Such sweet sorrow

I lay my head on his chest. The sound of his heart blocks out everything else.

Whomp-whoosh-whomp-whoosh-whomp-woosh.

It's not a beat. Not the rhythmic tick of a machine keeping time. It's muscle and gristle, practically turning itself inside out with the effort of it all. Then doing it again and again. Organic.

I wish I could fall asleep like this.

I kiss the side of his cheek and move over, put my cheek down on the cold pillow there.

I need to sleep, but I can't. The next sound I hear will be of the alarm. Then that'll be it. He'll be gone. If I can just stay awake I can keep adding minutes, driving it further away with every moment of consciousness I manage. I can keep pretending it's not happening.

But then the bells of Big Ben ring out. That's it then. 3am, time's up. And before I know it we are hugging goodbye, clutching, hanging on for dear life. And it hurts. Maybe a little more than last time, maybe less than the next time. How do you measure something like that?

The cluncking slam of the front door is so final. I sit up staring stupidly into black space. Then at the last minute throw back the bedclothes and run to the window. The shutters are all down but there's a tiny gap between my shin and the floor so I drop down to my knees and peer out like a madman.

Just in time to see the red tail lights of the taxi disappearing out of view.

The floor is cold and the whole quality of air in the room has changed. You are alone, it says. Completely alone, it screams.

But I've had it worse than this.

………….

I remember him sweeping the floor. Waking up with another hangover and everything just being so white. Full of light.

No-one has decent curtains in England to keep the sunlight out, but I didn't know that then. Or I did know it, but it didn't register. It's something that you only notice once you've slept in a room completely darkened by shutters. Why would you bother keeping the sunlight out when there's not that much of it going spare?

You wouldn't have recognised the room from what it had been just a week before. Now just white empty space, but once full of wires, studio equipment, books, tapes, records, ashtrays, boxes of random shit. Pictures of people I would one day get to meet, and places I would go. Though I didn't know that then. There was so much I didn't know back then.

I must have been 21. That's so hard to comprehend right now. Nine years ago.

The summer was just beginning but it was all over for us. That time round anyway.

The flatmates were long gone, and the house was just a empty shell of memories. But once we slammed the door shut and posted the key through the door there was no-one left to remember them.

I went with him all the way to Gatwick. I don't know you but I'm sure I love you. Six months to last a lifetime.It was like nothing before it, totally incomparable.

Sun shining through the dirty windows of the train as text messages arrived on his phone. Goodbye and good luck, we'll miss you, all the best. One of those shitty Nokias everyone had. No iPhones, no Skype, no Facebook, no nothing. So much harder to stay in touch. So much easier to be out of sight, out of mind. Fade away into the background.

And thinking, I just have to get through this then everything can just go on as normal. But not really believing it.

Then that moment, when he has to turn his back and go. Slow motion. I'll see you again, I will come back.

I don't know you but I know I love you.

But something's wrong, It's not going to work out the way I want it. I know it's going to hurt. And about that I'm right. It's harder being the one left behind. Looking for things to fill the gap. Constantly searching.

The sliding doors swept shut with an almost silent click, and that was that. I was just another girl crying in an airport.

That was the real goodbye. But not the final one.

It wasn't that smutty

"Well it wasn't that smutty," says PB.

You know those moments when you start off a conversation in your head, and - after a while - you finish it out loud? When it makes sense to you and you only? Well that was one of those moments.

We were on our way to the beach in Malaga with Two Shandies, who was now doubled up in laughter at PB's non-sensicle comment.

I hadn't heard her properly. "What wasn't slutty?"

Now PB was doubled up in laughter.

It was a while before she regained her composure enough to answer me. "I said it wasn't that smutty. The hen weekend. I thought it was supposed to be all talk of sex and penises and stuff like that," she says.

I forget this is PBs first experience of a hen weekend. My second. I guess the stereotype of strippers and the bride being made to do something rude with whipped cream just doesn't ring true. Thank god.

There were no L plates or fairy wings, though there was a stripper of sorts. Well, some dodgy guy who offered to strip when he found out there was a hen party in the bar. Thankfully he only got as far as his shirt. Though he did take the poor bride in his arms and carry her to the upstairs part of the bar.

"But there was plenty of talk about sex," I say. "Although it all came from Two Shandies."

Shandies is seeing a new bloke, who looks just like Kevin Spacey. She's not that sure about him, but has at least got some brilliant stories to tell.

Which she did, on the Friday night, when we had arrived, and were having dinner with the majority of the other hens in a lovely restaurant called Rucula.

The bride, Jess, heard us cackling with laughter from where she was sitting, at the other end of the table. it's a wonderful thing, Shandies' laugh. Hearing it just sets you off yourself. It's impossible to resist.

Jess came over, to investigate, her flashing pink penis earrings swaying as she went.

It would have been rude not to compliment her on such wonderful accessories.

"Yes, i've got cocks in my ears," she said.

Two Shandies interrupted her: "Well, I had a cock in my mouth the other day…."

(Cue more shrieking laughter).

And something happened to me that has never happened before. He turned to me and said…

(We were all on the edge of our seats)

"Do you want to take a picture?"

How strange. She hadn't really known how to respond to that. So when he saw her looking puzzled he thought he would clarify things.

"I don't mean of my face," he explained.

The other great gem he came out with was telling her: "You look really beautiful from behind.

Shandies said she fell on the floor and almost split her sides laughing. "He might as well have told me I look great with a paper bag on my head," she said.

I'm sure he didn't mean it like that… But it does make for one hell of a story.

We re-lived all of that as we made our way down to Malaga's grayish beach. Not the prettiest thing in the world, but it had sand at least. And today, it had sun. We'd been blessed with freakishly warm weather all weekend.

"Spot the Brits on holiday," said PB as we walked past a group of pasty white lads and their suitcases, laid out on the bare sand, trying to roast themselves silly. "Bet they turn a nice shade of pink.

But we were Brits on holiday technically, though we liked to think that no-one would guess it as easily.

On Jess' recommendation we hit the third chiringito restaurant thingy on the beach and tried the local specialty - aspecto de sardines. Afterwards we moved down the beach to sniff out some rebujitos - another local speciality. Something like a white wine sangria - vino de mazanilla con sprite. Delicious. I had two.

Somewhere along the line the conversation took a sinister turn - when Shandies and PB would return to England. Sometimes I take it for granted that they'll just be here forever, and it scares me to think they won't. For me, I don't have to worry about if I'm doing the right thing staying here. I forget that it might not be a case of forever for everyone.

but I looked at my friends sipping their rebujitos in the sunlight and there was this sense that this was one of those magic snapshots in time. One of those epic moments that would come back - like a dream - at the strangest moments of the day. As familiar as the first sun of summer warming your face.

They won't be going home any time soon, I thought.

Then I had a nice long sip of my drink.

A different world

The actors looked different when they weren't on stage. Some of the magic had gone. They were smaller, and if you looked closely you could see blemishes and wrinkles.

What a surprise to find out they were human after all.

Watching them interact in the bar was like gatecrashing a private birthday party. So familiar were they, you almost felt you shouldn't be there. Eyes on eyes, gazing. Tucking each other's hair behind the ears mid sentence. Earnest touches to the face. It was all so intimate. They were a different breed of people.

And in the middle of it all the bloke and me, and of course Alicia, the one we had come to see. But with her the magic was still there, it always seemed to be.

On stage she was altogether the same and different. Speaking with the same voice, but with subtle nuances and shifts that made her into another person.

Seeing her there brought tears to my eyes. My cuñada, my sister-in-law. Who lives in a different world.

Some of the words jumped off the stage and bit me.

"¿Por que? Si creéis en Dios, y yo creo, ¿por qué tenéis miedo a la muerte? Y si creéis en la muerte, ¿por qué esa crueldad, ese despego al terrible dolor de vuestros semejantes?"

"Why? If you believe in God, why do you fear death? And if you believe in death, why this cruelty, this drawing away from the terrible pain of your fellow human beings?"

Nothing less than a slap in the face.

In the bar she showed us pictures on her phone. Her playing Federico Lorca's piano in the house he used to live in. Told us stories of how he had the keys to the Alhambra, and would do his writing there, or hang out with friends, getting inspired.

She introduced us to the niece of a famous flamenco singer whose auntie died of a drug overdose. The girl - who less than an hour ago was a different being up on the stage - asked me if I could follow the play, being British, and all. Her concerned frown turned to delight when I pulled out a copy of the original text and told her I've been studying it.

"That is so British," laughed Alicia. "I love that you did that."

I laughed too. Some habits are hard to shake. And I will always have my very British idiosyncrasies. But I felt a million miles from Britain.

Today I sat with the hot sun on my face and drank wine. Climbed the steep hill up to the Alhambra, the place where Lorca himself used to go for inspiration. Drunk on wonderment I strolled the grounds with the bloke, devouring it all with my eyes. Thinking back to what it would have been like in ancient times, when kings and queens held court here.

At the top of the towers that look out over the picture-perfect landscape of Granada, we stood and watched the sun begin to sink in the sky, covering everything with white light.

It was one of those moments when you realize that you are just one tiny speck of dust on the vast map of life.

But it doesn't scare you. Not this time anyway.

life goes on

I dreamt of Dario last night.

We sat together in a forest clearing at the dead of night, at a round wooden table. His face was illuminated by the glow of my computer, which he used to check his facebook page, just like I did, many times over in the days after he died.

There he was, reading the tributes people have left, smiling at some, laughing at others. Sometimes saying: "I didn't even remember I 'ad 'im as a friend."

It was the most normal thing in the world.

"I can't believe you're stuck with picture of you in your chef's uniform kissing the pig's head as your profile picture," I told him. And amazingly, we both laughed.

It felt so good to be laughing with him again.

I tried to ask what things were like for him now. But his face clouded over. He wouldn't talk to me about it.

"But I miss you so much," I told him. "Won't you just tell me how you are? How are you coping with all this?"

"I'm gone, tesoro," he said. "I'm fine, you gotta let it go. Life goes on. How are you coping with this? That's what you gotta ask."

Evetything else is just fragments. My hands on the table, engagement ring sparkling in the moonlight. Birds in the trees, watching and waiting. "You have to go soon, don't you?" and "this isn't real, is it?"

How are you supposed to cope with the end? When it grabs you by the hair at strange moments during the day and pulls so spitefully?

I've shut it out of my life for so long. It never even occured to me till recently, that all this is so very temporary.

Trying to live with it, though it sits badly- like co-existing with a new flatmate you instantly take a dislike to.

Just because bad things happen doesn't mean they'll happen to me, or the people I love. But saying that is easier to believe it.

But I must. A life lived in fear is not much to shout about.

Because life does go on. And when you have bad dreams you wake up and put them away. Wash them down the plughole with the shower water.

Get dressed, take the dog out as normal, and feel the warming light of the morning sun on your face. Look at the sky- is it not more beautiful because he is up there somewhere?

And if you're lucky, stop in front of a tree, and evesdrop on an unseen bird heralding the coming of the new day. A sweet sound, a music far purer than man can ever make with his machines.

Because life goes on, and today everything feels different.

Or at least that's what you want to believe.

Goodbye dear friend, addio

The world has changed. Colours are less vivid and sounds are duller. There's no place for the sun or the stars - much better a lightless sky or a rainy day.

The world has changed because you're not in it anymore.

It just doesn't seem right that things go on as before, as if nothing has happened. The alarm still sounds in the morning. Kids still laugh on the bus and lovers still kiss in the street. None of them know that you are gone.

That day just passed in a blur. A marker between before and what replaced it. Phone clasped to my ear, shaking in the street. Half from cold and half from something else. Hands pressed to my face in the toilets, holding it all in - strange emotions never felt before, coming in 9ft waves, drowning, drowning.

I know in time I'll be able to remember you without pain and with dry eyes. The good times, and just you - your punk way of viewing the world, your stubbornness. Your kindness and your wide smile, always there no matter what.

I'd like to say you were too good for this world, that's why you had to go. But you'd never let me get away with that, and you'd remind me of all the mischief you used to cause. The time you spat on the door handle of a police car, and how we laughed thinking about the expression on his face when he came back and opened it.

Memories will bring comfort. But it doesn't seem fair that that's all I have now. I'll never see you again, never hear you say, "Ciao, tesoro". Never be able to cook for you like I said I would, never be able to give you back your dear dad's scarf - the surprise that I knew would mean so much.

You'll not be at my wedding, though I can't bring myself to remove your name from my invite list. And you'll never meet any children that I might have. You'll never be a day older than 35.

One day soon I will think of you and smile. But until then I can't quite manage to walk with my head held up high.

Addio Dario, my dear friend. Love you always. You have left such a hole. Not just in my life, but many others - you can see that just by looking at the hundreds of messages left on your Facebook. We'll all miss you so much.

I thought you'd be in my life forever. Can't believe I was wrong.

Grey days

Some days are grey days. Like dirty dish water. Yesterday's newspaper- worn, torn and faded. No great rhyme or reason, no big event, no drama. No "because" or "why" and especially "solution". Just grey, grey grey. A mantra for the hopeless, a tuneless ditty for bowed heads, lifeless eyes, slouching hearts.

Some people have grey days more than others. Some you would look at and say: "What reason have they got to complain?" And others, well, you would get it, or just think you got it. And really you would only see the hint of the shadow, or the footprints of that black dog. Snapping at the ankles.

Some hide it better than others.

The idea you will never amount to anything, you're wasting your time. You'll never be as good as x and y. One day you'll be gone and no one will remember you and you'll be nothing, nothing nothing.

Days like these, when asleep seems better than awake, and time slows down. Frame by frame, the moment in the film when the hero takes a bullet, sinks to the floor.

But you bought me roses. And the grey dissolved. Replaced by velvet red, and vibrant green. And you hold me so tight, and wring it out of me - drop by drop.

Thank god for you.

Can I have sex with you tonight?

I love those moments when the mouth moves independantly of the brain. When the speaker's trap just seems two steps ahead. A rational person would just want to grab onto the strands of the errant words as they fly out of the mouth and stuff them back in there. 

But more than often it's the drink that's to blame, and they couldn't give a toss what they've said. And probably won't remember in about five minutes anyway.

That's what I found myself thinking on Saturday night. It was Shandies and PB's joint birthday party at our new favourite place, El Rincón de Andy.

It's a small 'old man' style tavern that does really basic Mexican food. But the real charm of the place is The owner, Andy.

A shock of white hair and a mustache to match, which fully means he could do a great santa claus impression. He was born and raised in Madrid, but hear him speak English and you'll be shocked by his accent. Close your eyes and you've got Colin Firth in 'The King's Speech' (minus the stammer that is).

He atrended British boarding school and also us fluent in French. "I fell in love with a Parisienne, and followed her there," he explains.

Over his striped shirt he wears pink braces, to hold up his trousers. And if he isn't wearing a bow tie then he really should be.

"A real gentleman", noted the bloke, impressed by the way he served the girls of the group their after dinner chupitos before the boys. It never ceases to amaze me that he notices things like that.

Anyway, the inappropriate comment of the evening doesn't come from Andy, it's from a rowdy group of New Yorkers- all of them members of the flight crew of intercontinental airways.

And the recipient is my mate Shandies. The guy in question obviously thinks he's smooth.

"You're really pretty," he says.
"i think you're really handsome," she replies.

They stand and smile shyly at each other for a while, then Shandies starts to walk back to her seat.

"Can I have sex with you tonight?" he shouts after her.

Shandies kept walking.

Does that kind of crap actually work? I guess it must or else men wouldn't bother. But really, how flippin cheeky. The stupid fool might have been in there - after all she did say he was handsome. He messed it royally up- bout as subtle as Freddy Mercury. Gave us all a good laugh though at least.

The other example comes from Christmas in Durham. One of those evenings where everyone gets a bit over excited and drinks more than they're used to.

Dad was telling his old army jokes and we were all mixing drinks up hurricane style. Even my uncle, who doesn't usually drink, was getting stuck into the red wine.

And it was him who put his arms around the bloke and my neck and happily said to him: "I like yer, but if you cross my niece then I'll kill yer and bury yer."

I think it was the most serious talking to the bloke's ever had from my family. Don't think he really knew what to say to that one.

One thing's for sure, he'd better treat me right, or uncle Mike will be waiting with a shovel.

Daniella hates me

Why are you doing this to me? Haven't I always been good? I never bark, and I always go to my bed when you shout "a la cama" at me. I even spin round in a circle when you say "spin", even though it makes me look like a prize tit.

Ok, I know I beg for food and that really pisses you off, but I can't help it. And yes, I'll admit I scratch the hell out of the big white cold food box. But that's when you've both gone and I'm just bored. Can't you leave me in the room with the talking picture box instead?

You know I hate water. That's why I refuse to go in for a swim when you take me to the lake. Those other dogs who gallop in there in pursuit of sticks are just morons. There could be anything in there and it's just not nice.

So why do you insist on putting me in here every once in a while and spraying me with it and covering me with soapy stuff? You can see I'm not enjoying myself. Even when i cry you don't let me out.

You just wait till I get out of here. I'm going to do my special fat wobbling shake and cover you in dirty water.

And your whole house is going to STINK of wet dog. Ha ha.

Meatloaf

In the kitchen I play my own music. In his car, it's not so. And there we listen to metal, or Serrat, or maybe even Los Ilegales But I am king of the sounds of the kitchen. So I play tinny electro pop like La Roux and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and he says: "What the hell is this?" and "Sometimes she sounds a bit like the one from Portishead." Beastie Boys he likes, but Kula Shaker has him completely baffled. And when I tell him the guy is singing about Indian gods, he says: "so is this Bollywood then?"

For both of us to be in here at the same time is uncharted territory. Just like we rarely take the dog for a walk together, we never cook together.

So I'm surprised to discover that it's fun. Even more surprised to see the bloke thouroughly enjoying himself too. Lining up the ingredients in soldier rows and studying the recipe with a serious look and a furrowed brow.

I thought number 5 on my list of new years resolutions would be something I did on my own. But when the bloke came skulking into the kitchen saying he was bored and could he help, it set some sort of president. 

Now it's something we can do together. But though I might own the sound waves, the bloke can't help ruling the kitchen. He approaches cooking with military precision. Chopping, peeling, frying quickly, like it's a race to the end against an invisible Gordon Ramsay. He gets things done in double the time I do.

As he sinks his hands deep into the meatloaf mixture and cackles wildly at the gunkyness of it's hard to believe this is the same guy that lived on whatever he could fit into his deep fat fryer. Oh how times have changed.

Less than 45 minutes later we're absolutely stuffed after tucking into the meatloaf, and it's delicious.  We pat each other and ourselves on the back at how well we've done. it's the thurs new recipe we've tried and they're all been great. And after a few trips to El corte Ingles the spice cupboard is packed with things like wostershire Sauce and paprika. All it took was a bit of translating on Wikipedia and now we're all set. 

I just didn't think it would be like this. So easy, so satisfying. All you have to do is buy the ingredients and follow the instructions. There's no big secret that no one's been telling.

If I'd known it was like this I would have started years ago.

New Year's resolutions - is there any point?

Well is there? Last year the best I could come up with was a whole month of not drinking. And it was a kind of masochistic one. It was painful on occasions, but every time I ordered un agua con gas instead of a wine or something similar I felt like a bit of a smug git. and I felt much better for it, oh yes I did. And I certainly wouldn't have told anyone anything different if that hadn't been the case.

I'm doing the same thing this year. Started a little late as we travelled back in first class from Barcelona on the 2nd and the drinks were free (you can't pass something like that up, can you?) But I don't feel like I can call that a resolution, it's more like a detox after the boozy Christmas we had with the family back in Durham.

So what of resolutions then? is it best to write a list? Oh I do love writing lists and crossing of the items when they're done. Perhaps that's part of being British, or a girl, or just anally retentive, I'm not sure which.

Or is it best just to have general ideas like "be funnier" "think about death less" or is that too subjective and less productive in the long run?

As we all sat around Dave and Kirsten's dining table following our 'day after New Year's Eve recovery curry' the Director asked everyone: "So, any New Year's resolutions?" and everyone just sort of grunted. The bloke offered: "Get married?" (I really liked how he made it sound like a question) But come on, that doesn't count. I said that at the time I probably wouldn't bother making any. But actually I don't think it's such a bad idea.

And after reading my friend Emma's list over at Eating Diamonds, I have decided to make my own. I won't be crossing each point off with a permeant marker though, or beating myself up if I don't think i'm doing well enough. I promise. So anyway:

1) Have as much fun as possible and live in the moment

Yes it sounds easy and straightforward, but it needs to be written down as a reminder. I'm getting to the stage in my life now where I want to start a family soon, if that all works out for me. So weekends away with friends, and nights out won't be as easy as before. I intend to make the most of every opportunity (but not to the point of mental and nervous exhaustion)

Spaniards are so good at living in the here and now. perhaps that's why they don't like planning things. While that's never going to change that much for me (I need things written down in the diary to look forward to) I must stop thinking so much about the future and just enjoy the here and now. After all, you never know what's round the corner.

2) Get the bloke to try more new places with me

I am so sick of the sight of our local bar, Yupi, that I think I might stab myself in the eyes if I see it again. "Do you really hate it that much?" He asks. Yes I do. There are so many great places out there that need to be checked out. It might cause a bit of grumbling on the bloke's part, but he always enjoys himself when we get out there. So persist I will.

3) Write, write write

I totally slacked off on the blog front towards the end of last year. Life just got in the way. not that that's a bad thing, but writing really makes me happy, so why wouldn't I want to do something that fires up my pleasure receptors. It's free and doesn't damage my health or wallet in any way. Bonus. I used to really get a kick out of writing fiction, so I need to get back to that at some point. But there don't seem to be enough hours in the day. And to help with this…

4) Spend less hours pointlessly surfing Facebook and the web in general.

I'm not a stalker, why should I act like one? No, everyone is not having more fun than me, just because they're updating their status every few hours. Just close that window already. OK.

5) Expand my cooking repertoire

I do a mean feta cheese gratin. I make fantastic soup. And my chicken salad rocks. But I have to broaden my horizons. I have a pile of cookbooks, so i have to start using them. the only problem is getting hold of the ingredients, as the supermarkets close to us are a good walk, small, and not that great. But I can always stop off at El Court Ingles on the way the way home to find things like pine nuts and puff pastry. Gotta start making the effort. And maybe invest in a slow cooker too. Emma is raving about hers.

6) Get driving again

If I'm not careful I'll end up as one of those forty year old women who have lost all their confidence and are too scared to drive. I have a license, and with lenses my eye sight is perfectly good. I have to get driving again. Just need to persuade the bloke to let me use his car. (Which could be easier said than done, it's true)

So that's it. If I can do well with those six I'll be happy. And see, there was absolutely no mention of going to the gym or not drinking. Happy days.

Basically she shat the bed

What is it about talking on the phone at work that always puts me on edge? Am I worried that it'll be someone talking to me in Spanish and I won't understand what they're saying? Or am I more concerned it'll be someone talking to me in Spanish and I will understand them, and I'll have to talk back to them?

Both cases mean I'll have to speak in my second language and my co-workers will hear me, and that makes me feel shy. It's something unexplainable, this silly little spider of worry spinning non-sensical webs in my ear. I'm not shy, why do I act like this?

My Spanish is fine. Not drop dead amazing with a capital MAZE, but it's fine. And my co-workers are nice. They wouldn't cuss me, laugh at me or ridicule me or put me down in any way for making a mistake. Yet still it remains. Kind of like a misplaced pride - the sort that kept me saying si, si si, for my first few years in Spain rather than admit I didn't know what the person was talking about, and ask them to repeat themselves.

Anyway, I don't know why I'm so worried about it, as the only person who really seems to call me at work is the bloke, and our conversations are usually so dull it's not worth listening in to. Well not usually, anyway.

A particular one this week really broke the mold. And I know my colleagues were all listening in, as they howled with laughter - like demented banshees - in the appropriate place. Can you guess where it is if I lay it out for you, as they would have heard it - one sided?

"Hola, fine yes…. Well basically she shat the bed… Yes, I put it in the washing machine… I don't know… runny…. a bit…. I don't know, did you feed her anything weird?… Well I didn't… she was fine this morning… I've got to go anyway… see you later… te quiero."

I was talking about our little dog Daniella, and you kind of get the idea from the conversation above. I don't have to clarify it do I? Really no. I've never really managed to talk quietly on the phone, that's why I usually leave the office if my mobile rings. But on this occasion I just threw caution to the wind. Guess I'm just still in holiday mode.

Or is 2011 going to be the year for caring less about what people think?

New Year's Eve - then and now

An image I remember very clearly from my childhood was my dad lamenting the quick passing of years. "Stop the world, I want to get off!" He would exclaim, and I would laugh at how funny and strange it sounded.

Now I kind of know what he means - though I certainly don't want to get off - but slowing down the world a bit might do the trick.

It was six New Year's Eves ago that I introduced the bloke to my friends in Barcelona. Six! It was only the second time I'd seen him since we'd got back together after our fateful re-meeting at the club where we'd originally met.

We were still figuring out what we were to each other. I hoped we would stay in each other's lives, but we were still practically strangers then. Held together by a shared past in London - a thin string that could easily snap at any time.

It was a time before Facebook and Twitter. My Space was limping along there somewhere but no-one was really on it. The distance between people seemed much bigger in those days.

We were so late as we hurried along the deserted streets towards the Director of Barcelona's flat. We got there with about 15 minutes to spare before the dongs of the New Year would signal the start of 2006.

When we arrived the party was in full swing. And it wasn't just any old party - but an Eighties-themed fancy dress party. The bloke had flat out refused to dress up, so I hadn't either - though I had brought my Orville doll along to somehow contribute to the theme.

But everyone else had gone all out. Kung Fu Cath looked like one of the Kids from Fame, the Director was an eerie George Michael, Jim was Superman and Dave was a 'calm down calm down' scouser. You could have forgiven the bloke for being a bit overwhelmed by it all, but he thought they were brilliant.

Got himself a Brugal and coke and lit up a cigar and got down to the serious business of getting to know them all.

By the next day it felt like we were all the best of friends - members of an exclusive club that no-one else could join. We ended up in a bar in Gracia, where Jamie - another new friend who ended up being worth his weight in gold - broke the no playing the piano rule, but somehow got away with it.

And the owner of the bar looked like Salvador Dali, and didn't seem to mind when we told him so.

We remembered this and more five years on - New Year's Eve 2011. Another fancy dress party at the Director's flat - cult film characters. But this time the bloke dressed up - making an excellent Dr Gonzo from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas to the Director's Raul Duke.

And that wasn't the only change. A glance around the room at midnight confirmed how much we had all moved on. There was Jim - AKA the Dude from the Big Lebrowski - with his arm around his wife Jane, dressed as the guy from Alien who has the little baby one bursting out of his stomach. And giving the costume extra effect was Jane's baby bump - the new arrival is due in February, and it's the best news ever.

Then there was Dave - Marty McFly from Back to the Future - and his wife Kirsten (Princess Leia) and of course the Director and Science Chick - also fulfilling 30-something male fantasies as the Star Wars princess.

It was mind blowing to think that five years ago these people didn't know the other even existed. While they clinked glasses with their friends and danced the night away they had no idea the person they would spend their lives with was out there somewhere doing the same.

Since then people have left the group - gone back to Britain to rejoin 'the real world' and we've had new additions, like Gav (who had a pillow up his t-shirt to portray Walter from the Big Lebrowski).

We've all moved up notes on the career front - Kung Fu Cath even has an assistant - but nights out are still as fun as they ever were.

Long after doing the grapes (and it's the first time I've ever managed to eat them all - even despite the long black hair of the wig for my The Ring costume getting in the way) the Director gathered the troops to take us out to a warehouse party in Poble Nou.

In the taxi on the way down Kung Fu Cath asked the driver: "Do you know who I am then? I'm a cult film character."
"No I don't recognize you," he said.
"I'm Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction," she told him.
"Oh, so what are you doing in town, promoting a film?"
"No, I'm only dressed as Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction. It's a costume."
"Well I haven't seen it. So is this your first time in Spain? Can I have your autograph?"

By which point she decided it was easier to just go along with it, and autographed his taxi receipt book "Happy New Year, lots of love Uma" Classic.

The warehouse party was full of mud that soon crept up the front of Science Chick's pristine white skirt, which had to be binned afterwards. The drinks - poured into tiny plastic cups - were so strong they were undrinkable. The bathrooms were worse than the 'worst toilet in the world' from Trainspotting and had to be flushed by a man with a hose. But it didn't matter - we were all together.

And as we left, trooping to the metro to go home there was that familiar feeling of returning home from a battle won. And as I looked at our mud-covered group I thought, These are some of the best people in the world right here, and they're my friends. And they always will be.

And that makes me grin like a loon, even now.

The place where I will marry

Today was a special day. Today we visited the place where we're going to get married.

It was the second time we'd stepped through the heavy wooden doors of Finca Casa Esquileo. But this time, with the bloke's parents with us, it felt official.

Like old pros we showed them the pretty garden that'll make a great place to hold the welcome cocktail. Then on to the rustic old banquet hall, with the 18th Century graffiti on the walls. And the old preserved house where we can do the family photos.

Because we're actually going to do it. We're going to get married, and we're going to do it there.

And even though we're in the grip of winter and your breath freezes in front of your face and your toes are icy slivers in your shoes, I see it as summer with my heart's wet eyes.

I can see the tables all laid out, with place names for all the people I love most in the world. I can see my Dad stood up at the top table, thanking everyone for coming. I can see us swaying across the dance floor, taking tentative steps into the next chapter.

I can't say that I was ever one of those little girls that daydreamed about the day I would get married. In fact, at one point I thought I would just never bother.

But now it seems like I can think of little else. I'm prone to letting my mind run away with wedding thoughts in spare moments, or searching online for details I can steal. And it's only two months down the line, what's come over me?

One thing will stay with me from today. On the way back to the car after checking out the cute little church close to the venue, there was a group of Japanese tourists taking a photo. I waited patiently for them to finish, but the guy with the camera said "pasa, pasa" (ie - you can pass)

I thought to myself, oh, they think I'm Spanish. As as I continued on my way, to where the bloke and his parents were waiting, I realised - I sort of am. I'm marrying a Spaniard, I work here, speak the language - I've built my life here. This is home. I will always be proud of being British, but in some respects I am Spanish.

And that's a great feeling indeed.

New York part four: Al Pacino, limos, helicopters and butterflies

Day six - Thursday

Wake up to glorious sunshine. Decide to abandon our Statue of Liberty trip altogether as there are no tickets left that would allow us to actually go inside it and up to the crown (if you want to do this book well in advance) So instead we decide to do a helicopter ride, which will allow us to fly over the top of it and get a really great view.

the bloke rings up to sort it out over breakfast and we're booked in for a 3.30pm flight. That gives us time for a little more shopping back in Soho. We find the Burton shop and while the bloke checks out the clothes I fall in love with Charlie, a tiny little chocolate coloured poodle who belongs to the manageress of the shop. He's got a security tag on his collar so they'll know if he goes outside. (Or if someone tries to steal him.) He's so friendly and when I pick him up for a cuddle he smells of flowers. Looks more like a little teddy bear than your typical poodle. Decide I want a poodle too.

We get in a taxi and zoom down to lower Manhattan to Pier six where the helipad is. As we're queueing up outside we see a bride and groom arrive. They're about the sixth pair of newlyweds we've seen on the trip. they're everywhere. The first ones we saw, the bloke shouted "viva los novios" (sort of 'long live the bride and groom') and the bride nearly jumped out of her skin. It's a nice thing to do if the couple speak Spanish. If not, all you've got is a mad spanish bloke shouting something at you that you don't understand.



I start to feel nervous as I see helicopters taking off and landing. But my nervousness soon turns to boredom as we wait, and wait and wait. the helipad is so badly organised, with several different companies all operating there. People who turn up off the street without an appointment seem to be jumping the queue. And a family of four who are booked in for a 4.00pm flight get to go ahead of us as there's four of them, so they'll fill a helicopter. It's annoying but apparently the place gets more chaotic as the day goes on, so if you do want to do a heli ride, book for early in the morning.

Two hours after we arrive we finally are led onto the helipad to do the flight. My heart is doing the river dance in my chest, but the bloke is calm - he did about 60 heli rides in Alaska when he was heliboarding, so it's nothing new to him. We're in with two other couples - one German, one Spanish.

We put our headsets on and the pilot introduces himself. then Just as I'm busy taking photographs the helicopter takes off. What a rush! The next 15 minutes were incredible. We fly over the Statue of Liberty and up Manhattan, over Ground Zero, Central Park and the Yankees Stadium. When the helicopter turns it feels like it's about to go upside down.

Too soon it's over, but the wait has been worth it. The sun is just setting as we come in to land so we get some amazing pictures of the Statue of Liberty with the burning orange sun behind it. And even though we're not really supposed to, we ask the Spanish couple to take a photo of us standing in front of the helicopter. it's one of my favorite from the whole trip.



We walk up to the financial district - something totally different from everything else we've seen. We get pizza as we're totally starving, then go to check out Wall Street and the Stock exchange. There are people in sharp suits everywhere and there's even a Tiffany's - good lunchtime shopping for the rich types. There's a suit standing shouting into his phone about a business deal - looks like he's a cliche who's been put there specially for us.



We finish our tour by going to Ground Zero, which - although it's basically just a building site at the moment - is very humbling. Hard to believe the two towers used to stand there. There's a plan up of what they're going to build there - a memorial featuring two illuminated pools of water. I wonder about the controversial mosque that's supposed to be being built somewhere around. Will it go ahead?

I leave the bloke for a little while and go to Century 21, discount designer goods shop. it's a little mental inside - you really need to rake through to find what you're looking for. But the accessories section is mazing and I get some good DKNY stuff that'll make great Christmas presents for the family back in Durham.

Back at the hotel it's more cocktails. By this point the bar staff are getting to know us and I've found my favorite drink - a Tres Chic. It's a champagne cocktail which has pear flavored vodka, St Germain elderflower liquer, framboise and is garnished with an edible candied hibiscus blossom.

After we've had a few we grab the camera and decide to go on the rampage in Times Square. On the way there we walk past the theatre where Al Pacino is appearing in the Merchant of Venice and see there's a massive queue of people waiting outside the back entrance.

We wait around to see what's going to happen, then all of a sudden people start screaming, and Al Pacino walks out! We push as far to the front as we can and take some pictures. Can't believe I'm actually standing a metre away from Al Pacino - one of my favorite actors of all time. And I'm not the only one who thinks that. The guy next to me is just repeating "Oh my god it's Al Pacino, oh my god it's Al Pacino" over and over.

He does look like crap - straggly hair, horrible beard (which i guess he had to grow to play Shylock) but he's still got such a presence. he spends a good 15 minutes chatting to people and signing autographs, then he jumps into his car and speeds off.

After that we're on a total natural high. We go on a mission to get our photograph taken with as many cops as possible. Most of whom are absolutely lovely and chat to us about Spain, offering up their own story of how they've been there, or know someone who's been there, and really would love to go there.

One cop even lets me sit on his bike and gives me a big hug. And there's a queue of people waiting behind me to do the same. How do these guys actually do any work? Not that they seem to mind though.

after spotting some Navy Cadets and grabbing them for a photo we have some sambucas in a bar just on the corner of Times Square and I chat to a Canadian waiter about how hot the weather's been this week. We've been so lucky. but it's going to be cold tomorrow he says, so I'm glad i brought my winter coat.

We walk towards Hell's Kitchen with the idea of finding somewhere to eat, but all that goes out the window when the bloke spots a limo parked outside a hotel and the man he thinks is the driver.

After a spot of cheeky negotiating he hires the limo for an hour for 100 dollars, and we do an amazing trip around Manhattan, sipping champagne and generally feeling like we rule the world.

He drops us off at our hotel an hour later and by that point we're staving and quite tipsy. nothing for it but drinking about ten gallons of water and getting more room service before we pass out.

Day seven - Friday

No chance whatsoever of getting the bloke out of bed early, so I let him sleep and go for a manicure. Find a nail bar on 9th Avenue run by a Chinese lady and her daughter. As I settle down to get my nails painted a hot pink colour she attempts to make conversation, but I have a bit of trouble understanding her.

Her: You go party?
Me: Party? Oh yes, probably
Her: How long party?
Me: Erm, I don't know how long. Until I get tired.
Her: No, How long party?
Me: Errr...
Her: How long. Candy. Children. masks, ghost.
Me: Ah, Halloween!
Her. Yes. Howlwon.

from what I can figure out, everyone seems to have been coming in to get their nails done for Halloween. The two girls who come in after me get theirs purple and black. Then a man comes in to get a manicure and it takes me by surprise. Can't imagine Brits or Spaniards doing the same.

It's ridiculously cheap - $13 and looks great so I tip the lady $5 after my nails have been dried in the special uv light drier. I know it's probably too much, but I don't care. The two girls look at me like I'm a total idiot.

Back at the hotel finally manage to get the bloke out of bed and we make our way to the Natural History Museum. Before we go in though we have a 3 dollar breakfast in the form of a hotdog from one a roadside stall. Covered in mustard and ketchup - it tastes like heaven.

Once we're inside we go straight to the butterfly enclosure, which is a glass area that's heated up to tropical temperatures. Inside are about a hundred exotic looking butterflies. All fluttering around and occasionally landing on people. They're just beautiful. A few of them look a little tatty, and the guide tells us they're getting to the end of their lives - the butterflies in here will live for about two weeks, no more. That comes as a surprise.



After a long time in butterfly land we leave and try to find the auditorium, where they're going to show a documentary about the hubble telescope. When the attendant I ask for directions hears my English accent he freaks out, and gets me to repeat words like potato and steak, saying they sound much better the way I say them.

Another attendant comes over and tells us we should hear this guy's Michael Jackson impersonation, so we bully him until he sings Heal The World. He does sound amazingly like the King of Pop. He tells us to type his name Jameil and Michael Jackson into youtube and we'll see some videos. I make a mental note.

The hubble documentary blows my mind - especially the bit where it shows some of the images the telescope brought back, of stars being born, millions of light years away. I feel very small and insignificant indeed.

This continues as we go to the Rose Ceter for Earth and Space to see another installation at their IMAX-style auditorium, this one a Whoopi Goldberg-narrated one called Journey to the Stars. Did you know there are about 40,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 stars or more out there? Where do they even get that number? i'm pretty impressed but the bloke falls asleep

We spend the rest of the time looking at some of the permanent collections, including my favorite - the dinosaur skeletons. And we got a cheesy photograph taken, with both of us pretending to be scared by some dinosaur fossils.

We stay till the last possible minute then are ushered out with the rest of the museum goers. Outside it's freezing - the temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since yesterday. I'm struck by how lucky we've been with the weather.

Despite that, we really feel like a walk, so we set off, walking past the famous Magnolia Bakery, where people are queuing to buy cupcakes. For once we opt out - I've pretty much overdosed on wheat by this point. We also pass a street that seems vaguely familiar, then i work out why - it's the one Carrie's from Sex and the City's house is on.

Close by we find an amazing pet shop that has a pick n mix style counter full of Halloween-themed biscuits. Even doggies can get in on the action too. The bloke is delighted when we find a magazine shop that has a wall full of fishing mags. He buys a whole ton.

We finally get back to Hells Kitchen and find a lovely Chilean restaurant, Pomaire, to have dinner in. Before the main course (lovely chicken stew) has even arrived the bloke is best friends with the manger, who keeps putting on a fake mustache and hard hat - dressing up as one of the liberated miners.

A policeman comes in to say hello, and afterwards he tells us how Hells Kitchen used to be a real dump, full of whore houses and drugs. now it's not like that obviously, and the increased police presence obviously helps. there are a staggering 40,000 cops in Manhattan, he tells us.

After sharing an enormous jug of sangria and a having a Frangelico each, we stagger back to the hotel. It's a choice between packing or cocktails, and you can guess which one wins. at least we've managed to check in online. We'll sort the rest out tomorrow.

Day 8 - Saturday

Wake up very sad that is's our last day. Boo. Head over to Soho to meet up with my old school friend Jenny, who's now living in New York with her American husband. We meet them at Nolita House - cool little cafe that has a live band on.

Spend the next few hours trying to catch up on the last, what - ten years? Can't believe it's been so long. She fills me in on the people in our old group I've lost touch with, and I do the same. jobs, marriages, babies, etc. When did we all get so old?

I do envy Jenny her glamorous life, living in New York. but her job sounds horrendously stressful. She works long days as an accountant, and only gets 10 days holiday a year. And most of her workmates frown on her for taking those. I'm glad things are different in Spain.

We go our separate ways, promising to meet up at Christmas. (We'll both be in Durham) And off they go to finish their Halloween costume shopping. She's going as her husband, he's going as her. they both agree that Halloween is a major deal over here.

Back at the hotel we set about taking all the tags off our purchases and trying to fit everything into two suitcases. it's difficult, but with the bloke's superior packing skills, we manage.

Then we take one last walk around Times Square and I buy myself a tacky 'I heart NY' hoody. Think it'll look pretty cool back in Madrid.

We check out, then spend the last hour of our time in New York in the hotel bar. By the time Martin, the travel company driver comes to pick us up I am slightly tipsy, and very sad. We don't want to leave.

New York was just magic. It exceeded my expectations - blew every other holiday I've ever had out of the water. I'll never forget it. Thanks so much to the bloke for making it happen, it really was a once in a lifetime trip.

That's the holiday weekend completely ruined then

Something unthinkable happened this weekend. Spain just completely ground to a halt on puente weekend - one of the biggest holiday weekends of the year.

Most people had five days off work. Even me, oh joy! But for any poor suckers who had to catch a flight it all turned to shit, as Spanish aerospace completely shut on Friday evening, just when most of them were setting off to leave.

And it wasn't because of the cold weather, there was no snow or anything like that, oh no. The 2,400 Spanish air traffic controllers - many of whom earn in excess of 700,000 Euros a year - went on strike, throwing the country into complete chaos.

The controllers - who are the highest paid in Europe - have been in dispute with the government for over a year about the privatization of Spain's state airport authority AENA.

A private organization will not tolerate their work monopoly, they think (yep, got to agree with them there) so it's something they've been wanting to avoid. So imagine their horror when on Friday the government approved the sale of 49 percent of the AENA and put a cap on the number of hours the controllers could work per year.

So what did they do? They booked a conference room in a hotel near the airport, and at 5pm staged a completely unannounced mass walkout, saying they'd already worked over the maximum hours this year. The result: Spanish airspace was completely closed, royally ballsing up the whole weekend for everyone.

What followed was total chaos, and highly annoying. If you've ever had a plane cancelled, you'l know what I mean. you feel like you want to stab someone in the eyes, and everyone is blaming everyone else. Well it was pretty obvious whose fault things were here.

but hang on a minute. If the government had an inkling of what would happen when they signed this new agreement, why the hell did they do it just before puente weekend? Couldn't they have waited till next week?

The Spanish economy is in such a bad state right now. By making this new agreement, the government are just trying to bring down last year's budget defect of 11 per cent. With their new capped wages, the controllers would make much more reasonable (by who's standards?) 200,000 Euros. Clearly that's not enough for them.

The bad thing is that our biggest industry is tourism, and this will be hitting it badly. And may put off any prospective tourists from coming here. Maybe Portugal is a safer option?

Now Madrid is in a "State of Alert" for the first time since our new Consituation was signed in 1978.

The military have been sent in, and the controllers - who have signed in to their shifts, but are refusing to work - have been threatened with prison if they don't go back to work. One tearful worker on the news said men with guns had marched into their headquarters and told them to get back to work.

"What kind of atmosphere is that to work under?" she sobbed.

Now I don't have much sympathy, but she does have a point. These people have lives in their hands. if they mess up, they could wipe out two planes in a second.

Would you want to fly knowing the person guiding your plane safely along was emotional and liable to make mistakes?

Luckily, me and the bloke are skint, so going away was not an option for us. but in my group of friends, many have been affected. PB can't take her plane to New York, meaning she's missing out on the trip she's been looking forward to for months. Science Chick is stuck in England, as is Jim. And the bloke's parents can't spend the weekend in London. Anthony, my work colleague is stuck in Bulgaria.

You just have to log into Facebook to see more and more angry people posting their stories.

The Public Works Minister says it'll take 24 to 48 hours for air traffic to return to normal - by which time everyone's holiday plans will be well and truly ruined.

Science Chick's other half The Director posted the following on Facebook: "If I ever meet a Spanish Air traffic controller I won't be held responsible for my actions."

I wonder how many people in Spain are thinking the exact same thing?

New York part three - tattoos, Central Park, fake Louis Vuitton and the Lion King

Day four - Tuesday

I let the bloke have a lie in and go to investigate Broadway tickets. There are some red steps in Times Square where you get half price ones but I don't know what the deal is. The information guy says the tickets for the night time shows go on sale at 2pm - the queue opens at 1pm. Think I can't really be bothered queuing up for an hour and decide it's going to be best booking tickets online, which we do when we get back to the hotel.

Have a walk around the area and make the mistake of taking a leaflet from some guy from a place that buys gold. Suddenly I'm surrounded by a load of men saying "are you selling? I'll give you the best price" and similar things. Run away and back to the hotel.

Get the bloke out of bed and go to Central Park. The weather is amazing, as it has been all week. Freakishly warm - almost T-shirt weather. We have a great time walking round, watching squirrels, listening to singers, looking at monuments, people watching. We stumble on a photoshoot with loads of drag queens in ball gowns and get some amazing photos.



Have luck in the Boathouse. Gorgeous restaurant overlooking a little lake. Glad I booked it - the maitre d is turning people away who don't have reservation. We're seated on the wooden decking where we have a nice view across the water and people rowing in bashed up old boats. Food-wise, the crab cakes are amazing.

Afterwards we go for a drink in the waterside bar and the bloke throws bread into the lake so he can see the fish who come to the surface to feed. They are enormous, colorful carps, some of them at least half a metre long. The bloke wonders wistfully what would happen if he came back with a fishing rod.



We go on to strawberry fields - the moment opposite the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot dead. In every guide book it says it will always be frequented by someone playing a guitar and singing John Lennon songs. That's just what we find.



It's getting cold so we go back to the hotel for cocktails. Then it's a short walk to the Minskoff Theatre, where we take our seats to watch The Lion King. As a rule the bloke hates musicals, and as we enter, he's not sure if he'll enjoy it. But it's amazing. The costumes are so intricate and the music is really chilling. For me, it's great - I'm reliving all the stuff from the animation that I grew up with. The words from the script pop into my head before the actor says them, coming from a strange forgotten part of my brain.

But why did I not notice before that the only characters with an English accent are the evil death-plotting uncle Scar, and the comedy lackey bird servant Zazu?

Still buzzing from the performance we wanter back the hotel for yet more cocktails and food. We sit down in the restaurant and discover the room service menu is better so we leave and go back to our room to order something.

Day five - Wednesday

Wake up to the first day of bad weather. Raining a bit and grey skies. So instead of our planned trip to the statue of liberty we decide to go and check out China Town and little Italy.

China town is a bit of a let down. Guess we were expecting something a bit more like the one in London, with the golden arches and everything. Go into the buddhist temple at the end of Canal Street and light an incense stick and watch a bit of a religious service that's going on. The huge golden buddha in the temple is very impressive.

Go to the shop and buy matching jade charms for me and the bloke, featuring our animal signs. Mine - the monkey, his - the snake.

Have a real China town experience - buying a fake Louis Vuitton bag. All along Canal Street you'll see Chinese women asking you if you want to buy fake designer bags, Tiffany jewellery, rolexes, etc. If you say yes they'll take you off round the corner where you either go into another shop or meet a man who gives you a laminated card showing you the wares he's got for sale. You then tell him which one you want while he looks shiftily around him before going to get it for you.

That's exactly what we do, and it stresses the poor bloke out no end. "If this goes wrong, I'm going to be very upset with you," he tells me. It did feel like we were doing something really bad though, like we were buying drugs, or something.

The bloke is so nervous he even barters the guy up instead of down with the price. In the end I got it for 160 dollars, which might sound like a lot, but it's a good copy of an 1,500 euro bag, and it is real leather. The whole thing was a pretty funny experience which we laughed a lot about later.

After we both calm down a bit we go to check out a tattoo studio on Canal Street with Broadway and the bloke decides to get something done, an eight-pointed star. They tell us to come back at 6.00pm so we go to check out Mulberry Street and Little Italy

Get pizza at one of the traditional-looking little restaurants and then stop off for a drink at the Mulberry Street bar. it was a favorite with Frank Sinatra and has been used to shoot scenes for the Sopranos, Donnie Brasco and many other mafia-type films.

Back on Broadway we find an amazing t-shirt shop called Yellow Rat Bastard. It even has Tokidoki stuff. The bloke goes a bit mental and picks up about 21 t-shirts. Good job we brought two massive almost empty suitcases.

Go back to get the bloke's tattoo done. The guy who does it, Shay is an a great artist - his studio is full of painting of skulls which he's done himself. When the bloke takes his top off he spots his HR Giger tattoo (the artist behind the designs for Alien) and says he's also got some of his work tattooed. The bloke tells him about his favorite tattoo artist - Robert Hernandez, and shay pulls up his sleeve to show us a piece done by the man himself - a scary face.

While I watch the bloke get his done, decide I would like a tattoo, but don't know what. "Just make sure it's meaningful," says Shay. The noise of the tattoo gun is a bit unpleasant, but the bloke only winces a few times.

We tell Shay we're getting married next year, and he reveals he's also engaged. He's from Israel so is doing one wedding there and one in New York. We wish him a happy wedding and go to leave.

Before we do we're invited to the tattoo shop's Halloween party. One of the staff has got his septum pierced especially and he's going to paint himself red and stick horns and prosthetic fangs on so he can come as the devil. shame we're flying home on Halloween so will miss the fun. There are 30 bottles of white wine sitting on the till that they've just bought - looks like it's going to be an amazing party.

On the way out we check out the art gallery, where the tattooists display their paintings and sculptures. They're all so talented. Looking at shay's skull like demon things, it's clear he's been majorly influenced by Giger. My favorite though is a mixture of photography and painting - it's a little girl standing in front of a spooky house, and there's an evil old woman looking out of the window at her.

back at the hotel we have a few cocktails in the bar then go to check out the best burger in NYC. It's at the burger joint - a tiny diner behind a black curtain in the posh Parker Meridien Hotel. Queues can often be round the block for it apparently but we've left it until the end of the day (11.00pm) so we manage to get in and get a seat.

We order the works - burger with everything on it. It really is the best burger I've had in my life. I don't even like burgers really, but I eat every last morsel.

New York part two - Ethan Hawke, Where Harry Met Sally, crap cocktails and great views

Day two - Sunday

Kind of hard to get the bloke out of the extremely comfy bed. We just miss breakfast and instead get room service. The bloke always says you can tell how good a hotel is by the quality and quantity of room service available, and this one rates pretty high by all accounts. I go for a smoked salmon omelette and some green tea (which is the nicest I have ever tasted) And the bloke gets the full American breakfast. He can't even finish it, and we realise we're going to have to get used to how big portions are here, and maybe order less.

We leave the hotel and have a quick walk to Times Square to check out how mental it is. Spend a lot of time looking up and going: "Wow!"

There's something really familiar about it all and I realise what it is - the sound! If you close your eyes you'll recognise it from a million movies. Traffic, both close and far away at the same time, sirens, New Yorkers chattering, feet on the pavement. It could only be the Big Apple.

We walk down Ninth Avenue all the way to Chelsea. Encounter our first (and only) New York nutter of the trip. A black guy who shouts at me to put my map away or he'll "fuck me up" or even "kill me". Like a true Englishwoman I pretend it's not happening and keep walking. A bit further down we see Ethan Hawk walking his scruffy little black dog, just like any other person would. No-one bothers him at all.

Have a look around Chelsea market, which must be great if you're a foodie, (it's nearly all food) but we're not that bothered. It is cool to see people eating massive lobsters at one stall though. After unsuccessfully trying to find two flea markets (both of which have moved) we go to the Apple store and the bloke splurges on an iPad. the shop assistant says he's had lots of Spaniards buying them. He sold 30 just to Spanish people yesterday.

Then it's on to Pastis for lunch. It's like an old worldy style French Bistro and again, the food is amazing. I'm not too hungry so I have a goats cheese salad and the bloke has some home made pasta. But the real treat is in the dessert. Our waitress recommends the cheese cake, and it's really out of the world. We finish with some digestive liqueurs which give us a bit of a glow.



Next, on to the High Line. It's an old decommissioned subway line which runs over the oh so trendy Meatpacking District. They've transformed it into a green space, with a wooden walkway and lots of flowers and plants. It's nice, but considering how lovely some of the countryside around Madrid is, we're not as impressed as we maybe should be. We're certainly not as impressed as the New Yorkers we see see exclaiming with excitement at the bees hopping from flower to flower. Or the ones furiously taking close up shots of the flowers on their camera phones.

Half way down the High Line there's the imposing figure of the Standard - one of New York's trendiest new hotels. It looks pretty horrible from the outside but the rooms are meant to be amazing. We try to go for a drink in the rooftop bar but find it's shut on Sunday afternoons. Instead we have a drink in the main bar, which is full of poser types. I order a ginger rum cocktail that's so spicy I can hardly drink it.

We leave to watch the sunset over New Jersey from the High Line, but the bloke has a better plan. So we cross the road to the waterfront and walk down pier 54. We have a much better view from here of the sky slowly turning pink and purple, and there's no one else around. Only a man sitting reading and a boy and his dad throwing a baseball to each other.



Back to the hotel where the bloke plays on his iPad a bit before we go and check out The View - an amazing 360 degree rotating restaurant and bar 43 floors up in the Marriot Hotel, Times Square.

On the way there we see the famous 'Naked Cowboy'. An extremely buff man who goes out in his underpants (which have 'Naked Cowboy' emblazoned on the back of them, just so you know) cowboy boots and hat, and carrying his guitar. He sings songs, and with his guitar covering his crotch, he looks like he is, in fact in the nutty. There's a massive crowd around him, and he keeps stopping every few bars of his song to put his hands in the air and flex his muscles, posing for photos. Someone standing next to me says he makes 50 grand a month, but I can't see how, as I can't see anyone giving him money. I have seen him in some films and documentaries though, so maybe that's how he makes his mullah.



We take the scary super speed lifts to The View and are shown to some window-side seats. The whole thing has a tacky feel to it (sort of like how I imagine Vegas to be like) but it's just perfect. The bloke takes about a hundred pictures of all the buildings as we whir round at a snail's pace and we try to figure out what they all are. The cocktails are horrible and we make them last over an hour as we're too busy looking at everything to drink.

After we've been round a few times we go back to the hotel and get more room service. Too knackered to do anything else.

Day three - Monday

Actually manage to make it down for breakfast this time, and I have a melon with palma ham. for once the portion is not enormous and I don't feel uncomfortably full. We walk to the Rockefeller Centre to go to the Top of the Rock observation deck. I've booked 11am tickets. A few people have recommended it to me in place of the Empire State Building as the queues are shorter and you actually get the Empire State building in the view.

Up we go after walking though the little mini museum dedicated to Rockefeller. He was an interesting chap. He was a t-total oil magnate who hated art but he helped re-appeal prohibition and embossed some pretty impressive art collections. I think it was all down to the woman he married, Cessie Rockefeller - who was a bit of an art-loving free spirit.

The view from the top is very impressive. Like Sim City - doesn't look real. We ask ask a security guard where the Two Towers were and he sadly tells us "just to the right of the Empire State Building and all the way to the end".



After we've got enough photos we go back town and accidentally come out in the subway. Take another taxi to soho and seriously hit the shops. Lafayette street, Broadway, Spring Street. The bloke buys so much stuff in the G Star shop we can hardly carry it all. Decide to drop the bags back at the hotel before lunch.

On the way out we're stopped by a Kanye West-lookalike in the street holding a sign saying 'will rap for free'. He does a pretty good rap about New York and we give him a few dollars. He thanks us, explaining that he's saving up to buy his own studio. We wish him luck and leave.

in the taxi back the traffic is rammed. In Times Square we see a group of kids praising Jesus through the medium of breakdance. Doing headspins and shouting "Jesus! Praise the lord!" Very strange.

Lunch at Katz Diner. The place made famous in 'Where Harry Met Sally', where she fakes an orgasm sitting at one of their tables. We sit in the famous spot (which has a sign above it saying 'Where Harry Met Sally, hope you have what she had')

The place is so authentic. From the outside it looks pretty scruffy. When you go in the guy on the door gives you a blue ticket. Basically when you get something you give it to the guy at the counter serving you and he writes what you've had. then you pay at the end.

everyone in there is speaking Spanish so the bloke chats away to them. They're famous for their pastrami sandwiches so we get one each, plus a hotdog, just to try. Both are mouth-watering. But I don't quite manage to finish mine. on the walls are loads of pictures of famous people, the bloke even spots Bill Clinton. All with the mustached owner Katz, smiling his jollly head off.

We wander back to Soho and Noho to finish our shopping. We check the designer vintage store ING and the bloke gets an amazing Versace jacket for 200 dollars. I go visit Screaming Mimi's, a fantastic vintage shop with stuff from the 60s, 70s and 80s, while the bloke has a drink in the bar next door. It's happy hour so we both have a few before having a final walk down broadway to All Saints before calling it a day on the shopping front.

We have dinner reservations in La Esquina/The Corner, so I check to see where it is - it's back in Soho! that's three times in one day we've been back and forward to Soho - oops! But this place is supposed to be amazing so there's no way we're missing it.

We arrive at The Corner and it looks like a complete dive. A tiny diner with a red neon light above it. "Are we really eating here?" asks the bloke. We're early, so we have some mojitos in the bar next door.

It's finally time to go eat at 11.30pm (it's the only time we could get a reservation as the place is so popular and we left it late to book) but we're unsure where to go. there's a main entrance in the diner, and one round the corner. The security guard on the main entrance directs us to a girl holding a list and she ushers us down some stairs. A waitress takes us through a kitchen, where a load of Mexican guys say "hola", then past a whole wall of different types of tequila bottles, and onto the restaurant.

it's not what I was expecting. Sort of a mini club, with a DJ and even some people dancing. We're seated at a booth with a huge painting of a crying girl with 'niña triste' written under it. Little buckets hang above us from the ceiling and at the next table sits a cap wearing Dominican gangster type and his heavily made-up girlfriend.

Our waitress apologises for not speaking Spanish. She is Mexican, she says, but doesn't really speak the language. We order mushroom fajitas, chicken and meat tacos and pork ribs. it's all delicious.

In the taxi on the way home we get the giggles about something and seem to be really annoying the taxi driver. When the bloke gives him the money and asks "is that good?" he shouts: "No man, that is not good. You gave me a 10 cent tip. Not good." We apologize and give him a few extra dollars and make a swift exit.

New York part one

"So this is what the inside of a stretch limo looks like," I said, taking in the fresh pine smell, cream leather seats, neon lit bar, mirrored surfaces and fountains of UV lights, subtly changing colour with every passing minute.

"It's tack-tactic, but I love it."

The bloke smiled and filled up my champagne glass. Outside Manhattan sped by, a sensory mess of colours and sounds at night. George Michael's 'Faith' came on the radio and I suddenly felt like I was having an out of body experience.

Had I overdosed on fun? possibly. It was the night before the end of our holiday and we were both on a complete high. Two hours earlier we'd spotted Al Pacino in the street, coming out of the theatre where he was appearing in The Merchant of Venice on Broadway. Five hours earlier we'd flown over the Statue of Liberty in a helicopter.

Then now, the limo ride. After the bloke had spotted the driver on the street and cheekily asked if we could rent it for an hour. I am never going to forget this, I thought as I gazed out the window across to the New Jersey skyline. This is just magic.

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That was nearly the end of our trip. And it was full of moments like that which would make a thousand blog posts. Instead I wanted to write a blow-by-blow diary of what we did in short form. Largely so I can remember it, but also to help people going to the Big Apple who might be in search of ideas. My friend Ed did it, and it was invaluable to us. I realise that if you have no intention of going to New York (and I recommend you change your mind if that's the case) or if you've never been, you might not want to read it all, but hey, never mind. I know I'll have fun looking back over it at least when I come home after a crap day at work. Here goes…

Day one - Saturday

The day of my birthday but a horrible start to the holiday. Almost a non start, in fact. We arrive at the airport to find there's massive overbooking on the plane, and as we queue up a worker offers us 600 Euros to miss our flight and go on the next one. No way!

But when we check in we discover our travel agent has messed up and only checked the bloke in online, not me. So the bloke has a seat on the plane and I'm on the waiting list and probably won't be able to fly. The next plane they can guarantee us a seat on is 24 hours later and If we want to upgrade to business class on this one for a guaranteed seat it'll cost us 5,000 Euros!

Absolutely dejected we check in our bags anyway in the hope that someone might not turn up for the flight and tramp off to the gate, heads hanging low. All the time I'm getting happy birthday messages from people saying "enjoy New York" and I just want to scream.

Overbooking is completely legal though - with companies regularly selling 5-10% more seats than they have on the plane, on the assumption people won't turn up. Which I can sort of understand for short, cheaper, flights. But come on, if you've paid a grand, maybe more, would you really miss your flight?

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is absolutely make sure you check in online to avoid the same thing happening to you. It nearly ruined the start of our trip.

When we get to the gate there are about ten other people on standby, and my stomach just drops to my knees. There's no way we're getting on this plane. The lady at the desk asks everyone: "Are you all on the waiting list?" And the bloke says: "No I'm not, but I won't fly without her." The lady asks: "what's her name?" Then after we tell her, something magic happens - she says: "You can both go through".

My hand is shaking as I give her my ticket and I can feel everyone else just hating me to the back of my head as we walk down the tunnel towards the plane. I feel sorry for them but insanely happy. Now we're going to enjoy this even more because we nearly lost the first 24 hours of our holiday.

Seven hours, and a few glasses of cava later, we finally get to JFK airport, 4.30pm (we took off at 2.00pm Spanish time). On TV screens as we walk to the passport control Sarah Palin is giving a speech, or rather a screech. She clatters through it like a combine harvester going over cobbles. "you deserve more than Washington is giving you." How can anyone believe her when she sounds like a parrot being strangled? A voice comes over the loudspeaker announcing where we can pick up our suitcases. But instead of a bored monosyllabic tone, he practically sings it: "luggage is on wheel nuuuumber TWO!" America is going to be different.

I get nervous being interviewed by the policeman on the passport control and my hand is shaking slightly when they scan my fingerprints. Don't know why - I've obviously done nothing wrong. Then I'm through but the bloke is led away after his interview and I start to panic. It turns out he has the a very similar name to an international narcotics trafficker and they just had to double check it wasn't him.

We're taken on the hour long trip to the hotel by our Spanish-speaking travel agent representative Martin, who gives us lots of tips about New York. Forget Spanish time, try and stay awake till at least 10pm this evening to beat the jet lag, drink the tap water, tip 10% or a dollar a drink etc etc.

Then before we know it we're at the hotel. We had originally booked to stay at the Waldorf Astoria, but decided to change shortly after back in Madrid as it looked a bit old and stuffy - like staying in a museum. We decided on the Intercontinental Times Square after consulting Trip Advisor, which placed it at number 43 out of the some 3,000 hotels listed in New York.

Glad we did. It was brand new - only opened in the summer and had the same sort of vibe going on as the Hoxton Hotel (our favorite place to stay in London) but more upmarket. Same sort of feng shui decor, all dark woods and metal which a cool restaurant and bar with a cosy fireplace. The air con was always on full blast in the entrance though, which was a bit weird.

After telling the guy who checked us in it was my birthday and we'd recently got engaged, we cheekily ask for an upgrade. He says they'll sort us out if we join the hotel's loyalty scheme. so we promptly do so and got put in a deluxe room. Enormous bed with the best mattress ever, duck feather pillows, waterfall shower, and an inward facing room so nice and quiet. We unpack our stuff and chill out for a little while, watch some American TV. A celeb news program shocks me as the reporting is anything but impartial. They're crucifying Lindsay Lohan for failing a drugs test. "This is a disgrace. It was COCAINE! How can she avoid prison again?"

We put on our glad rags and get a taxi to Morimoto - New York's top rated Japanese restaurant according to Trip Advisor. I would agree with them. The whole thing was amazing. the venue is a work of art, with eye-catching light features and beautiful furniture, and the toilets were space age - with jets of water that came out that you could control the direction and strength of.



And the people watching was amazing. Girls who looked like they'd stepped right out of vogue, with skyscraper heels and their equally polished boyfriends, old rich ladies dripping in diamonds and funky types. One girl came in wearing an enormous fluffy hat with pom palms. she didn't take it off for one minute even though she must have been boiling. Then there was a couple of cyber goths who were clearly made for each other. Her blue spikily eye make up covered half her face while the boy had long black hair, but had shaved his hairline back and his eyebrows off. they looked like they could have been in some goth rock band.

Oh and of course there was the food. We went for the seven course tasting menu with the alcohol accompaniment. I would recommend you sell a kidney and do the same.. though I couldn't manage to drink everything they brought out. With every course you got a half glass of wine or champagne or sake, which perfectly complimented the course on the table. It was out of this world. the bloke, who doesn't even like Japanese food said it was the best food he's ever eaten.

Highlights included the salmon tartar (above), the amazing sushi course (with barracuda and yellow tail) and the main event - curried lobster and wagyu beef - it just melted in your mouth. Somehow the staff knew it was my birthday (well I had been telling anyone who would listen) so they stuck a candle and a 'happy birthday' chocolate which the dessert course, which was a nice touch.

So full we could hardly walk we jumped in a taxi back to the hotel, thinking we'd really started the holiday off on a high.