Paco and the magic bracelet

For such a simple device, this thing is miraculous. We had to queue to get it fitted. Well, queue in the loose sense of milling around with everyone else. Queuing is mainly a British phenomenon and elsewhere it's done differently, sometimes by the simple use of elbows. Not in Spain, though. The Spanish queue is an invisible thread that winds itself through the throng and is generally respected. Each participant knows who arrived before and after them.

So we all waited patiently to check in and, once verified as worthy, to have our magic bracelet fitted. Paco, who has Down's syndrome and is everybody's favourite, gave a little shiver of excitement as the fitter wrapped the bracelet around his wrist. Made of bright green plastic with rows of holes, it took only a moment to clip it fast and trim off the excess with a pair of scissors.

You can put it to work immediately. Head for the bar, demand a restorative glass of beer and kaboom! - there it is on the counter. Take it away and nobody will charge you anything, now or later. Paco marched off with a glass of fizzy orange and a look of wonder in his eyes - you don't have to pay for it? This is not life as we know it!

We were on a weekend indulgence with our village association, staying in a smart hotel in Tenerife on an all-included deal, the todo incluido. You pay in advance and once the pain of that has faded, all is magic. In the restaurant that evening the waiter, mesmerised by our bright green bracelets, plonked a bottle of red wine on the table then awarded us the freedom of the self-service counters.

Most people start by overdoing the magic then feeling ill the next day, which slows them down and is what the hoteliers depend on to avoid ruination. Our neighbour Eusebio started by overdoing it then continued to overdo it for the next two days.

He and his wife Carmela were sitting at a table next to ours, his plate cleverly piled in multi-coloured layers assembled from everything on the buffet counter. I raised my wine glass: 'Salud!' He grinned and returned the salutation.

As a second bottle of wine arrived on his table, shortly afterwards, we raised our glasses again. 'You know,' Eusebio said, perhaps a little defensively, 'we need this kind of break now and again. Carmela and I work hard all day, every day. What's the point if you don't ever have any enjoyment? Eh? What's the point? Tell me!'

This drew prolonged applause from a nearby table, where two young women were tucking into plates similar to Eusebio's. We all drank a toast to enjoyment. Later the two friends told us they worked on a banana farm in the north of the island and this was a little holiday, an escape from work, an escapadita.

People do work hard in these islands. Eusebio, for example, has a full-time job with the local council but he and Carmela also maintain a little farm, a finca, where they raise goats and grow much of their own food. They're not alone in this, the family finca has formed the heart of Canary Islands life for centuries. More about that in another story, perhaps.

But to get back to the magic bracelet - like all sorcery it has its darker side. When you venture into the town during the day your cheerful, brightly coloured little bracelet marks you like the electronic tag of a paroled prisoner. Seated at a café table with your coffee or beer in hand, you are instantly recognisable as a todo-incluido.

So you have to decide. If it bothers you, hide it beneath a rolled-down shirtsleeve. I decided that it didn't bother me at all, I was happy to roll up my sleeves and wear my magic bracelet with pride. It's a badge of those who have worked hard and believe they've earned a little enjoyment. (Pause for applause.)

It also goes down well with the proprietors of bars and cafés for whom the todo incluido concept threatens disaster. Anyone who ventures outside the hotel to eat, drink or otherwise spend money is to be cherished.

Returning to the hotel for an enchanted pre-dinner aperitif by the pool, we found that Paco had been appointed Wizard of the Drinks and was running a shuttle service over the bridge across the bathing pool, carrying wine, beer, orange juice or vodka-limón. 'Only one at a time,' his brother cautioned him. 'And if you spill any of it you're a dead man.' Paco is well used to being teased, loves it and is a dab hand at the withering retort.

So we drank and we ate and we chuckled, then like tired but happy children we piled into the magic bus to take us home. Two days is enough but it's a fun way to do nothing together.

Here's to good health and enjoyment without guilt. Salud!