Donna Gee - Spain's Grumpy Old Gran

If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen, the saying goes. If the alternative is to melt away on a patio lounger at 103 degrees Fahrenheit, then gimme the chef’s furnace every time.

Even with every hotplate at Level 10 and the oven on maximum heat. 

My kitchen is ­currently like an ice-box compared to the garden, which has been in meltdown since the Spanish authorities sounded that Orange Alert at the start of the week. The bells on my orange tree have been peeling ever since. 

If Monday’s 103-degree burn-up turned out to be the hottest sun day of this baking summer so far, then the rest of the week in my part of the southern Costa Blanca has also had a distinct taste of Britain about it. Not that stewing in a pan of hot-pot is my idea of enjoying the Spanish summer. The forecasters reckon that temperatures in the Torrevieja and Murcia are will remain in the 90s and above for another fortnight. The consolation is that I’m talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius, though I reckon the water in a boiling kettle is cooler than the steering wheel of my car these days. OK, I'm to blame for that - I'm too lazy to cover the windscreen overnight and by the time I get up next morning, the interior is invaribly suffering from severe sunburn. My lips are sealed on the time I get up!

The heat is also affecting my sense of humid. I mean humour. I am so disorientated by it all that I’m starting to believe that Chile is a South American ice-cream company. 

Don’t talk sweat, did I hear ­someone say?

I am lucky enough to have two homes. One is a sunshine villa 30 minutes’ drive from Alicante airport, the other a modest semi 18 miles north of Manchester’s three flight terminals.

An airport trip at the English end is subject to an electrifying hazard in the form of 50 sets of traffic lights. The consolation is that no more than 47 tend to be stuck on red at any given time.

If you are lucky enough to actually catch your flight, you do at least face a delightful evening discussing traffic lights with the Spanish cabbie driving you to Guardamar on the N332.

Mention the super-hazard of every street corner in Britain and the taxi driver’s conversation is likely to consist of a quizzical look and the words ‘Que es trah-fick-lie-eat?’

Odds are he won’t know what you are talking about because, believe it or not, there’s not a single set of the things between Alicante and my Costa Blanca home.

At the Manchester end one can, of course, avoid the red-light menace by heading for the airport via the city’s Park-And-Don’t-Move service, otherwise known as the M60 motorway.

That trip is no fun either, and unless you give yourself at least two days to get to the airport, a couple of hours with your head immersed in 50 Shades of Red may well be less stressful than counting traffic cones.

Either way, both routes to the airport provide ideal material for a ‘100 Reasons to Escape Manchester’ publicity blitz.

What sort of voyeur gets a kick out of watching traffic cones breeding on the M60, for heaven’s sake? Last time I used the so-called ring road I counted 428 million giant ice-cream cornets during a six-mile crawl to the Trafford Centre. The 14-hour trip was marginally quicker than taking the car but my knees didn’t half hurt by the time I reached my destination. And I was suffering from orange-and-white colour blindness into the bargain.
One of the few perks of driving to Manchester airport via the city centre is that you can stop off for a coffee and a bacon butty. The down side is the £60 parking fine you’ll inevitably get in addition to burning off eight gallons of unleaded in a desperate attempt to park sideways on the single metre of kerb untainted by double yellow lines.

I appreciate that comparing the Costa del Salford with the Costa del Sol is akin to confusing Bury Market with the London Stock Market. But that’s a bourse-case scenario.

There are, in fact, many leisurely compensations for those who choose not to drive in what must surely be the wettest part of the UK. One is enjoying a morning swim to the office in downtown Mancunia’s high-street ocean, known to the aquatic community as the Sea of Umbrellas. The rush hour is so busy that there’s no choice but to do the crawl, and not only because the breast stroke is illegal and a butterfly as rare as an English Mark Spitz.
Which brings me on to football or, for the gob-fearing amongst us, the mouths of Wayne Rooney and Kompany.

Manchester is of course home to two top football teams, namely Bury and Oldham Athletic. Fortunately I don’t support Man United or Man City either, which is a bit of a relief since I don’t speak German (heaven help whoever puts the names on United players’ shirts) and with my flight back to Spain only 24 hours away, I’m pretty low on Sterling too (boom boom).

Oh, a geeky friend just called to say there are actually 49 sets of traffic lights between my Whitefield home and Manchester Airport. Using the bacon-butty route, that is.

I believe there are also 49 million traffic cones between Anfield in Liverpool and Manchester City’s Etihad Stadium.

All paid for in Sterling, of course.

(That’s enough Sterling jokes, Donna!.There’s no Raheem or reason for repeating yourself – Editor)