I'm not blonde anymore. To you that might not seem like a big deal but to me it's the start of a whole new chapter. I've been blonde my whole life - well, apart from a crazy year, aged 17, when I went pillar box red and wore army trousers and big black boots.
But now i'm brunette. I keep catching sight of myself reflected in windows and thinking, that girl's wearing my jacket, then starting when I realize this dark-haired creature is me.
People who know me say "wow" the fist time I walk into a room, and I say "what?", forgetting each time this big part of my identity has changed.
It was the endometriosis that made me do it. Everything I've read has told me to stop putting chemicals into my body. So I've thrown out all my toxic toiletries and cosmetics and changed them for natural organic stuff. Bleach on the scalp was a complete no-no too.
Having the operation was about as much fun as eating salt and vinegar crisps with a mouth ulcer, so I want to do everything I can to avoid having another one now it's all over.
So my hairdresser suggested going back to my natural colour. But my roots are so dark now - it really doesn't match up to the inner picture I have of myself.
When I imagine my future - see myself getting married or playing with my kids in the park or on the beach - the 'me' I see is blonde. It's going to take a while to reassemble.
And will it change the way others see me or react to me? I won't get random blokes shouting "rubia" (blonde) at me. No loss there. Maybe I'll even blend in a bit more with the majority of the brunette population. Maybe if I look less like a foreigner, thieves will stop trying to rob me?
"Do you like it?" My hairdresser asked me after he'd finished arranging my hair around my face. "I don't know yet," I told him, after we'd both collapsed in fits of laughter staring at this weird stranger in the mirror.
"It looks like I'm wearing a wig, it's just not me at all."
It's funny the parts of ourselves that are so deeply ingrained in our sense of self, that we feel that if we change them, we might lose who we are. I remember many years ago when I worked at a dance music magazine - I was so proud of my job and I loved it so much that I thought it defined me completely. I couldn't imagine ever doing anything else.
One day the production manager, who was some years older and wiser, left. At her leaving party she told me: "You think this job is who you are, but it's not, it's just something you do. You'll realize that in time."
I thought she was wrong but I never forgot her words. And of course she was right. I found other things that were more important. The need to travel and explore. A sense that I had to leave my secure life in London behind and discover who else I could be.
In many ways I'm still finding out. But change is good, I'm sure of that much.
30/05/2010
26/05/2010
It's over
Pure terror. I managed to hold it off until the last minute, but there it was. Piggybacking into the room on the shoulders of the nurse who arrived to take me to the operating theatre.
I'd done quite well up until then. Apart from a teary moment just before me and the bloke left the house, I was quite calm. There was that faintly sick feeling - the one you get before taking an important test or exam - but it had diminished over the course of the three hours I'd been sat in my pyjamas, waiting in the room at the clinic.
Then there it was, the terror. On like a switch. With the nurse telling me matter of factly to say goodbye to the bloke and his mum, take my glasses and socks off and put my slippers on - we would walk to the operating theatre. Walk?
Everything I had read about the operation I was about to have made me believe that I would be given some sort of chill pill and I would be wheeled there. Every single report said it was so. What a double shock then to be walking, completely lucid, through the hospital towards the surgeon's knife.
When I had to stop to put plastic covers over my feet, and a green shower cap over my hair, my hands would hardly do what I told them. The nurse helped and remarked my skin felt cold.
"I think you're scared," she observed. "You don't need to be - it'll be fine." Easy for her to say.
Through a set of double doors and there it was - the operating table. An ominous looking bed with a thin panel jutting out at a right angle for the arm. My arm. Half way along that - a strap that they would tie to help my veins stand up.
Lethal injection, I thought suddenly, and fought off a manic urge to laugh. My eyes took in a block off three tiny steps leading up to the bed and the blood started to roar in my ears.
For an awful moment I thought I was going to faint or have a panic attack as I stood there gawping like an idiot. Then out of nowhere a friendly voice said in English: "How long have you been in Madrid?"
The anesthetist - he spoke my first language. I wasn't expecting that.
"Four years," I replied, the panic subsiding.
"Are you from London?" He asked.
"No, Durham. it's a place in the north east of England."
"Ah, yes, near Newcastle"
"Wow, you know it?"
"Yes, I know it. I have many friends in Newcastle - it's so important to learn English."
I was so amazed that he knew my home town, I momentarily forgot about the panic attack and what was about to happen. I was having a nice conversation with a Spanish person who had actually heard of my home town. Who actually had friends in Newcastle. That was a first, and I wanted to know more.
But there was no more time. The nurse was back.
"Take everything off," she said, so I did. Wrapped in a blanket I took the three tiny steps up to the table and lay down, sticking my arm out on for the anesthetist to strap in.
Medical staff swarmed around me, sticking things on to my body which would probably measure my vital signs when I was out. I looked up at the lights in the ceiling and the upside down forms of scrub wearing phantoms darting about.
It looks like a film, I thought. The part where the hero's fighting for his life on the operating table and you're seeing what he's seeing. And the sounds are all muffled and it's a bit blurry. It looks like a film.
"Sorry, now you will feel a little prick," said the anesthetist. "It is unavoidable."
"That's OK, I told him. It's perfectly necessary."
"And now you will go to sleep," he told me.
I was glad there was going to be no countdown from 100 for me. I had been worried that in my panicked state I was likely to mess it up, and count in the wrong direction or miss out a number.
Instead all I had to do was say: "Night night."
"Yes, but it's evening, not night, so you should say 'good evening'," corrected the anesthetist.
"You're right. Good evening," I agreed.
Then a sense of euphoria began to wash over me. The panic was gone. The fear obliterated. I didn't really care what happened next.
"Wow, that feels amazing," I said. "Really amazing."
Then there was nothing.
I'd been told that I wouldn't remember anything from the time I was under - I wouldn't dream, or at least I wouldn't remember dreaming. Even so, I'd been secretly hoping for some sort of wild vision, or conversation with god. but there was nothing - just a big black hole that only lasted for a fraction of a second.
One minute I was telling the anesthetist how amazing I felt and the next I heard: "Honey, wake up."
I opened my eyes to see the bloke stood over me, smiling. and behind him, his parents.
Wow, that was quick, I thought immediately, and secondly - wow, I'm back, i didn't die! Because even though I knew it was routine operation with a low level of risk there was still that little voice whispering deviously in my ear: "You might not wake up, you might not come back."
Do you remember the first time you became fully aware that one day you would die? In theory most of us realize that we won't go on forever when we're kids. The death of a family pet or a grandparent puts it into focus. We accept it, because usually it's smoothed over with "Rocky's gone to heaven with all the other dogs who died and he's having a lovely time chasing rabbits in the fields".
But when do we really process it? For me, really I think it was only a few years ago. I was walking down the road on my final stretch of the journey to work with the sun in my eyes and I suddenly thought - One day I will just cease to be. I won't have thoughts, or feelings or memories, I'll just be nothing… forever. And my brain struggled to process that one huge statement. and I had to stop and hold onto a tree while the feeling of total unease passed.
Anyway, it wasn't my time to go. I was back. And as I listened to the bloke tell me the operation had been a complete success and the endometriosis had been minimal - only in one place - I felt the euphoria back again. Only this time it was natural.
I'd been asleep for an hour, and now everything had changed. The unknown was no longer hanging over my head. the relief was total - a blinding white light filling my head.
I was in a lot of pain but it hardly seemed to matter. It would go eventually. I would get better in the end. It was over.
Hours later, as painkillers and antibiotics dripped into my arm we watched a colorful and trippy Japanese Anime film. Then we settled down to try and get some sleep.
"I don't think it's hit us yet, how good this is," said the bloke. "This could have been so bad, but it's all worked out great."
Two nights later, it finally did hit me. I was in my own bed at home with the bloke sleeping beside me. Replaying the whole thing over in my head. Silent tears of gratitude began to snake their way out of the sides of my eyes and run down my face.
It's over. I'm going to be ok. The two phrases played over and over in my head like a mantra before I fell into a deep sleep - my first proper rest since before the operation.
I'd done quite well up until then. Apart from a teary moment just before me and the bloke left the house, I was quite calm. There was that faintly sick feeling - the one you get before taking an important test or exam - but it had diminished over the course of the three hours I'd been sat in my pyjamas, waiting in the room at the clinic.
Then there it was, the terror. On like a switch. With the nurse telling me matter of factly to say goodbye to the bloke and his mum, take my glasses and socks off and put my slippers on - we would walk to the operating theatre. Walk?
Everything I had read about the operation I was about to have made me believe that I would be given some sort of chill pill and I would be wheeled there. Every single report said it was so. What a double shock then to be walking, completely lucid, through the hospital towards the surgeon's knife.
When I had to stop to put plastic covers over my feet, and a green shower cap over my hair, my hands would hardly do what I told them. The nurse helped and remarked my skin felt cold.
"I think you're scared," she observed. "You don't need to be - it'll be fine." Easy for her to say.
Through a set of double doors and there it was - the operating table. An ominous looking bed with a thin panel jutting out at a right angle for the arm. My arm. Half way along that - a strap that they would tie to help my veins stand up.
Lethal injection, I thought suddenly, and fought off a manic urge to laugh. My eyes took in a block off three tiny steps leading up to the bed and the blood started to roar in my ears.
For an awful moment I thought I was going to faint or have a panic attack as I stood there gawping like an idiot. Then out of nowhere a friendly voice said in English: "How long have you been in Madrid?"
The anesthetist - he spoke my first language. I wasn't expecting that.
"Four years," I replied, the panic subsiding.
"Are you from London?" He asked.
"No, Durham. it's a place in the north east of England."
"Ah, yes, near Newcastle"
"Wow, you know it?"
"Yes, I know it. I have many friends in Newcastle - it's so important to learn English."
I was so amazed that he knew my home town, I momentarily forgot about the panic attack and what was about to happen. I was having a nice conversation with a Spanish person who had actually heard of my home town. Who actually had friends in Newcastle. That was a first, and I wanted to know more.
But there was no more time. The nurse was back.
"Take everything off," she said, so I did. Wrapped in a blanket I took the three tiny steps up to the table and lay down, sticking my arm out on for the anesthetist to strap in.
Medical staff swarmed around me, sticking things on to my body which would probably measure my vital signs when I was out. I looked up at the lights in the ceiling and the upside down forms of scrub wearing phantoms darting about.
It looks like a film, I thought. The part where the hero's fighting for his life on the operating table and you're seeing what he's seeing. And the sounds are all muffled and it's a bit blurry. It looks like a film.
"Sorry, now you will feel a little prick," said the anesthetist. "It is unavoidable."
"That's OK, I told him. It's perfectly necessary."
"And now you will go to sleep," he told me.
I was glad there was going to be no countdown from 100 for me. I had been worried that in my panicked state I was likely to mess it up, and count in the wrong direction or miss out a number.
Instead all I had to do was say: "Night night."
"Yes, but it's evening, not night, so you should say 'good evening'," corrected the anesthetist.
"You're right. Good evening," I agreed.
Then a sense of euphoria began to wash over me. The panic was gone. The fear obliterated. I didn't really care what happened next.
"Wow, that feels amazing," I said. "Really amazing."
Then there was nothing.
I'd been told that I wouldn't remember anything from the time I was under - I wouldn't dream, or at least I wouldn't remember dreaming. Even so, I'd been secretly hoping for some sort of wild vision, or conversation with god. but there was nothing - just a big black hole that only lasted for a fraction of a second.
One minute I was telling the anesthetist how amazing I felt and the next I heard: "Honey, wake up."
I opened my eyes to see the bloke stood over me, smiling. and behind him, his parents.
Wow, that was quick, I thought immediately, and secondly - wow, I'm back, i didn't die! Because even though I knew it was routine operation with a low level of risk there was still that little voice whispering deviously in my ear: "You might not wake up, you might not come back."
Do you remember the first time you became fully aware that one day you would die? In theory most of us realize that we won't go on forever when we're kids. The death of a family pet or a grandparent puts it into focus. We accept it, because usually it's smoothed over with "Rocky's gone to heaven with all the other dogs who died and he's having a lovely time chasing rabbits in the fields".
But when do we really process it? For me, really I think it was only a few years ago. I was walking down the road on my final stretch of the journey to work with the sun in my eyes and I suddenly thought - One day I will just cease to be. I won't have thoughts, or feelings or memories, I'll just be nothing… forever. And my brain struggled to process that one huge statement. and I had to stop and hold onto a tree while the feeling of total unease passed.
Anyway, it wasn't my time to go. I was back. And as I listened to the bloke tell me the operation had been a complete success and the endometriosis had been minimal - only in one place - I felt the euphoria back again. Only this time it was natural.
I'd been asleep for an hour, and now everything had changed. The unknown was no longer hanging over my head. the relief was total - a blinding white light filling my head.
I was in a lot of pain but it hardly seemed to matter. It would go eventually. I would get better in the end. It was over.
Hours later, as painkillers and antibiotics dripped into my arm we watched a colorful and trippy Japanese Anime film. Then we settled down to try and get some sleep.
"I don't think it's hit us yet, how good this is," said the bloke. "This could have been so bad, but it's all worked out great."
Two nights later, it finally did hit me. I was in my own bed at home with the bloke sleeping beside me. Replaying the whole thing over in my head. Silent tears of gratitude began to snake their way out of the sides of my eyes and run down my face.
It's over. I'm going to be ok. The two phrases played over and over in my head like a mantra before I fell into a deep sleep - my first proper rest since before the operation.
10/05/2010
Operation
I have to have an operation. I've been told I have endometriosis. Two things I didn't expect to be writing in this blog - two things I debated over writing in such a public place.
After all, when I started writing El corte a la Inglesa I saw it as a place to post funny stories about my life in Madrid. Should I really be sharing the not funny, potentially uncomfortable stuff too?
But after much thought I decided to go ahead - after all this is all part of my life too, and writing about it might help anyone going through something similar to feel a little better.
if you don't like the sound of that, stop reading - I won't be offended. I'm sure there'll be more funny stories to be posted in the near future.
So, I'd never even heard of endometriosis a few months ago. Chances are, you haven't either. It's a condition that affects millions of women that causes cells which usually grow in the uterus to grow in other places in the abdomen.
It's very common - as common as diabetes, but no-one really talks about it, as it's a "women's problem". They don't know what causes it, and there is no cure - though there are certain things you can do to put it in remission. No-one ever died from it, therefore research into it is poor - no motivation for the big pharmaceutical companies.
I've already made big changes in my life to become more healthy living, but there's just no getting away from the fact that I need an operation - something which (in my head at least) happens to other people, not me.
I had two minor surgeries when I was a kid (not counting the three teeth I had out under general anesthetic) and at the time it all seemed like a bit of an adventure. if the adults said it was alright and it needed to be done, then that was that. I even sort of liked being on the ward, with all the nurses, and drawing pictures for all the other kids.
But of course it's different when you're an adult, saddled with all your irrational worries and fears. The most part of me knows it'll all be fine, but there's a tiny voice screaming in my ear, telling me to be afraid.
Luckily the health care in Spain is excellent, and double lucky for me that being in a foreign country, I've got the bloke and his family around me. They have been amazing - coming with me to appointments (hard to concentrate when you're flustered and it's all in your second language) and doing and saying the right things at every moment to make me feel better.
And the reaction from all of my friends has been phenomenal. So many messages of love and support, really getting me through the low moments. What would I do without them? Makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to go through this kind of thing alone.
As one friend told me - everyone has to deal with this sort of thing at some point in their life. So this is my time. I've been lucky with my health for almost 30 years - one minor blip in that time is not too bad really.
In fact, some part of me is glad this has happened as it's put things into perspective. It's made me realise how lucky I am. I knew I had a good man in my life, but it's not till now i've fully realised just how great he is. I know for certain he's in this for the long haul, and I can depend on him whatever life throws. Ditto his family, ditto my friends.
Health is such a gift, and we take it for granted. It's a smack in the face when you're told there's something wrong with you that can't just be fixed with a day in bed or a course of antibiotics. I have no idea what it must be like for people who suddenly have to deal with the fact they have a serious illness.
So, my resolutions - don't sweat the small stuff anymore. Be healthy, but also make sure I live a little. Where possible, take every opportunity that comes my way - because you never know what's round the corner. Be the first to offer support to anyone who needs it. And absolutely without fail, regularly tell my family and friends just how much they mean to me.
After all, when I started writing El corte a la Inglesa I saw it as a place to post funny stories about my life in Madrid. Should I really be sharing the not funny, potentially uncomfortable stuff too?
But after much thought I decided to go ahead - after all this is all part of my life too, and writing about it might help anyone going through something similar to feel a little better.
if you don't like the sound of that, stop reading - I won't be offended. I'm sure there'll be more funny stories to be posted in the near future.
So, I'd never even heard of endometriosis a few months ago. Chances are, you haven't either. It's a condition that affects millions of women that causes cells which usually grow in the uterus to grow in other places in the abdomen.
It's very common - as common as diabetes, but no-one really talks about it, as it's a "women's problem". They don't know what causes it, and there is no cure - though there are certain things you can do to put it in remission. No-one ever died from it, therefore research into it is poor - no motivation for the big pharmaceutical companies.
I've already made big changes in my life to become more healthy living, but there's just no getting away from the fact that I need an operation - something which (in my head at least) happens to other people, not me.
I had two minor surgeries when I was a kid (not counting the three teeth I had out under general anesthetic) and at the time it all seemed like a bit of an adventure. if the adults said it was alright and it needed to be done, then that was that. I even sort of liked being on the ward, with all the nurses, and drawing pictures for all the other kids.
But of course it's different when you're an adult, saddled with all your irrational worries and fears. The most part of me knows it'll all be fine, but there's a tiny voice screaming in my ear, telling me to be afraid.
Luckily the health care in Spain is excellent, and double lucky for me that being in a foreign country, I've got the bloke and his family around me. They have been amazing - coming with me to appointments (hard to concentrate when you're flustered and it's all in your second language) and doing and saying the right things at every moment to make me feel better.
And the reaction from all of my friends has been phenomenal. So many messages of love and support, really getting me through the low moments. What would I do without them? Makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to go through this kind of thing alone.
As one friend told me - everyone has to deal with this sort of thing at some point in their life. So this is my time. I've been lucky with my health for almost 30 years - one minor blip in that time is not too bad really.
In fact, some part of me is glad this has happened as it's put things into perspective. It's made me realise how lucky I am. I knew I had a good man in my life, but it's not till now i've fully realised just how great he is. I know for certain he's in this for the long haul, and I can depend on him whatever life throws. Ditto his family, ditto my friends.
Health is such a gift, and we take it for granted. It's a smack in the face when you're told there's something wrong with you that can't just be fixed with a day in bed or a course of antibiotics. I have no idea what it must be like for people who suddenly have to deal with the fact they have a serious illness.
So, my resolutions - don't sweat the small stuff anymore. Be healthy, but also make sure I live a little. Where possible, take every opportunity that comes my way - because you never know what's round the corner. Be the first to offer support to anyone who needs it. And absolutely without fail, regularly tell my family and friends just how much they mean to me.
25/04/2010
Home alone with the ghost
Is it possible that your mind can play tricks on you if you spend too much time on your own? Can you go on autopilot and do things without realizing it? Or do I have a ghost?
The bloke has been gone now for 16 days - the longest we have been apart since I moved to Madrid. It was supposed to be only 10, but after the volcano ash from iceland caused a European flight industry meltdown he was stuck in Alaska for an extra week. All being well, he should get back tomorrow.
It wasn't such a tragedy really - at least he got some extra days of snowboarding in. And he had the sense to stay where he had a hotel - some of the poor riders he met out there decided to head for the airports anyway, and spent days sleeping on the floor in Seattle airport.
It's been weird for me having the place to myself for so long. Of course I've missed him dearly, but some bits of it have been great.
I've been able to watch episodes of The West Wing back to back, and I haven't had to watch the news while eating dinner. Why is that bad, you ask? Well the news in Spain always seems to involve either dead bodies or close ups of gruesome road traffic accident scenes. I do not want to watch the camera zooming in on a child's teddy (it always is, for some reason) caked in drying blood when I'm tucking into my steak and potatoes. Puts me right off.
I'm also able to hit snooze as many times as I want in the morning without grumbles from anyone, and I can throw back the covers and turn all the lights on in the room on when I decide to get up.
In bed I'm able to have as many pillows as I want and sleep the whole night through without being woken up. A real novelty. Like all the men in his family, the bloke has sleep apnea. this means that when he falls into deep sleep he holds his breath, then lets it out in a high pitched squeak. Something that earplugs don't stand a chance against.
Not to mention how much easier it is to keep the house tidy - and the fact that I can play Eighties music loudly while I'm doing it, without raising any protests. And sing along.
Still I would trade all this in in an instant to have the bloke back right now. Much as he annoys me (on purpose) sometimes, things aren't half as fun without him. I had this big list of things I would get done while he was away, and I haven't done half of them -
ie. paint my nails, tidy the drawers in the bathroom, learn how to cook lentils, sort out my clothes and give the ones i don't wear anymore to charity, wash the dog, transfer all my photos off my computer and onto the hard disc…
I have watched plenty of The West Wing though and completed loads of levels on Angry Birds - a gem of an app for the iPhone.
But the worst thing about the bloke being away is that I manage to spook myself out thinking about the ghost.
There have been a few weird things going down in our house. twice it's happened to me that I've come into the front room in the middle of the night to crash on the sofa to escape the sleep apnea, only to have the TV turn on for no reason. No, I didn't accidentally sit on the remote control, as the bloke insisted I must have done. The same thing has happened to him since - and he didn't find it funny then.
And there were the flashes in the bathroom - like camera flashes - three in short succession. I was convinced I was having a retina detachment so went to the optician to get checked out, but I was fine. i think they thought i was a bit mental. Maybe I am.
I don't know why all of this got into my head when i was trying to fall asleep, but it did. And maybe I've seen too many horror films, so it's my own fault. I still blame my brother for showing me Nightmare on Elm Street when I was 10, it sent me wrong.
So I shut my bedroom door (to keep out the ghost, naturally) and went to sleep. Except when I got up in the morning, the door was wide open. I'm 100 per cent sure i didn't get up in the night and open it. and the dog couldn't have opened it. So what is going on there?
The same thing happened the next night, but it stopped after that. The bloke says when he gets back he'll set up a video camera and put some talcum power on the floor to see what happens. I'm not doing that though, I've seen how Paranormal Activity ends.
The bloke has been gone now for 16 days - the longest we have been apart since I moved to Madrid. It was supposed to be only 10, but after the volcano ash from iceland caused a European flight industry meltdown he was stuck in Alaska for an extra week. All being well, he should get back tomorrow.
It wasn't such a tragedy really - at least he got some extra days of snowboarding in. And he had the sense to stay where he had a hotel - some of the poor riders he met out there decided to head for the airports anyway, and spent days sleeping on the floor in Seattle airport.
It's been weird for me having the place to myself for so long. Of course I've missed him dearly, but some bits of it have been great.
I've been able to watch episodes of The West Wing back to back, and I haven't had to watch the news while eating dinner. Why is that bad, you ask? Well the news in Spain always seems to involve either dead bodies or close ups of gruesome road traffic accident scenes. I do not want to watch the camera zooming in on a child's teddy (it always is, for some reason) caked in drying blood when I'm tucking into my steak and potatoes. Puts me right off.
I'm also able to hit snooze as many times as I want in the morning without grumbles from anyone, and I can throw back the covers and turn all the lights on in the room on when I decide to get up.
In bed I'm able to have as many pillows as I want and sleep the whole night through without being woken up. A real novelty. Like all the men in his family, the bloke has sleep apnea. this means that when he falls into deep sleep he holds his breath, then lets it out in a high pitched squeak. Something that earplugs don't stand a chance against.
Not to mention how much easier it is to keep the house tidy - and the fact that I can play Eighties music loudly while I'm doing it, without raising any protests. And sing along.
Still I would trade all this in in an instant to have the bloke back right now. Much as he annoys me (on purpose) sometimes, things aren't half as fun without him. I had this big list of things I would get done while he was away, and I haven't done half of them -
ie. paint my nails, tidy the drawers in the bathroom, learn how to cook lentils, sort out my clothes and give the ones i don't wear anymore to charity, wash the dog, transfer all my photos off my computer and onto the hard disc…
I have watched plenty of The West Wing though and completed loads of levels on Angry Birds - a gem of an app for the iPhone.
But the worst thing about the bloke being away is that I manage to spook myself out thinking about the ghost.
There have been a few weird things going down in our house. twice it's happened to me that I've come into the front room in the middle of the night to crash on the sofa to escape the sleep apnea, only to have the TV turn on for no reason. No, I didn't accidentally sit on the remote control, as the bloke insisted I must have done. The same thing has happened to him since - and he didn't find it funny then.
And there were the flashes in the bathroom - like camera flashes - three in short succession. I was convinced I was having a retina detachment so went to the optician to get checked out, but I was fine. i think they thought i was a bit mental. Maybe I am.
I don't know why all of this got into my head when i was trying to fall asleep, but it did. And maybe I've seen too many horror films, so it's my own fault. I still blame my brother for showing me Nightmare on Elm Street when I was 10, it sent me wrong.
So I shut my bedroom door (to keep out the ghost, naturally) and went to sleep. Except when I got up in the morning, the door was wide open. I'm 100 per cent sure i didn't get up in the night and open it. and the dog couldn't have opened it. So what is going on there?
The same thing happened the next night, but it stopped after that. The bloke says when he gets back he'll set up a video camera and put some talcum power on the floor to see what happens. I'm not doing that though, I've seen how Paranormal Activity ends.
15/04/2010
El Classico - not bad for my first Spanish football match
I've written about el Classico - Real Madrid vs FC Barcelona - before. I've watched it many times, screaming at TVs in bars both in Barcelona and Madrid. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would get the chance to actually go, watch it in the flesh. But that's exactly what happened on Saturday night.
The bloke is away in Alaska at the moment, heliskiing. Well heliboarding to be precise. It's where you take a helicopter up to the top of some insanely high mountain and try to get to the bottom without causing serious injury to yourself. To me - who's only gone skiing about five times in my life - it sounds like pure madness, but to him it's the trip of a life time.
Anyway, so it was that he couldn't go to the match. And lucky me, I got his abono (season ticket). Which was mighty generous of him, as people were illegally selling their seats on ebay for up to 800 Euros. Mental.
I even had my own guide, in the form of his friend Migelito, for a completely authentic El Classico experience.
And so I found myself, plastic cup of Martini in hand, in the midst of hundreds of Madridistas in a street opposite the stadium, with two hours left until kick off. The atmosphere was incredible. And once I'd got it into my head that people wouldn't be able to tell I was a Barcelona supporter just by looking at me, I began to relax and enjoy it.
The bloke has had his season pass for two years, but it's not really his. It's "rented" off a woman who has a few of them. She sells it for the season, but it's still in her name. but Miguelito went on the official waiting list for his, and finally got it in 1993. He sits next to his friend Fernando, who has had his since 1984.
These guys are super fans. Miguel, bless him, when he picked me up was talking at a million miles an hour, and had a slight shake in his hand. It was the nerves. All the talk before the match is strictly football - the players, their form, the trainers, what's going to happen. I found out Fernando's wife was expecting a baby, so I attempted to chat to him about that. After a few enquiries as to how his wife was doing, when the baby was due etc, I said: "I think having children is a marvelous thing, after all that's why we're put on this earth, no?" (Which, I'll admit is a bit flowery - but it sounds better in Spanish.)
To which he replied: "No, we're put on this earth to watch Real Madrid win." And thus the football chat was back on the table again.
It's only broken off to sing the various football songs, of which there are many.
"Viva España" is a favourite, as is the Madrid Hymno – "Hala Madrid". But there almost as many concentrating on spewing hate on "puto Barca" - including this one - against Barcelona's manager Pep Guardiola (who has had his sexuality questioned and been accused of taking performance enhancing drugs during his football career.)
"Ai Guardila, ai Guardiola, que delgado se te ve! Primero fueron las drogas, Ahora por Chueca se te ve!"
(Oh Guardiola, oh Guardiola, how skinny you are. First came the drugs, now you're out down Chueca) Chueca being the gay going out area in Madrid. Nice.
I mean I know rivalry between teams is normal, but I've never known a hate like between these two teams. There was even an enterprising fella going round selling 'Anti Culé' t shirts for a fiver. (Culé is the name for the Barcelona supporters, by the way.)
Mind you, it's much more than rivalry between football teams. There's the whole political side of it, the history of the civil war and the Catalans versus mainland Spain stuff that's wrapped up in it. So if I don't feel it like some of these supporters do, then it's perfectly understandable.
I was contemplating all this when there was a massive commotion outside the stadium – the players were arriving. The whole street erupted and people started letting off fireworks. It was eerie – the screaming and cheering and the thick red smoke gave it a primeval feel. But that was all ruined when someone chucked a firework into a bar.
We pegged it down the street while the riot police – of which there were many around - came rushing in to seal off the street. I looked left and right to see bar shutters winching down. They were really expecting trouble.
But it all dissolved into nothing, the shutters went up -and we strolled back up the street to buy some bocadillos before heading to the stadium and taking our seats for the match.
Walking up the stairs and into the stands is something I'll never forget. It's like you've crossed over the edge of the real world and straight into the TV – it's all so surreal. The thousands of people above, below and all around you. The noise – which completely washes over you in organic waves – and the spark in the air. The expectation, the nerves, the sense that something amazing is about to happen. I've been to football matches in England before but they were nothing compared to this.
But then again this was the Classico in a 80,000 capacity stadium – markedly different than watching Sunderland play in Roker Park. I didn't have time to dwell on all that for long though, as we were cutting it fine on time (the players were entering to the tune of Nessun Dorma) and Miguel was helping me find my seat.
How hard could it be, I thought, when the bloke said Miguel would show me to my seat before the match. Very hard, it turned out. A steward directed us us and we still ended up completely lost and stepping over rows of pissed off spectators who were annoyed about the late-coming guiri who was blocking their view of the players coming out on the pitch whilst stepping on their toes.
To make matters worse there was someone sitting in my seat when I finally found it. To save arguments I sat in his seat, two rows further down.
No matter. I was set, and just in time for kick off. I was really watching el Classico! It was weird – when you watch it on the TV, you don't have much choice about where you look. It's wherever the camera takes you. But I couldn't help try to look everywhere at once, and had trouble keeping my eyes and mind on the game.
The press, crouching in the corner of the goal line, straining to lift their telescopic lenses. The first aid people, hovering on the sidelines, just waiting to pick up the stretcher and rush onto the pitch. Pep pacing up and down, hands in his impeccably cut suit. The banners of the different groups of fans – including one for the really extreme organisation -Madrid Sur. All these things you never get the chance to see at your leisure on the small screen.
And I couldn't stop watching the supporters. The looks on their faces, the way they would stand up, red in the face to shout abuse – whether it be for Barcelona, their team – or the extra special insults for the tiny square of 200 Barcelona supporters tucked away in the top right hand corner. "kill yourselves", "go back to Catalunya" etc etc.
There was a deadly silence from all of them however, 33 minutes in, when Messi scored a goal. For a second I forgot myself and started to cheer, but I reined it in at the last minute - turning it into a disappointed noise. "Yeeeeahhhhhoh" But why was i the only one making any noise? The whole stadium just stared straight ahead. Had I made a mistake? Had the goal been disallowed? But then an almighty roar rose from the top right of the stadium, where all the maroon and navy blue t-shirts were. That confirmed it – it was one nil to Barcelona.
The mood in the stadium began to change after that. The little old man who was sat next to me listening to the commentary through headphones plugged into the radio began to complain about how rubbish his team were playing. I happily agreed.
He was right - real were making some silly mistakes and just giving the ball away. Their wonder boy Ronaldo wasn't doing what he was supposed to be doing. it was not going well.
It just got worse in the second half for them. Now I was finding it easier to concentrate on the game, especially when, in minute 55, Pedro scored the second. this time I didn't make a sound, instead I turned to watch the Culés going crazy.
All the fight went out of Real after that, and something i hadn't expected started to happen about 15 minutes before the end of the match. People started to get up and leave. Aren't you meant to stay and support your team till the bitter end? I saw one guy take off his scarf and throw it in his bag in disgust. I'd heard how critical the fans were, but I wasn't expecting this.
Too quickly and it was all over, and i went to find a very dejected Miguelito and Fernando. they were completely deflated. We traipsed back towards the car, among crowds walking with their shoulders slumped, eyes to the floor. they looked like defeated soldiers limping back from a lost battle, which i suppose they were.
"You don't know how it feels, losing at home to your mortal enemy," said Miguelito. "It hurts. And now we're three points behind."
He added: "Your lucky boyfriend, he'll be gutted, but at least he can go ride down a mountain and forget all about it. Me, I'm not going to watch the news for a week, especially not the sports. I just want to forget about it. I bet you're happy though."
I felt bad for Miguelito, but he was right - I did feel happy. And contrary to what the bloke had predicted, I had no desire to switch teams, and start supporting Real.
I was still buzzing from the whole experience as i crawled into bed after watching the goals again. i couldn't help wondering about the little group of Barca fan at the match and what they'd done after the match. Did they manage to get home without being lynched? I really hoped so.
11/04/2010
Wedding
"Fornication," said the Director of Barcelona into the microphone. He let the word hang in the air. There were a few surprised titters and cries of "eh?" and "what?". People stared open mouthed at each other, eyebrows creased, shoulders shrugged, palms facing the ceiling.
After a dramatic pause he continued: "For an occasion such as this I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the marriage of James Chillman and Jane Kirsch."
There were loud guffaws. I nearly spat out my wine. Ah, he wasn't saying "fornication". It was "for an occasion". It was a genius start to a firecracker of a best man's speech.
He continued: "A wise man once told me that the best man’s speech should last as long as the groom makes love." Then making to leave the stage: "Thank you ladies and gentleman."
For me the speeches are the best thing about a wedding. Oh the bitter disappointment the first time I went to a Spanish wedding with the bloke and during the reception told him: "I can't wait for the speeches," to which he replied: "what speeches?" I just assumed they were a worldwide thing. Very disappointing to find out otherwise.
And they're especially good when the groom being subjected to a pasting is someone close to you - and Jim certainly falls into that category. I hardly knew him in 2005 when he cane out with a group of friends to visit me in Ibiza. We both realized we would be homeless upon my return to Barcelona that September, and it would be a great idea to share a flat.
I'm so glad we did - he quickly became one of my best friends. He's a total legend and a guy I know I can count on for anything. This is the man who, when I switched cities did a round trip with me and all my stuff to Madrid in his clapped out old van (which broke down on the way) to save me the hassle of taking it on the train. That's a 1,200km trip! Seriously, how many people have friends that would do that for them?
So naturally I'm beyond thrilled to see him settling down with lovely Jane, the love of his life. But his niceness didn't save him from getting an absolute drumming from the Director in his speech.
He continued: "I think we all agree that Jane looks fantastic today; I think I can speak on behalf of all the single men in the room that it’s an extremely sad day for them, as they lose another beautiful girl to a very lucky guy. I can also speak for all the single ladies in the room when I say today is just like any other day.
"Speaking of Jane’s beauty - she really does look top of the pops. She looks so good she could be mistaken for the blonde from Abba. At least this is the only reason I can think of why Jim has come as Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees."
There was also some lovely info about the early days of their romance:
"Jim and Jane met five years ago in a very, very romantic location – a typical Barcelona party at Kate’s flat. The theme was “underwater”. Jim was probably quite drunk and his eyes caught this beautiful, bearded pirate on the other room. Jane doing her best Jack Sparrow impression saw also an incredibly sexy, buff David Hasselhof deep in conversation with Popeye and an octopus. Now if you’ve ever seen Jim in a pair of little red shorts, you too will find it equally as difficult to understand as I do why she didn’t fancy the octopus.
"They actually got together a year or so later and their romance seemed to blossom at an alarming rate. It was clear to everyone that they were extremely well suited. Jane brought to the relationship beauty, integrity, honesty, reliability and intelligence - while Jim brought, er …," at this point he rifled through his notes. "Ah, Jim brought his superhero costume collection and a 15 year catalogue of Viz annuals. "
Jim really is one of a kind, and the same could be said of Jane. That was certainly reflected in their nuptials. after the Director had wound up his speech with the traditional best man's wish for good luck, good health and happiness, we settled down to some after dinner games. These began with a bit of construction - top prize goes to the table who can build the tallest construction out of uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows - and a quiz where you had to guess the wedding guest from pictures of their eyes.
It was just one of several personal touches to a lovely intimate wedding, which kicked off in Old Marylebone Town Hall.
after the new Mr and Mrs Chillman had signed the register we boarded an old skooll 'hop on hoof off' Number 73 bus to sip cava and head off to the reception.
After a stop off to do some pictures at a park somewhere in Hackney, we pulled up outside the Loftborough Arms, to see tables all set out and rows and rows of glasses of cava waiting. At that point the whole bus burst into spontaneous applause.
"Is it normal to applaud a pub?" asked Kate.
"I think that's just the sort of people we are," I replied.
Each table was named after a BCN landmark. We had the gherkin. the bloke was upset Espanyol's stadium was included but not Madrid's - Santiago Bernabeu - I think he was missing the point slightly.
It was all forgotten though when he got to eat his first ever trifle. Delicious, and probably the last one I'll have in a long time.
Before long the dancing started, and after the bloke managed to send most of the older relatives home with some techno, it began to look like a typical night out in Barcelona. Except we were all dressed better.
Everyone throwing crazy shapes - Dave at one point doing his gravity defying Russian style dancing, followed up by his Michael Jackson. Shots of sambuca at the bar and a feeling on my part that I don't get to see all these wonderful people enough.
As the night went on the high heels started to collect in a pile at the side of the dancefloor and bow ties were hanging round necks or fastened round heads, Karate Kid style.
The Director and the bloke announced to me and Science Chick they would just marry each other and had no need of girlfriends. Just as well since I didn't manage to catch the bouquet.
Before we knew it time was up and we ended jumping like loons and screaming ourselves hoarse as Simon wrapped up the tunes with Pulp's Common people.
And then it was over. And as me and the bloke - the last ones to leave after packing up the DJ kit - were waiting for the taxi back to our hotel, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally began to fall. It was perfect timing. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Congrats Jim and Jane - I love you guys and wish you many years of joy, fun and happiness together. Couldn't have happened to two nicer people.
After a dramatic pause he continued: "For an occasion such as this I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the marriage of James Chillman and Jane Kirsch."
There were loud guffaws. I nearly spat out my wine. Ah, he wasn't saying "fornication". It was "for an occasion". It was a genius start to a firecracker of a best man's speech.
He continued: "A wise man once told me that the best man’s speech should last as long as the groom makes love." Then making to leave the stage: "Thank you ladies and gentleman."
For me the speeches are the best thing about a wedding. Oh the bitter disappointment the first time I went to a Spanish wedding with the bloke and during the reception told him: "I can't wait for the speeches," to which he replied: "what speeches?" I just assumed they were a worldwide thing. Very disappointing to find out otherwise.
And they're especially good when the groom being subjected to a pasting is someone close to you - and Jim certainly falls into that category. I hardly knew him in 2005 when he cane out with a group of friends to visit me in Ibiza. We both realized we would be homeless upon my return to Barcelona that September, and it would be a great idea to share a flat.
I'm so glad we did - he quickly became one of my best friends. He's a total legend and a guy I know I can count on for anything. This is the man who, when I switched cities did a round trip with me and all my stuff to Madrid in his clapped out old van (which broke down on the way) to save me the hassle of taking it on the train. That's a 1,200km trip! Seriously, how many people have friends that would do that for them?
So naturally I'm beyond thrilled to see him settling down with lovely Jane, the love of his life. But his niceness didn't save him from getting an absolute drumming from the Director in his speech.
He continued: "I think we all agree that Jane looks fantastic today; I think I can speak on behalf of all the single men in the room that it’s an extremely sad day for them, as they lose another beautiful girl to a very lucky guy. I can also speak for all the single ladies in the room when I say today is just like any other day.
"Speaking of Jane’s beauty - she really does look top of the pops. She looks so good she could be mistaken for the blonde from Abba. At least this is the only reason I can think of why Jim has come as Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees."
There was also some lovely info about the early days of their romance:
"Jim and Jane met five years ago in a very, very romantic location – a typical Barcelona party at Kate’s flat. The theme was “underwater”. Jim was probably quite drunk and his eyes caught this beautiful, bearded pirate on the other room. Jane doing her best Jack Sparrow impression saw also an incredibly sexy, buff David Hasselhof deep in conversation with Popeye and an octopus. Now if you’ve ever seen Jim in a pair of little red shorts, you too will find it equally as difficult to understand as I do why she didn’t fancy the octopus.
"They actually got together a year or so later and their romance seemed to blossom at an alarming rate. It was clear to everyone that they were extremely well suited. Jane brought to the relationship beauty, integrity, honesty, reliability and intelligence - while Jim brought, er …," at this point he rifled through his notes. "Ah, Jim brought his superhero costume collection and a 15 year catalogue of Viz annuals. "
Jim really is one of a kind, and the same could be said of Jane. That was certainly reflected in their nuptials. after the Director had wound up his speech with the traditional best man's wish for good luck, good health and happiness, we settled down to some after dinner games. These began with a bit of construction - top prize goes to the table who can build the tallest construction out of uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows - and a quiz where you had to guess the wedding guest from pictures of their eyes.
It was just one of several personal touches to a lovely intimate wedding, which kicked off in Old Marylebone Town Hall.
after the new Mr and Mrs Chillman had signed the register we boarded an old skooll 'hop on hoof off' Number 73 bus to sip cava and head off to the reception.
After a stop off to do some pictures at a park somewhere in Hackney, we pulled up outside the Loftborough Arms, to see tables all set out and rows and rows of glasses of cava waiting. At that point the whole bus burst into spontaneous applause.
"Is it normal to applaud a pub?" asked Kate.
"I think that's just the sort of people we are," I replied.
Each table was named after a BCN landmark. We had the gherkin. the bloke was upset Espanyol's stadium was included but not Madrid's - Santiago Bernabeu - I think he was missing the point slightly.
It was all forgotten though when he got to eat his first ever trifle. Delicious, and probably the last one I'll have in a long time.
Before long the dancing started, and after the bloke managed to send most of the older relatives home with some techno, it began to look like a typical night out in Barcelona. Except we were all dressed better.
Everyone throwing crazy shapes - Dave at one point doing his gravity defying Russian style dancing, followed up by his Michael Jackson. Shots of sambuca at the bar and a feeling on my part that I don't get to see all these wonderful people enough.
As the night went on the high heels started to collect in a pile at the side of the dancefloor and bow ties were hanging round necks or fastened round heads, Karate Kid style.
The Director and the bloke announced to me and Science Chick they would just marry each other and had no need of girlfriends. Just as well since I didn't manage to catch the bouquet.
Before we knew it time was up and we ended jumping like loons and screaming ourselves hoarse as Simon wrapped up the tunes with Pulp's Common people.
And then it was over. And as me and the bloke - the last ones to leave after packing up the DJ kit - were waiting for the taxi back to our hotel, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally began to fall. It was perfect timing. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Congrats Jim and Jane - I love you guys and wish you many years of joy, fun and happiness together. Couldn't have happened to two nicer people.
02/04/2010
Spat
I had a falling out with someone this week. Well, I say a falling out. It was more like a case of crossed wires over something that wasn't a big deal that resulted in me and this other person ignoring each other for half a day. Really grown up stuff.
The thing is, silly little incident that is was, it just confirmed what I knew already - I am not made for arguments, fights or falling outs. That's not to say I wouldn't defend my corner if i felt that I, or the people I love, were being treated unjustly, but I just have no energy for bad energy, if you know what I mean.
Take this week's incident for example. I had resigned myself to just keep sulking but after half a day i cracked. I couldn't concentrate on my work, kept replaying what had been said, what the other person was thinking, what i could say to them, what they would say back. And I just felt wretched about the fact that somewhere out there was someone who might be fuming at me, thinking bad things about me.
Is that vanity, or insecurity, or the sign of a good person? I'm not sure.
In the end I emailed asking if we could clear the air, and after a bit of two-ing and fro-ing the whole thing was sorted, done and dusted. And I felt silly that the whole thing had gone as far as it had.
When i got home that evening i felt drained by the whole thing. it made me wonder how some friends have the ability to keep up arguments and stoic silence with someone for weeks. I even know one guy who has turned his back on his family. Surely keeping up the energy to be mad at your whole family leaves you destroyed?
Maybe I'm just lucky that most of the people i know are pretty easy going people. I can't even remember having a bad argument with my mum during my teenage years, not even when she found out I'd got my belly button pierced. If I did get told off I usually deserved it, and would feel guilty while she sulked, doing the washing up with a pout and slamming spoons back in the cutlery draw with unnecessary force. That told me.
I'm crap at doing the heated exchange of words. I freeze up, I doubt myself, I start thinking I'm in the wrong. i think of things I should have said while I lie in bed later at six in the morning. Tempers are a funny thing, they take you over like Mr Hyde obliterating Dr Jekyll, and make you say things you don't mean. And though you can always apologize and try to take it back, the words can linger dangerously at the back of the mind, like the thought of going back to work when you're in the middle of a holiday, sipping cocktails on a beach.
Mind you, that's not to say that sometimes arguments are necessary. The bloke has taught me that. It's better to be honest, and express your feelings than sulk it out, even when you're heading for a epic scrap. Though I try and keep discussions measured I've lost it at times - even thrown things at his head - but ultimately it's all been healthy, moving forward stuff.
And in return I like to think he's picked up some of my level headedness in return. Or perhaps we've just both grown up a bit over the past five years.
The thing is, silly little incident that is was, it just confirmed what I knew already - I am not made for arguments, fights or falling outs. That's not to say I wouldn't defend my corner if i felt that I, or the people I love, were being treated unjustly, but I just have no energy for bad energy, if you know what I mean.
Take this week's incident for example. I had resigned myself to just keep sulking but after half a day i cracked. I couldn't concentrate on my work, kept replaying what had been said, what the other person was thinking, what i could say to them, what they would say back. And I just felt wretched about the fact that somewhere out there was someone who might be fuming at me, thinking bad things about me.
Is that vanity, or insecurity, or the sign of a good person? I'm not sure.
In the end I emailed asking if we could clear the air, and after a bit of two-ing and fro-ing the whole thing was sorted, done and dusted. And I felt silly that the whole thing had gone as far as it had.
When i got home that evening i felt drained by the whole thing. it made me wonder how some friends have the ability to keep up arguments and stoic silence with someone for weeks. I even know one guy who has turned his back on his family. Surely keeping up the energy to be mad at your whole family leaves you destroyed?
Maybe I'm just lucky that most of the people i know are pretty easy going people. I can't even remember having a bad argument with my mum during my teenage years, not even when she found out I'd got my belly button pierced. If I did get told off I usually deserved it, and would feel guilty while she sulked, doing the washing up with a pout and slamming spoons back in the cutlery draw with unnecessary force. That told me.
I'm crap at doing the heated exchange of words. I freeze up, I doubt myself, I start thinking I'm in the wrong. i think of things I should have said while I lie in bed later at six in the morning. Tempers are a funny thing, they take you over like Mr Hyde obliterating Dr Jekyll, and make you say things you don't mean. And though you can always apologize and try to take it back, the words can linger dangerously at the back of the mind, like the thought of going back to work when you're in the middle of a holiday, sipping cocktails on a beach.
Mind you, that's not to say that sometimes arguments are necessary. The bloke has taught me that. It's better to be honest, and express your feelings than sulk it out, even when you're heading for a epic scrap. Though I try and keep discussions measured I've lost it at times - even thrown things at his head - but ultimately it's all been healthy, moving forward stuff.
And in return I like to think he's picked up some of my level headedness in return. Or perhaps we've just both grown up a bit over the past five years.
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