The lovely new home has its drawbacks - it is without internet or television.Life is pretty bleak. Can't send emails, plan our trip to Mendoza or post my blog and in order to watch football Brian has to make a trek across town to Dave who is still ensconced in his shed. And then he has to endure the inter-team ribaldry imposed on Spurs whilst not getting so aerated he is forced out on to the streets football-less. Although I don't think Spurs are doing very well at the moment so he is going through yet another of those phases where he declares that he has lost all interest in matters football and couldn't really care less. Until we go to the internet café and, once he's responded to both his emails, he spends the remainder of his time on the BBC sport website. I'm pretty sure it's not the Darts Final that's keeping him so occupied.

So with no Coronation Street or Football Focus to keep us occupied we find ourselves this afternoon drinking cups of tea and listening to the latest episode of Ed Reardon that I downloaded earlier from radio 4. It's a picture of cosy domestic bliss, only hampered by the fact it is now 38 degrees in our bedroom and physically impossible to remain in there for any longer than a minute without enduring 3rd degree burns. The heat is, almost, intolerable. There is no air circulation in the house due to the builders having broken the winding mechanism that opens the antiquated roof to the elements, so all the hot air hovers around getting, well, hotter. It's like the Sahara desert in here.

Then, just when we thought it couldn't get any worse, we trudged home one day to our cool new abode looking forward to turning the airconditioning unit up to 12 and passing out motionless on the bed, only to discover that the electricity has been cut off. Bruno the wunder-kid had forgotten to pay the bill.Gah.

They have a frustrating bill payment system here, every month they have to queue up in the local supermarket, pharmacist or large shop and tediously pay each bill. It seems to take hours of everyone's time.Apart from the actual standing in line it is a tortuous process of scanning in bills, keying in figures, double-checking amounts, counting out pesos, re-counting pesos, hand-writing receipts and twiddling thumbs. You do not want to get in a queue where someone in front has a bill to pay anymore than you want to get in a queue at the supermarket where they are having their shopping delivered. This is equally painful.(Nor do you want to accidentally get into the 15 items or less queue, even when you have innocently underestimated their system of tallying up the number of yogurt pots just because they are joined at the top.Not unless you wish to experience the utter scorn and humiliation that can only be dispensed by a hoity toity 12 year old checkout girl that is).

Anyway, I thought carbon paper had been abolished sometime towards the end of the last century, but no. Carbon paper rules in Argentina and is painstakingly inserted in all three or four copies of the home delivery order, all the better to complicate the filing process that is no doubt being undertaken by women in hooped skirts and bonnets somewhere beyond t'mill. Careful note is taken of the delivery address and the time, the purchaser's ID number, date of birth and, for all I know, inside leg measurement and digital fingerprint. It is excruciating, particularly if you have only popped in for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk.

And so our little bill was overlooked and didn't get paid and without a by-your-leave the man from the electricity company came round and removed our meter. Yup, took the whole thing away. Just as our washing machine was whirling away doing a load of soapy clothes washing.

So we are now back where we started, in the hideous brown and orange monstrosity. Hot, annoyed, exasperated and with not many clean clothes to our name. Can it get any worse?

Brian has splashed out on a new watchstrap as his old one was broken and, by coincidence, the shop underneath Dave's office sells nothing but watchstraps; hundreds upon hundreds of colours, sizes, qualities and prices. Of course those of you with more than a passing knowledge of Bri will perceive the problem here immediately - Brian is at his happiest with the minimum of choices (preferably at the keenest of prices). Any more than a choice of 2, or at the most 3, things to select from throws him into a quandary, and so it came to pass with the watchstrap emporium.

As soon as we entered the shop he started blinking nervously and his head began to swivel as he suddenly perceived that every wall was covered in shelf after shelf of watchstraps. Panicked he tried to find the exit, but all he could see was watchstraps. To be fair the watch strap staff were excellent - one spoke almost fluent English and they guided him through the watchstrap buying experience with skill and patience. Unfortunately for them they fell at the final hurdle when, they tried to sell him one of their more expensive models. Quick as a flash Bri was on the defensive - he was not about to be bamboozled by their slick sales tactics, oh no.He could see little or no difference between their top-end, heavily advertised 60 peso strap and the dusty little 10 peso strap he had espied in the window. He was sticking to his guns. He is no fool.

Sadly the 10 peso strap was not made for day-to-day wear and disintegrated 2 days after we bought it. So it was back to the shop the next day to repeat the experience all over again…..

Meanwhile Dave has lost a client. Literally it seems.He bought an apartment two years ago without even having visited Argentina and having only ever corresponded with Dave by email. The apartment needs work on it and can no longer be rented out until the work is done, but because it also has mounting debts it's in danger of being repossessed. The owner, who comes from Newcastle, has stopped answering emails and his phone has been cut off. Someone does now want to buy it but the owner seems to have disappeared and Dave does not know what to do. Suspiciously Dave had an email from some guy saying that he was a 'friend of the owner' and was going to help him sell it - could Dave send him the legal documents, to which Dave replied that he could only do that with the permission of the owner. At which point the 'friend' then became evasive and now wants nothing further to do with the transaction. By chance we met a guy the other day who says he has 'friends up north' who can track him down. It's all getting a bit Terry and Arthur. Not sure how this one is going to be resolved, perhaps we have sent the boys round after all….

Dave hasn't sung and played his guitar in front of an audience now for at least a couple of years, except for our wedding of course but that hardly counts as not only did he know most of them they were mostly inebriated too. Seeing an ad in the local press the other day for an open mic evening at a restaurant in San Telmo he announced his intention of 'maybe' performing. If the wind was in the right direction, his horoscope was aligned with Jupiter and there wasn't an 'R' in the month, that sort of thing.

So the night of the gig saw us all set out, with guitar in hand and a spring in our step but with Dave still muttering about being 'too old for this sort of thing' and he would 'see how it went'. We got to the restaurant to find a good crowd, including a group of students from Kentucky who were in Argentina for an exchange programme, together with a reasonable number of musicians and singers awaiting their turn.

Although we got Dave to put his name down on the list, his resolve was weakening as he watched each of the performers do their thing and he started muttering about how late it was getting and how everyone was too young to even have heard of half his songs. Finally it was his turn. He shuffled onto the stage, dragging his feet and looking at the audience like an apologetic little puppy. He promised to play them just 2 songs and then put them out of their misery by leaving.

He struck a chord. He started to sing and play; we held our breaths, prepared to slink backwards towards the door ready to hold it open for him while simultaneously pretending we didn't know him. And then the crowd went wild, singing along, waving their arms in the air and even getting up and dancing in the aisles. What a turn-up, and such a great evening. Dave played 3 songs in the end and left to enthusiastic applause but no requests for an autograph. Yet.

We all left on a high, Brian and I feeling like roadies for the Rolling Stones and Dave feeling like his old idol, Sir Keef Richard. Actually he's asked me to drop all references to 'old'. haha. Bit too late for that....