Bill landed on the kitchen island like a brick. Just sat there, smug. Knew exactly what it was doing. I ignored it for a bit, made a coffee, pottered around. But you can’t ignore these things forever.
Eventually, I picked it up. Two hundred and forty-six euros. For what? Keeping the lights on? Running the washing machine twice a week? Letting the fridge do its basic fridge duties?
It wasn’t even winter. I wasn’t blasting heating. No dodgy electric heater running up a tab. Just life ticking over—and somehow, that cost me almost 250 quid.
Took the bill outside with me, sat on the naya, let the garden absorb the worst of my swearing. The heather’s holding up well. The foxgloves? Solid effort. The shamrocks are about two days away from declaring their own death.
Maybe I should take a leaf out of Maria’s book. Maria, next door, who barely blinks at these things. When I moaned to her, she just shrugged, completely unbothered.
“Solar, cariño. The sun’s free.”
Well, yeah.
So, I looked into it. Found a company offering solar panels in Marbella that seemed decent—solid reviews, not too pushy. Gave them a ring. Some bloke answered, sounded like he’d done this same conversation a thousand times today.
“Let me guess,” he said before I’d even finished my sentence. “Electricity bill?”
Yeah, mate. The absolute insult of it.
Three days later, I’ve got a team of lads on my roof. Boots clanking, drills whirring, tape measures flying about. The dog’s having a meltdown. I’m sitting outside pretending to read, but really, I’m just watching it all unfold.
Juan wanders over from two doors down. “Finally, amigo,” he grins, nodding at the chaos above me.
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Could’ve told me sooner.”
“You wouldn’t have listened,” he says, handing me a beer. Fair point.
The panels go up. Neighbours drift by, weighing in with unsolicited opinions. One bloke reckons I should’ve gone for a different brand. Another says his cousin got a deal up in Málaga.
I nod along, let them have their say, but honestly? Feels like the right call. I sit back, take it in. These panels—my roof, finally doing something useful.
The sun beats down, the lads finish up, and suddenly, the smug little bill inside doesn’t feel quite so powerful anymore.
A few days later, there’s an app on my phone telling me exactly how much power I’m pulling in. I check it too much. There’s something deeply satisfying about knowing the fridge, the kettle, the washing machine—all running on sunshine.
Feels like progress. Like I’m not just surviving out here, but actually getting ahead for once.
And when next month’s bill arrives? I’ll open it without needing a strong drink first. At least, that’s the plan.