FROM PARADISE IN

SPAIN TO EX-EXPAT

I’VE just made a life-changing decision. A decision that would have been unthinkable a few weeks ago.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life back in the UK.

Yes, the moaning old grumpy who hates the cold and the wet of England is to become an ex-expat. Even if my decision does mean re-engaging with the nightmare of overcrowded cities and endless traffic jams.

Much as I love Spain, there is one thing my adopted homeland cannot provide me with. And that is the love and support of a caring ­family as I open the final chapter of my book of life.

I thought I could live without my nearest and dearest - or at least without seeing them on a daily, weekly or even monthly basis. But I was deluding myself.

 For the last four years or so I've soaked up an idyllic Costa cocktail of sunshine, sea and sangria, believing I could go it alone in my peaceful Iberian paradise.

Although I had ongoing health problems, they seemed to be under control and even the onset of Parkinson's could not dim my enthusiasm for La Vida Espanola. That's exactly how it was until two weeks ago.

Then everything changed dramatically -  triggered by the sudden, inexplicable fatigue which came over me.

I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open at moments when I needed to be wide awake. Like when I was driving my car on a busy road.

I knew something was wrong but a full medical check-up revealed nothing.  For an old dear approaching her 70th birthday, I seemed to be in relatively good health. Blood and excretion samples tested normal and an ECG showed my heart was pumping perfectly.

The tiredness, ventured the clinic doctor, could be down to my body metabolism adjusting to Summer Time.

An odd disgnosis maybe, but it somehow seemed to make sense.  Particularly as I had returned from a visit to England a couple of days before the clocks went forward and was now TWO hours ahead of where my ageing brain imagined it was.

As a naturally happy person who invariably resorts to  laughter to counter adversity, I didn't dream that I might have a psychological problem.

After all, I had been able to deal comfortably with all the slings and arrows life had chucked at me.

So the realisation that I might actually be suffering from depression hit me like the tsunami of tears I've shed this past fortnight.

I didn't think to tell the doctor I've been breaking down for no apparent reason when I am alone at home - usually as bedtime approaches and I realise how vulnerable I am.

Tears are rolling  down my cheeks again as I write this but I have made a decisive decision.

As time takes its toll and I begin to succumb to increasing frailty, I need my family around me more than ever.

I won’t be going for a good few weeks yet, but right now I feel like jumping on the next plane out of Alicante. Mind you, with my luck I'd end up in Malaga instead of Manchester.

The 10 days I spent last month with my daughters and grandchildren in Lancashire and Cheshire were really special. And perhaps the most special part of all was the bond I built watching the Teletubbies with the youngest of my six grandkids, two-year-old Buddy.

My elder daughter Hayley’s only son was delivered three months prematurely by emergency Caesarian and weighed less than a kilo at birth.

For a week or more, the tiny tot’s life was in the balance, but today he is a miracle mini man with the happiest smile, the cutest quiff of brown hair, and the ability to melt hearts with a Tinky Winky of his eye.

That's why Granny Donna is going Dipsy without him. And why she’s coming home to see him grow up.

DOC WHO PUTS

ALL HIS BASQUE

INTO ONE X HIT...

LIKE most expats, I came  to Spain to enjoy the sun, the sea and a peaceful retirement.

And in the main I have achieved my every desire.

Occasionally, however, my  Mediterranean voyage has hit a stretch of choppy water.

It’s like air turbulence on a plane - you just wish it hadn’t started and pray it will go away.

This week’s shenanigans involved an email exchange with a stranger who had made an instant judgement of my character - and got it all wrong. Either that or I'm not as nice an old Grumpy as I thought I was.

Anyway,  fur and feathers flew through the ether and the ensuing email war got so out of control that I was ready to commit a Midzimmer Murder.

Then, suddenly, we both realised how stupid it all was - and the tidal wave of turbulence vanished in an instant.

The bitter foes are now the best of enemies with an upcoming coffee date on the agenda.

Oops, better not say coffee - it's been banned from my diet. On doctor’s orders.

Dr X wants me to sup green tea instead - and who am I to argue with a man whose past patients include Royalty and Hollywood superstars?

While chiropractic is not everyone’s cup of tea, the influence of Dr Xavier Dutey-Harispe seems to be having a positive effect on my Parkinson’s. So much so that I was positively bouncing when I left his Algorfa clinic on Tuesday. I felt 10 years younger than when I went in - and ready for a real knees up rather than pretending to play knee-ball as part of my exercise therapy.

I believe the combination of chiropractic, acupuncture and a caring practitioner is definitely working. And Dr X, a Basque from Biarritz who counts Royalty and Hollywood stars among his past patients, has convinced me that with his facilitation, my body’s own healing powers can reverse the increasing weakness in my  (left) writing hand.

I know this all sounds like a plug for Dr X - but, those who practice the skill insist that chiropractic does not CURE anything - it just clears the way for the body to complete its natural restoration process.

Meanwhile, the doctor and his assistant Catherine Estall believe there is a lack of knowledge in the general community of what chiropractic actually is.

Dr X also emphasises the caring side of the relationship between practitioner and patient. Unlike the cold, formal relationship between most GPs and their patients, he is a great advocate of hugs and kisses.

I don’t want other victims of Parkinson’s to think chiropractic or acupuncture will necessarily help them.

No two people have the same symptoms and we all have our own preferred treatment and medication regimes. But I personally have a  great belief in positivity and good humour as a therapy for ill health.

Now I also have physical evidence that the X Factor is actually triggering my creaking body to revive itself.

Carry on at this rate and I’ll soon be joining my good friend Marjory at her line-dancing classes.

Problem is, I'd fall off.the line.