Leonora Madd's Mallorcan Christmas Diary - I

(I am delighted that Leonora is standing in for me for a couple of days. Her writing days are rather behind her now. In fact they were never really in front of her, but she does bring her own unique insights into Mallorcan expatriate life. Andrew.)


Isn’t Mallorca simply wonderful at this time of the year.

I have buffed up my stout walking boots and been on many a long trek in the forests with Rufus, our labrador-collie cross. Poor thing, our deranged Mallorcan neighbour tried to blow him up the other day. And all because Rufie had impregnated the frightful man’s bitch. Fancy allowing a dog on heat to be out unleashed. The man is a positive menace. It’s all I can do to prevent Giles taking a horse-whip to the fellow. Not that he doesn’t deserve it.

Giles thought there was something a bit fishy about the wires leading from Rufus’s kennel. We got nowhere when we challenged the man. Not a word of English of course. Giles says he will call Captain Portillo and insist that he arrests him. It is reassuring that we are on such good terms with the Captain, despite the little incident with Hugo, his Moroccan chums and that launch that beached on the western coast a couple of years ago.

It is so wonderful that Hugo has been let out in time for Christmas. He celebrated by going to the gofe and country club and had a truly splendid time, only marginally spoilt by vomiting over Marjorie Bottomworthy’s feet. Well if she must wear Jimmy Choo’s - at her age! - what can she expect. The mad bat should wear something sensible.

Sadly, though, Clarissa will not be coming to us for Christmas. Hugo is distraught that his sister cannot make it and at her having converted to Islam, and this only months since she was a regular at the Sikh temple.

What has happened to Harbhajan we don’t know, but Mohammed seems a decent enough type. Giles had suggested we send him some whisker trimmers for Christmas to tackle that monstrosity of a beard. I had to point out, of course, that Mohammed doesn’t celebrate Christmas, which was a blessing in a way as it saved us the cost of the DHL.

Giles and he seem to be getting on famously. Mohammed is fascinated by Giles’s time with the Ministry, and they are exchanging emails about nuclear installations. At least it keeps Giles occupied. The last thing I need is him getting under my feet when I am busy organising the association’s Christmas tombola and annual dinner and dance.

And then there’s Christmas itself to prepare. Thank Heavens once more for the Captain. I had told Giles that he and Johnny Utterly should be a bit cautious in helping themselves to protected flora and fauna in the local nature park, but did they heed my advice? The Captain was kind enough to intervene after the patrol stopped them with the two small pine trees strapped to the roof of the Range Rover and the pheasants in the boot having gone into rigor mortis. Rufus had apparently been going berserk.

“They will make a fine Christmas feast,” he said. He does speak such wonderful English, and I do so admire a man in green. Giles is a tad jealous I suspect and has been hunting in the spare-room wardrobe for his old TA fatigues. I do, though, draw the line at him wearing his Barbour in bed.

Merry Christmas to all,
Leonora