm pretty privileged with this view, although I'm not in a luxury flat but in one of the early shared ownership developments.

It's one of the joys of living in Gibraltar. Such a small place, perhaps insignificant in many ways. No G8 or G10, or however many there are, summits here I don't imagine. No World Cup, few if any history-shattering events. But the sun shines for most of the year. The people that live here tend to be genuinely friendly, caring people. Children can play outdoors pretty safely and the elderly tend to have family around them. You don't have to pay for health care if you can't afford it, and a trip to the beach is only a walk away.

I may point out the flaws, and if I do so, it's because I want things to get better. Gibraltarians deserve the best. There's probably more talent, more skills, more facilities and more heart per square metre crammed onto this small mountain than anywhere else in Europe. And that's why I feel rather more privileged than the fortunate few who can afford to lumber the ocean on a glorified tub, consuming resources and squandering money that might be better spent feeding a small African village for a few months than on sun oil and sea-sickness tablets.

So cheers to the Queen Vic for knocking home a few truths for me!

Where to walk?

2010-05-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

Westview Park in its hey day - circa 2007

I tried to go for a walk this evening. Summer is here: the days sizzle under the blaze of the ascendant sun, the sea glints an inviting green and all thoughts turn to how quickly you can leave work and get to the beach to throw yourself into the surf and cool off. You look forward to the evenings, when sated by work and swimming and perhaps a meal and a glass of wine, you can walk in the cool of sundown, watch the stars rise over the bay and contemplate life.

So where to? Living on the edge of a small mountain surrounded by sea, a walk by the water's edge is probably the best bet, since the Alameda Gardens - glorious all year round - close at dusk, and the Nature Reserve too far, too dark and too uphill for me. Sounds great? Almost.

I could take a wander along Herbert Miles Road, take in Catalan Bay, watch the waves lap along the edge of the Mamela, then go along as far as the road leads to where it is cut off from the entrance of the Dudley Ward Tunnel. Problem is, that some of the road has no pavement and is prone to being attacked by boy racers in various types of motor vehicles all designed to crush walkers under their wheels. Dangerous, then.

And to add to the problem, there is the risk of rock falls in the area. The vegetation on the slopes above Both Worlds is lush as a result of the winter rains, but, as they dry out, their roots shrink, and the rocks they have undermined loosen. No go there, then.

I could try Eastern Beach way, but then, negotiating the roadworks, even on foot, is hazardous at best and hardly makes for a picturesque walk. The other way then, west side.

There is a wander over Ocean Village and the Marina, I suppose. Great if I want to be surrounded by people, lights, revellers, gamblers and music. Not so good if trying to work out a tricky bit of plotting for my next novel. Ditto Queensway. Rosia Road and Jumpers Bastion still struggle with traffic even at night, not to mention the ghastly smells and noise from the power station and dockyard, and the tunnel towards Rosia Bay and Europa Point at night downright scares me - still fast cars with more boy racers and the gathering of youngsters doing not very nice things, some with syringes, by the lighthouse - is frankly, off-putting.

The only option: Westview Park. Okay, it used to close at dusk but even walking past it was pleasant, with the sound of the sea lapping on the rocks, the scent of the flowers drifting on the sea breeze, a polite greeting from the occasional dog-walker, and my thoughts to myself.

No more. All that is left is the rumble of the tugs, the destroyed wall, and the smell of the oily machinery that is dumping rocks into the bay, and the dust - layer after layer of white dust that you carry indoors on your feet or settles on the cars - on your shoulders if you should stand still to watch the tugs go by (you can barely see the sea).

There is work going on there. I just hope the park will be finished soon and that the rock wall will accommodate a railing and a walkway right there, by the sea, that is ours, our patrimony. The rest of Gibraltar's coastline has all but disappeared under construction equipment.

How sad, that the best place for locals to go for a walk by the sea on a pleasant evening is just across a border to another land.

The works on their way - winter 2009 / 2010

Living Rough

2010-03-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

This week, though it shocks me to say so, I find myself congratulating the Gibraltar Government. At last it has - albeit reluctantly - allowed itself to be dragged through the mire of equal opportunities and, tail dangling, into the twenty-first century, into an era, I still hope, of enlightenment as far as treating everyone with equal respect and acceptance. Finally, even if only after a struggle, it has stated that it will alter housing allocation policy to ensure that same sex couples have rights to joint tenancies. They have done this with a lot of middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-Christian bluster about intending to continue to support the traditional family of heterosexual couples with children and ensuring that same sex couples do not receive preferential treatment. I don't imagine for one moment same sex couples so much want preferential treatment as they want to be treated with the same rights to which they are entitled as other couples. So, the dear old Gibraltar Government - I can't help thinking of it as an ancient crone, hopefully on its last legs, reeling with decrepitude and reeking of decades of inactivity and incompetence - has managed to continue to offend while admitting it has been forced to amend its ways.

I was as startled as I was glad at reading the article in the Chronicle, simply to discover that the government had a housing policy. Only last week I called the housing department - Ministry of Housing, it's called, not unlike a well-known music venue and night club but unlike the club, well out of touch with reality - and asked for a copy of the housing strategy for the forthcoming years and copies of the allocations and homeless persons policies. I can't help it. I'm a housing officer of old and dreadfully nosy to boot. The most I managed to get were a few puzzled non-comments and a copy of a poorly-photocpied sheet to explain how to fill in the housing application form, which, on a quick read, gave me the feeling that helpful housing officers would do their utmost to find a way not to include me on the housing waiting list. I'm rather relieved, that, though in need of housing, that I am neither part of a same sex couple, nor Moroccan (working, born in Gibraltar or otherwise), because if that were the case, I get the feeling my chances of ever having a government roof over my head would be seriously scuppered.

And I guess I can afford to jest. I'm not homeless - yet. The tragedy is, that with no vision for housing, no proper financing, budgeting, planning, no respect for its tenants - the ordinary people of Gibraltar, most of whom are needy and most of whom are unlikely ever to be able to afford the only housing that is meaningfully being developed in Gib - no notion of how to administer an ageing housing stock, no real sense of how to manage its housing fairly, nor effectively, nor efficiently (those old buzz words from Thatcherite times that have yet to catch on here), the government is doing a desperate disservice to its own people.

For housing, like food, is a basic need. It is essential for the future of a community, to make sure that its stability is guaranteed by access to housing for all. That doesn't mean that housing cannot be carefully rationed in some way, or that the Government has an empty purse, but that it does as much as it can to help its electorate have decent opportunities, whatever their ethnic background, social class, physical or mental abilities, or sexual orientation. We need clear policies, long term commitment and a strategy to support families and households, whatever their composition, to contribute positively to society. And the only way they can do that is with a decent home that they can afford.

So, living rough in Gibraltar? In a town where some people proudly pronounce that no-one is poor? Maybe not in the Ethiopian famine sense. But there are street homeless huddled in corners. There are people forced to live in hostels that you would not be allowed to cage animals in. There are young families trying to bring up babies in flats wringing with damp, where the electricity can't always be used because water pours through along the cables, where the neighbours can be heard coughing and where they have to pay a large chunk of their hard-earned wages to a remote, uncaring landlord. And sadly, some of the last sentence includes government owned housing.

In a city where multi-millionnaires live a stone's throw from people who live in overcrowded, squalid conditions, that anyone should be living rough in Gibraltar, is a foul indictment of a succession terms in power of a government that has done little more than appeal to the very rich from wherever in the world, and neglect its own people.

A photograph of Turnbull's Lane, part of Gib's old town,

with some of the older properties seen in the background.

The guy in the photo was not a tramp living rough...

but he might have been.

Self congratulatory, or self delusion?

2010-01-24T07:10:00.000-08:00

I've just read a comment on the BBC website on the self-congratulatory nature of the French love of their own culture. I want to make sure it's understood that I am a Francophile, and deeply regret the fact that this year, I am unlikely to visit France, currently my favourite place on the planet. But I have a cynical streak, and struggle to accept over-sentimentality and unnecessary hyperbole. Hence my inability to relate to many things thrown across the Atlantic from the US. But I couldn't help compare, as I browsed through the article, the similar attitude that exists in Gibraltar - also one of my favourite places on the planet.

In any healthy society, there is, or should be, as much analysis and criticism of government, society, institutions, corporations and so on, as there should be recognition and praise, where praise is due. While there are some, not very well-circulated and poorly printed publications which make a heroic attempt at putting events and actions into context and giving critical political analysis, the majority of the magazines based in Gibraltar - I name them not, but they are glossy and generally picked up at various locations for free - revel in a great deal of mutual back-slapping. Reading these, you tend to get the impression that government ministers (in those profile interviews designed to make them sound as beautiful as their airbrushed images) are hard-working committed individuals determined to serve the public that voted for them; that business men/women are all hugely competent, highly-regarded interntionally, well-heeled, altruistic individuals whose very existence enhances Gibraltar's life and status. Indeed, keep reading these, and nothing in Gibraltar is short of bloody marvellous.

Perhaps I'm a jaded old cynic. Life here is good for many. For most, it is better than in many places in the world. But all this nauseating obsequiousness that is such a feature of Gibraltarian public life can obscure the fact that there is a huge amount of progress and work to be done in order to really improve life in Gibraltar, for, no less than, the most important of people, the native Gibraltarians.

Let me cite a few examples: employment legislation is bordering on archaic and makes a mockery of government stated intentions to support the family; equal rights legislation is appallingly poor; the health service needs a desperate shake up to get it operating effectively; customer service in most organisations is bordering on deplorable; the streets are in poor state and filthy; our heritage sites and public places, viewed daily by tourists are neglected; there are not sufficient open air, free play areas for children; the waters and the air are none too clean; there are issues to look at such as child abuse, neglect of mentally ill people, elderly care, which needs upgrading, and let's not start on a discussion of the desperate need for a coherent housing strategy - the current one is lurking somewhere in the nineteenth century.

None of this means that Gibraltar is a dreadful place, not that we don't have some great things going for us. But we need good, old-fashioned cynicism and criticism, and for this to take place in the public arena. We also need public figures who don't hide inadequacies but who work towards improving things for all of us, and not just for the high net worth individuals the glossies love to gloat about. And all the time there isn't a really effective forum for public debate, I shall keep bleating here.

Breathing it all in

2009-12-15T01:59:00.000-08:00

I set out this morning on possibly the coldest day so far of the winter. I was in a hurry, rushing the kids to school, my daughter swinging a cloth bag around which contained her costume for the dress rehearsal of her school Christmas play. After months of sweltering summer, which appears to have finished only a short time ago, I was almost eager to feel the tang of cold air on my face, perhaps tinged with salt from the sea in the harbour, flecked with white from choppy waves as it was.

Instead, I was greeted by the stench of diesel fumes and the sight of a plume of poisonous smoke snaking its way towards me from the chimney of the Cepsa oil refinery. Ironically, though you can't tall from the photo I took just outside the estate where I live, the strong northerly wind was also turning the blades of wind turbines that dot the crest of the hills behind the refinery. No better visual proof that nations at the Copenhagan Climate Conference can rightly accuse developed countries of causing most air pollution and global warming.

I could go into a tirade against Spain and how there must be a lot of vested interests in Madrid that their government does not respond quite as forcibly as it should to stop the filth that is known to break EU regulations from polluting our air and coating our lungs and making our friends and neighbours sick with horrific new versions of cancers. But, as I rounded the corner towards the school, I spotted a similar plume of smoke, thankfully heading eastwards away from me but towards the new housing estate at Waterport Terraces, this time, from the power station. This filth, added to the unnecessary volume of traffic means I can't avoid breathing in poison. Perhaps many Gibraltarians don't notice because they are either accustomed to it, or their lungs are full of cigarette smoke.

The Government of Gibraltar has shown, with its rather watery traffic plan, and the incredible length of time it is taking to provide a new power station and shut down this old filthy one, that it does not have the cojones to be a world leader in cleaning up its local environment. Given the activities of local groups like the ESG, Gibraltarian people, or some of them, do feel strongly about the issue and want to protect the environment. But it is clear the Gibraltar government needs some heavy persuasion. After all, they are not protecting their electorate from heavy pollution.

Journeys into writing

2009-12-14T05:59:00.000-08:00

I had the good fortune to buy this book on Saturday afternoon, and to meet its author, Vinod Mahbubani. He had a stall at the Ocean Village mini Christmas Fair this weekend and was selling signed copies of the book. I was still finding it difficult to get into the spirit of Christmas, used, as I am, to cold, miserable weather appropriate to the lyrics of many of the trite songs blasted over sound systems in the shops. But my shopping this year is happening in light tops and sandals, with perhaps a cardy to ward off the edge off the breeze lifting in from the sea. Ocean Village on Saturday was pleasantly quiet, sunny, the blue sea sparkling only a little less intensly than in high summer and the afternoon warm enough to sit outdoors and enjoy a relaxed coffee while the kids played.

But back to the book. I browsed the stalls, hands away from my purse, like the archetypal Scrooge, and encountered Vinod's (can I call him Vinny?) stall. We got chatting about the book, and about the whole process of writing. I told him about my attempts at writing and he was full of hugely useful information about self-publishing. "The hard work starts when you decide to publish!" he grinned. And not when you start writing. Vinny works hard at marketing his book and was pleased to share some of his savvy with me. It'll be a long time before I'm anyway near the stage of thinking about publishing - I still have so much research and writing to do for my book: Hell was just Next Door (like the title?!) But the information was really useful, and Vinny gave me his contact details for when I am ready to publish.

Which got me talking about writing groups, and how supportive a good writing group can be. He agreed that there should be one in Gib and apparently another writer has tried to set one up by advertising for interested people. Perhaps if I do the same, the few of us that are interested can set the ball rolling. I feel a New Year project coming on. So if any of you out there are curious or like writing - please get in touch and we could set a group here in Gib.

So back to the book. I started it on Sunday afternoon and became very quickly engaged in the narrative. A good sign for me because I am a pretty lazy reader these days and need to be kept interested. I've only got as far as the Niagara Fall so far, but am eager to read on, so thanks Vinny for a good, entertaining read. I'm not a great traveller, and it's work like your that bring the world to my doorstep.

If you haven't got Vinod Mahbubani's book, The Journey, yet, go out to the local bookshops in Gib and treat yourself. And if you're not in Gib, order one from Amazon. It's worth the read and it's worth supporting a local author.

Write on.

2009-11-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

So now I have the writing bug. Except it's surprisingly hard to keep going alone. Don't get me wrong, being on your own with your thoughts and the computer, or paper and pen, is par for the course for a writer, and essential as a stethoscope and warm hands for a doctor. But, having committed words down, structured a story, sketched out characters, visualised powerful images, avoided adverbs, skimped on adjectives and strung out a scene to wring as much emotional value out of it as possible, what a writer needs is someone to read the work. Without having to go the whole hog, complete the manuscript and send it off willy nilly to see if someone out there in the harsh world of publishing will pay for it. As a writer, I want someone to read at least sections of my work as I write it, or give me feedback (kind and constructive, of course) so that I know I'm on the right track. And I want to know that I am not alone in feeling isolated, dubious, or worried about rejection or ridicule.

So the answer is a writers group. I used to belong to a writer's group called the Medway Mermaids, based in Gillingham, Kent. We were a girl-only group, met once a month, reviewed each others work, run workshops, competitions, exhibitions, open mic sessions for the poets among us, supported each other, commiserated with each other's rejections and rejoiced when one of us was published or won a competition. Meeting once a month kept us going during long slogs of writing that next chapter, or scene or verse. Chatting online to each other often lifted flagging spirits or generated new inspiration. I wasn't a member long because I left the UK to come to Gib. But I really miss the interaction with other writers, the learning from them, the companionship of like-minded people.

I don't think there's a writing group in Gibraltar. But there are lots of very good writers here. So if any of them read this post, please contact me. Perhaps we could set up a group here, run meetings, workshops, invite writers to give seminars, publish our own anthologies....In short, a group of writers here in Gib could put Gibraltarian literary talent out there, in the world of international literature.

War of Words

2009-11-13T08:44:00.000-08:00

Gibraltar's Autumn Festival is well under way for the year and there has been a bit of everything for locals and visitors alike to enjoy. I treated myself to a browse around the Fine Arts Gallery, and thoroughly enjoyed the art exhibitions, both the International Art Competition entries, and the exhibition of John Lennon prints. Congratulations to Mario Finlayson who won the art competition with his intriguing and quasi-surrealist "Enigma". I found it a mesmerising piece, bold in that special way that is essential to all artists. I'm not an art critic, and I don't pretend to know much about art, but to me, any form of art is in no small part an emotional response to the world, external or internal, of the artist, and, by its nature, evokes an emotional response in others. Which, following my own logic, is why work such as Tracey Emin's can be considered art, because, it is, if nothing else, provocative and emotive. And I guess, for the same reason, those cold, picture postcard type pictures, however well executed or accurate or technically skillful the creator, don't quite reach the definition of good art for me.

I feel similarly about the poetry competition. I have yet to read all the Highly Commended entries, and, since mine is one of those, I am keen to see the standard that was set by my co-competitors. But what must have set the winning adult poem apart must have been the boldness of imagery, the taking of an intense emotion and moudling it into a relentlessly powerful, rhythmic waterfall of words. It is not an easy poem to read, and its meaning remains elusive at first, until read aloud, when its intensity becomes more lucid. Well done, Jackie Canessa.

And on a final note, a brilliant set of poems by Gibraltar's kids. It was enormously heartening to see and read the enthusiasm for poetry by youngsters. Poetry is an intense art form, and a difficult art, and one that is as important for youngsters as for crusty old bards. Perhaps this bodes well for the greater development of literature as part of Gibraltar's rich cultural landscape, and that its popularity will increase to the levels of other forms of art such as painting, theatre, dance and music.

Breaking the Language Barriers

2009-06-23T12:27:00.000-07:00

One of the most fascinating things I have found working and living in Gibraltar, has been the capacity for speaking a variety of languages that people can have. Coming from a place where speaking anything other than Anglicised French raises eyebrows and might mark you out as an immigrant, or the child of an immigrant, and where school children can opt out of learning foreign languages at anything beyond very basic, this is refreshing, to say the least.

So far this week, I have encountered a Frenchman whose English is nearly perfect, Spanish sounds almost native and who has learnt a good smattering of Moroccan through his work in property development out in Tangiers. Then there was a man from the Czech. Republic whose English is pretty clear, whose German is superb and who can muster up some Russian when the occasion requires it, in addition to the Portuguese man whose English is excellent, Spanish flawless and can hold a conversation in French. And finally there was the German who speaks better English than the English-speaking locals, is married to a Moroccan and speaks her language fluently, who can get by with reasonably pronounced French and whose command of Spanish is pretty impressive for someone who has only lived here for a year or so. Some of the English I have met can muster up relatively good Spanish, but prefer to use English first, just in case they are understood, which, in most cases, they are. And then there are the Moroccans in the community, most of whom speak their own language as well as English, Spanish, French, and some I have met recently, can add German to this portfolio of tongues.

Some of these people have travelled far and are determined to communicate well wherever they live, and I admire them for this. It seems to be the locals who have a remarkably laid back attitude towards languages. This may be because the Gibraltarians learn from birth to speak English and Spanish, and combine the two to create their own, unique patois. The nearby Spaniards from La Linea can either speak very basic English, or don't bother, because in most employment situations, they can get away with speaking only Spanish anyway, which, for English visitors, can be hugely frustrating because there is an expectation that local people speak English, yet so many shop and restaurant staff don't!

While I love listening to the babble around me, and trying to decipher the languages I hear, it does concern me that local children don't seem to benefit much from this welter of natural communication that is going on around them. Unlike my own childhood, those of my children and their friends is being conducted almost exclusively in English, thanks, largely to Disney Channel, Nickleodeon and WWE. Spanish is used rarely, and generally only in its crudest forms for expletives. They learn little of Spanish literature, art and culture, except for a short burst in senior school at advanced leve, if they have so chosen, and popular culture, which is available to all tourists. And the adults who speak Spanish regularly speak it poorly, with a limited vocabulary. It's a shame, because Gibraltar could be considered as bilingual, lauds itself for so being, but falls short of it, because so many local people do not have a sufficient command of Spanish to speak it in any other way than as foreigners.

So I have no objection to the Instituto Cervantes setting up here, if it genuinely will help to expand local knowledge and use of Spanish and the Spanish culture. Just so long as it is kept outside politics. And, it should be joined by some kind of institution which expands local knowledge of Moroccan language and culture, as much to ensure that Arabic is retained by the younger generations of Moroccan children born here, as to expand this language much further into the local vocabulary. After all, if we had learnt Arabic at school, I would feel far more comfortable haggling at the souks only twenty miles or so away, than I do trying to do it in the English, Spanish or French that I speak.

Battle to be British

2009-06-02T13:00:00.000-07:00

The old man's hand trembled slightly at the fingertips when he shook my hand and bowed his head in greeting. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes were clouded with worry. I tried to reassure him, and when his meagre English failed him, I was able to calm his nerves a little in Spanish. A Moroccan national, this man (I shall call him Abdellah, although that is not his real name) was about to sit what is commonly known as the English Test. This is a test at the government office in Gibraltar where citizenship and nationality issues are decided, and it is set to decide whether the applicant can speak reasonable English. It is one of the hurdles faced by non-EU immigrants to convince the Gibraltar Government that they are genuinely worthy of being citizens of Gibraltar, and thereby, of being British citizens, with all the priveleges this apparently conveys on man and soul.

The reason I was with Abdellah was not because I am a lawyer, or that I even know him particulalry well. I don't even know any Arabic beyond a basic greeting, so I was unsure how much help I would be. But all Abdellah, an old friend of my father's, wanted was a bit of company so that he would feel able to speak up at the test. In short, he was terrified.

Initially, after some telephone conversations, it seemed I would be unable to sit in the test with him. "It is not so much a test," a senior executive at the immigration office told me, "it's just a conversation to see how well this person can communicate basic information about himself, his family and his life in English, which is the language you must be able to speak to be a British Citizen."

In the end, I was unexpectedly allowed to sit in the interview with him. "I'm so nervous I can barely speak Arabic," he explained. The officers who interviewed him, I have to say, came across as very professional and spoke in quiet, but clear, simple English, and, compared to the citizenship test in the UK, this was a doddle. But somehow, what was missing, was the element of fairness. And there was an undercurrent of what I will call "unintentional racism" in the way the senior officer approached the interview. I'm genuinely not certain if this officer was aware of the effect of body language, gestures and tone of voice on the interviewee, and even the cultural differences did not appear to be taken into account - after all, it was not his fault if paperwork in Morocco is not quite the same as paperwork in Gibraltar, or Britain, or Spain, or Latvia for that matter.

Abdellah is an old man who has had a complicated life: a divorce, a second wife, some children in Morocco, some born here. But he has worked and paid tax in Gib for almost 40 years. He is a law-abiding citizen, contributing to the local community and to the local economy. There is no access to language classes in Gib to workers whose hours go beyond 12 per day in order to make ends meet - working time directives don't seem to apply in many firms here. Abdellah's English is passable. He can, when relaxed, make himself understood by his employer of 20 years, by his neighbours, his doctor, dentist, optician and others. Did he really need to prove himself in person, at his age, and talk through complex paperwork, just to be able to travel regularly to Morocco through Spain? Or vote? Or take full part in the local communities they support with their labour, with full legal rights?

After the test, Abdellah wanted to treat me to a meal and invited me and my family to stay with his family in Tangiers. I'm not sure anything I did helped, but it is clear that the process of immigration to such disadvantaged persons in Gibraltar desperately needs humanising, and then "good neighbours" like me won't need to sit in interviews, and decent citizens like him won't need to be patronised in order to prove their worth. The Battle of Britain may have been fought and won last century, but in the twenty-first century, the battle for Britishness grows fiercer.

Community cohesion confirmed

2009-05-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

Cathedral of St Mary the Crowned

I had a delightful morning. The weather was perfect: sunshine with just enough of a breeze to take the edge off the heat, and just to complete the idyll, the kids were at school, the dog asleep indoors, and the coffee at the Piazza, (el martillo to seniors, Sir John Mackintosh Square to many non-Gibraltarians) strong and smooth. While I dipped churros into a small mound of sugar on the edge of my plate, I watched dozens of people meander along Main Street having celebrated the confirmation into local Catholicism of their children.

I'm not usually a fan of religious festivals and avoided the sinister Spanish Easter processions that smack too much of paganism, idolatry and hypocricy for my liking, and the celebrations for the end of Our Lady of Europa jubilee year. But, hot on the heels of the first Holy Communion celebrations that saw pre-pubescent girls dressed as brides and pre-pubescent boys flaunt their innocence also in white, along with gifts and parties and lots of flash photography, this religious celebration, caught in Main Street, brought home to me just how beautifully the different religious traditions all relate to each other in Gibraltar.

While I drank the coffee - and I like it to still be steaming hot when I get to the bottom of the cup, so I don't hang around - I watched the kids that had been confirmed into the Roman Catholic church excitedly chatter to their large and extended families, and these exchanged greetings with passing friends, some of whom wore the kappel of Judaism, while others, in jallabah's or hijabs or kofi's, smiled and kissed their congratulations as they headed for Friday prayers at the mosque.

Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque

While Gibraltar's Roman Catholicism is still the predominant religious tradition that still governs the calendar for schools and holidays, and continues to exert a stupefying influence on social and political modernisation, the way that people are able to understand, accept and enjoy each other's traditions is as refreshing as it is wonderful. While in some places overt displays of faith are played down so as not to cause offence to people of other religious persuasions, in this tiny city, people can worship openly and are respected for doing so.

One of Gibraltar's synagogues

I'm not sure why it should be like this in Gibraltar and not so in many other parts of Europe, or, indeed, the globe. Perhaps it is that religion itself allows for a spiritual growth that opens up an understanding of the spiritual needs of others. But I'm not so that this is the case. I prefer to think that in such a small place as Gib, where the memories of the isolation of being locked into the Rock are still so fresh and only one generation old, we all had to get on with each other, we needed to learn about each other's ways, accept them, understand them and live with them. It made life easier, and in these days of continuing religious wars, the religious co-existence in Gibraltar is exemplary.

Puppy love!

2009-05-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

I've inadvertantly, and a little reluctantly, become a dog owner. Spot, pictured above, unimaginatively named by my kids, turned up at the front door one evening when her previous owners were looking for someone who would take her off their hands. I should have known then not to bother, but as I tried to shove the kids back indoors and ignore their pleadings, the pup pounced into my arms and got licking. Well, I caved in, and now I don't know whether to regret it or take it on board and embrace it.

Suddenly, as well as becoming proficient in poop-scooping, de-worming, and dashing down six floors, dog in arms, to get her outdoors in time for a pee, I've unwittingly joined those hoards of people who walk aimlessly round and round Harbour Views with furry friends attached to the ends of leads, in an attempt to prevent soiling of floor tiles . I trudge about unwillingly, wishing I was still in bed, while these dedicated folk seem to love everything about their pooches.

What I have noticed is, well, that I notice dog poo. And there's loads of it in Gib. So, I wonder, if all the dog owners I encounter at unsocial hours, pounding their pavements with pooches in tow, all pick up their dog's effluence, something I've gratefully observed, how come there's so many turds trailing on the pavements from here to the border and back? Dirty dogs I'm not keen on, but dirty dog owners, who leave the mess to pass on diseases to kids and breed maggots, cockroaches and goodness-knows-what else, are totally unacceptable. When I had to wash some off Spot's paws the other day - not hers, but another mutt's she had accidentally trodden on - I thought that a system of by-laws and fining would help, but most effective would be making the guilty owners bath in the stuff. Then maybe they'd learn.

And talking of animals, I witnessed the catching of a mangy old cat while I enjoyed breakfast at the Piazza yesterday morning. I can see why my Dad enjoyed hanging around gossiping with the other Grumpy Old Men who congregate on a bench and mull over one shared copy of the Gibraltar Chronicle. "El Martillo", he always called it, the old name the Piazza was known by. Just as even now, people my age call it the "Piazza" when officially it is Sir John Mackintosh Square.

There I sat, watching the crowds scuttle by, sipping strong coffee and dipping churros in a little mountain of sugar in my saucer, when I caught sight of a man wielding a cage and suddenly bending over and stuffing a cat into it. Seconds only. Like greased lightning. And off ,they rattled in an old van, I hope to the GSPCA, but alarmingly taking the one-way road towards the kebab shops. I wondered if this gifted cat-catcher could also be persuaded to deal with the pigeons, which are far more disease-ridden and pestilential than cats, and don't catch rats. But then, no "palomos", and no government, from what I understand from the Grumpy Old Men.

Searching for a small haven

2009-04-29T14:01:00.000-07:00

Four months in Gibraltar, and, having turned the flat over three times to visiting relatives, I am now looking forward to creating some kind of routine, carving out a small place where I can do all those things I need to do each day, and hiding away in some inconspicuous corner, where the rest of the family can't find me, so that I can get back to writing my book. Today I think I might have found the place - if not for writing up copious research notes, at least for organising my thoughts and perhaps rediscovering some vestiges of my eloquence.

Tucked away on the eastern side of the Rock, with nothing facing it except the blue vastness of the Mediterranean, Catalan Bay is a simple delight. Today the sea is a sparkling sapphire with shimmering pinpricks of sunlight. It moves with only a gentle lapping of the seashore, green waves licking over the gold of the sand, like the breathing of a beast deep in sleep. The Mamela, that rock that thrusts out of the sea, firm and rounded like a young woman's breast for which it takes its name, is more exposed than usual today, the water just caressing its base and the heat of the sun warming its tip.

The Caleta Hotel stands perched on the edge of the cliff as it curves away from the Bay towards the south. It is like a large, white seabird poised as if for flight, just waiting for the right time to take off.

Small, wooden boats lie idle on the sand, or propped up against the walls on the side of the road, a memory of the distant days when the village thrived on the fish caught in the Bay. The Virgin, perched atop the small church still peers down onto the sands to give her blind blessing to all seafarers, although nowadays she stands back, inbetween two apartment blocks.

Some of the apartment blocks are being refurbised and are encased in ugly scaffolding. Nevertheless, the hammer and clank and grind of construction is dull here, as is the noise of passing cars, more of a hum here, unlike the incessant roar of the traffic that afflicts the western side of the Rock.

The sounds of daily life here: the chink of glasses at the bars, the call of the corner-shop seller, the raised voices of English tourists trying to make themselves understood, forgetting that here most people speak English and are not deaf, all are dulled into insignificance by the murmer of the sea and the cry of the gulls clinging to life on the sheer mountainside that towers over this huddle of homes at its feet.

I think that, for a while, a little tired as I am from the bustle and aimless noise of Main Street, the choking of the fumes on Queensway, Westside and Market Square, the arid abandonment of Europa Point and the offensive opulence of Ocean Village, I will make this my retreat, my haven.

Human rights matter

2009-03-30T13:22:00.000-07:00

I've not thought of myself as highly political for many years, not since the coal miners' strike of the 1980's and various anti-nuclear demonstrations I went on as a student. But recently I have been incensed to the point of writing letters to newspapers criticising Gibraltar's government for its dismissive attitude towards the workers of Moroccan background who, literally, keep the wheels of Gibraltar's society turning. These people, many of whom have lived here for decades, work hard and long hours, earn the lowest wages, live in the most dreadful housing and have few rights, least of all citizenship rights, which would enable them freedom of travel in and out of Spain, freedom to vote and have a say in who governs them. They have little access to public services, despite paying taxes and social insurances, and many are not allowed to have their wives and families join them. And that is the tip of the iceberg.

That in a small place like Gibraltar there are practical difficulties in integrating everyone who wants to join this community is undeniable. But I firmly believe in the principles of equal opportunities and had to speak out against the obvious discrimination that the Gibraltar government applies towards Moroccan workers. I've written two letters so far. I was surprised the first was published because it was long and outspoken. The second may not see the light of day because it is even more critical than the first. But I am lucky to live where I can speak as I feel, and I have a duty to speak out against injustice.

Readers can follow the links to the Gibraltar Chronicle, Panorama (another local newspaper) and The Guardian, where this issue is covered in more detail.

There is no place in 21st century Gibraltar, or Europe, for discrimination of any sort.

A gifted daughter is itself a wonderful gift.

2009-03-15T14:52:00.000-07:00

These are pictures painted by my daughter, Jessica. She's waiting to start art college in September and in the meantime, she paints and draws, and takes fabulous photos.

The flower on a yellow background is called "Be Happy". It is cheerful, as its maker. It's acrylic on canvas and she sent me the image on a dull day when the tendons in my foot - badly inflamed - were giving me particular grief. It worked, and brightened my day.

This one on the left is a play with space and shape and colour. It explores creativity itself, the moulding of something out of nothing - make of it what you will! For me, it is an explosion of energy. As is Jessica. Her art is an emanation of herself.

I loved the one below: Red Woman, and just had to use it as my profile picture. Acrylic on canvas, it's simplicity belies an undercurrent of sensuality. I love the way Jess is exploring her burgeoning womanhood. I firmly believe she will be a really good artist some day.

Jessica is putting some of her art for sale, because she is struggling so much to get a job, and I so much admire her for that - she is far more mature than she realises, and far more so than I was at her age.

Fresh Air

2009-03-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

As I keep telling the kids: get out there for some fresh air, it's good for you. And, if it keeps them away from the TV / computer / playstation and Xbox, it's good for my electricity bill. I guess if I extend that argument further, I use less power, which uses less carbon-based fuel and reduced emission. So it makes the air fresher, which is good for the kids. So the logic takes me full circle.

The problem is that "the powers that be" don't seem to share the simplicity of that notion, and, in fact, the air that we're pumping about our lungs are full of diesel fumes from ships, carbon monoxide from vast quantities of largely unnecessary traffic - has anyone tried breathing and walking along Queensway all at the same time? It borders on the distressing - and, the icing on the cake, is topped by unknown, but desperately noxious emissions from the oil refinery across the Bay. It's in the picture, the infamous Cepsa oil refinery, known as one of the dirtiest refineries in Europe.

I'm really enjoying carving out a new life for my family in Gibraltar: my husband, my two under-10s, and any of the older four who chose to stay in England to pursue further education or jobs, and whom I miss terribly. I hope some, or all of them, will join us here soon. But that does not mean that I am blind to some of the more negative aspects of living in Gibraltar, and serious air pollution is one of them. The quality of the air we breathe daily is so poor, that it almost makes a mockery of the valiant attempts of local groups to reduce the devastating effects on the population's helalth from tobacco smoke. I wonder if anyone can say whether a few fags a day is any worse than trying to breathe when a north- westerly blasts in those sulphurous fumes from the refinery. I may be particularly sensitive, but the air seems oily on those days, sticky against my lungs. Thank goodness for the persistant easterlies that we've been having lately!