Bending the Rules

or making them up as you go along.

Paperwork is king in Ibiza. Bureaucracy's gone mad and a mountain of paper is needed for everything.

I'm trying to renew my 'Residencia' here. One of the pieces of paper I need is a certificate from the town hall which says where I live. Both Jaki and I spent a whole morning at the town hall some years ago getting the right papers so we could tell them where we lived. At the time we elected that in the future only I would have to go (along with her residents' card) to make any changes to our status.

Yesterday I went to collect the certificates for both of us, only to be told that Jaki had to physically be there to request hers because I can only make changes not collect her certificate. So I said I'll ring her now and she'll be here in two minutes.
'Is she here in Ibiza?' asked the girl.
'She's in our house just over there,' I replied. 'You know where I live,' I said to Vicent (the San Jose Village Idiot), lounging on the counter. His afirmative grunt spurred the girl into action and she gave me the certificates.

Later that very day a portly local policeman came to our door to tell us that our car was illegally parked. After a long conversation in which we exhausted all the possibilities about why I couldn't park there the eventual reason was that 'it is forbidden to park in the oldest street in the village.'

A new one on me but perfectly feasable in Ibiza.

Footnote. In years gone by, in the St. Helens of my childhood, Vicent (the village idiot from above) would have been called 'soft,' as in 'soft in th'ead.' In our politically correct times he has been given an important function to perform in the village. His job is to unlock our public toilets just after everyone has gone to work, and lock them as they go home for lunch. Ditto the afternoon session. See, in Ibiza, everything stops for siesta.