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.
Showing posts with label bloke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bloke. Show all posts
12/01/2011
20/10/2010
The big three – oh
When you were a kid, where did you think you would be when you were 30? Married with kids? Doing your dream job? Or maybe even rich and famous? Perhaps you didn't even think that far ahead. After all, when you're small, 30 seems so old. Almost a lifetime away.
I never really gave turning 30 a thought. It was like a far off milestone that I could see in my imagined future. Something to be filed away with 'meeting the man of my dreams' and 'getting married' and 'settling down' and all that jazz.
It wasn't really, until about a year and a half ago that I began to consider it.
At the time someone else at work was leaving her 20s behind. She turned to me and asked: "So, have you got any plans for your 30th?"
After telling her I didn't, it was ages away after all, I had a moment of clarity. It wasn't a far off event any more, it was actually going to happen.
It wasn't that I was thinking oh my god, I'm going to be so old, or anything like that. Bemoaning the loss of my youth. God not at all. I had a total blast in my Twenties, but I'm deffo moving into a different place now.
What does being 30 mean? Is it actually just a number? Will I feel any different? Do I actually feel any different now than I did when I was 18? Does anyone? I've learned a lot of lessons since the day I arrived in London with a suitcase full of bad clothes and almost pissed myself with excitement at being in a place which was so 'not Durham'.
But in many ways I'm still the same. I still get excited about going to new places, still try to see the best in people. Still hope that one day high speed trains will replace the need for air travel.
It's been a big year for me. I've had my first real brush with serious-ish health problems, I got engaged, and now (well on Saturday to be precise) I'm going to turn 30.
By the time my mum was my age she's been married for nearly ten years and had two kids (with me still to come) The bloke's mum had four by the same point. I guess it's just a bit different for our generation.
But I wouldn't have it any other way. And thanks to the bloke I'm managing to combine celebrating the start of my third decade with one of my big dreams – going to New York. I am one lucky girl.
We fly on Saturday, and once again I find myself almost pissing myself with excitement. I guess some things just never change no matter how old you get.
I never really gave turning 30 a thought. It was like a far off milestone that I could see in my imagined future. Something to be filed away with 'meeting the man of my dreams' and 'getting married' and 'settling down' and all that jazz.
It wasn't really, until about a year and a half ago that I began to consider it.
At the time someone else at work was leaving her 20s behind. She turned to me and asked: "So, have you got any plans for your 30th?"
After telling her I didn't, it was ages away after all, I had a moment of clarity. It wasn't a far off event any more, it was actually going to happen.
It wasn't that I was thinking oh my god, I'm going to be so old, or anything like that. Bemoaning the loss of my youth. God not at all. I had a total blast in my Twenties, but I'm deffo moving into a different place now.
What does being 30 mean? Is it actually just a number? Will I feel any different? Do I actually feel any different now than I did when I was 18? Does anyone? I've learned a lot of lessons since the day I arrived in London with a suitcase full of bad clothes and almost pissed myself with excitement at being in a place which was so 'not Durham'.
But in many ways I'm still the same. I still get excited about going to new places, still try to see the best in people. Still hope that one day high speed trains will replace the need for air travel.
It's been a big year for me. I've had my first real brush with serious-ish health problems, I got engaged, and now (well on Saturday to be precise) I'm going to turn 30.
By the time my mum was my age she's been married for nearly ten years and had two kids (with me still to come) The bloke's mum had four by the same point. I guess it's just a bit different for our generation.
But I wouldn't have it any other way. And thanks to the bloke I'm managing to combine celebrating the start of my third decade with one of my big dreams – going to New York. I am one lucky girl.
We fly on Saturday, and once again I find myself almost pissing myself with excitement. I guess some things just never change no matter how old you get.
30/09/2010
Engaged
What I'll always remember from that day is the sun on my face from the open sunroof. And closing my eyes and just turning to the bloke and saying: "I couldn't be happier." How wrong I was.
We were on our way to el Escorial - a historic town about an hour away from Madrid. A day trip to somewhere new. Something which always, to the bloke's complete amusement and bemusement, makes me a lot more excited than I really should be.
Before lunch we drove round the town's old monastery and up into the hills to check out la silla de Felipe II, a stone chair where the old king used to go survey the building of the monastery.
But the bloke wanted to go higher into the mountains, so up we trekked, climbing stone stairs until suddenly we came across a fantastic vista point with no-one-around.
It's funny how your life can change so much from one moment to the next. One minute I was gazing out across the valley, admiring the way the sun and shade were creating borders across the forest.
The next I was almost watching my life play out in slow motion, as I turned to find the bloke gone, then looking down and realising he was kneeling before me with a little blue box in his hand.
It really was like a scene in a film. I got the shock of my life - but in the best possible way. In between shaking and crying I think I said something like "Is this really happening now?" I don't know how long it actually took me to say "yes", but I'm sure he got the message immediately by my reaction.
It wasn't until long after, until the ring was on my finger and I'd calmed down a bit that I realised we'd taken photos of the happy moment with my wrist support bandage on. So in all our memento photos I've got a megawatt smile and a bionic hand. Never mind, makes the whole thing more memorable I suppose.
The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur. I think we were both a bit shell shocked over lunch, which I spent most of just gazing at the diamond sparkler sitting there on my finger. Did I look any different? Could people tell? Of course not, but how can it be so that when something changes so much, it doesn't have any outward signs at all?
It didn't really start to sink in until much later, when we started to phone people and tell them the good news. Someday soon, we actually have to sit down and organise - and go through with - a wedding.
As I reluctantly took the ring off my finger that night and put it to bed in its little velvet lined box, I had something of an out of body feeling - like it was somebody else playing out this scenario that I've imagined so many times before.
Seven years ago I met a guy in a bar. He asked me if I wanted a shot - I said yes. We found each other then we lost each other then we found each other again. We didn't know where it would lead. But he turned out to be my rock, my best friend, and really, it couldn't have gone anywhere else.
I couldn't be any happier. And this time I know it's safe for me to say that.
We were on our way to el Escorial - a historic town about an hour away from Madrid. A day trip to somewhere new. Something which always, to the bloke's complete amusement and bemusement, makes me a lot more excited than I really should be.
Before lunch we drove round the town's old monastery and up into the hills to check out la silla de Felipe II, a stone chair where the old king used to go survey the building of the monastery.
But the bloke wanted to go higher into the mountains, so up we trekked, climbing stone stairs until suddenly we came across a fantastic vista point with no-one-around.
It's funny how your life can change so much from one moment to the next. One minute I was gazing out across the valley, admiring the way the sun and shade were creating borders across the forest.
The next I was almost watching my life play out in slow motion, as I turned to find the bloke gone, then looking down and realising he was kneeling before me with a little blue box in his hand.
It really was like a scene in a film. I got the shock of my life - but in the best possible way. In between shaking and crying I think I said something like "Is this really happening now?" I don't know how long it actually took me to say "yes", but I'm sure he got the message immediately by my reaction.
It wasn't until long after, until the ring was on my finger and I'd calmed down a bit that I realised we'd taken photos of the happy moment with my wrist support bandage on. So in all our memento photos I've got a megawatt smile and a bionic hand. Never mind, makes the whole thing more memorable I suppose.
The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur. I think we were both a bit shell shocked over lunch, which I spent most of just gazing at the diamond sparkler sitting there on my finger. Did I look any different? Could people tell? Of course not, but how can it be so that when something changes so much, it doesn't have any outward signs at all?
It didn't really start to sink in until much later, when we started to phone people and tell them the good news. Someday soon, we actually have to sit down and organise - and go through with - a wedding.
As I reluctantly took the ring off my finger that night and put it to bed in its little velvet lined box, I had something of an out of body feeling - like it was somebody else playing out this scenario that I've imagined so many times before.
Seven years ago I met a guy in a bar. He asked me if I wanted a shot - I said yes. We found each other then we lost each other then we found each other again. We didn't know where it would lead. But he turned out to be my rock, my best friend, and really, it couldn't have gone anywhere else.
I couldn't be any happier. And this time I know it's safe for me to say that.
09/08/2010
The Spanish crusaders (five drunk Spaniards)
A crash in the bathroom wrenches me from sleep. Groggy-eyed, I reach for my mobile and check out the time: 7.40am. Brilliant. "I dropped it," says the bloke - emerging from the bathroom, swaying, with pieces of the porcelain soap dish spilling from his fingers.
How the hell did he manage that? It was glued to the wall!
I groan and pull the covers over my head. This is not one of those Saturday mornings he will spring out of bed and go fishing. He's just on his way to collapse into a rum-induced coma after a night out with the Spanish crusaders.
Most people who meet my boyfriend for the first time probably don't know what to make of him. He's a bit of a strong character whose mouth moves a gear ahead of his brain. And he likes a drink or ten, after which he turns into a firing on all cylinders pub hobgoblin. But then if you think that's hard going, god you should see him when he gets together with his friends.
They're all at least five years older than him, though you'd never know it. In fact by their behavior you'd be hard pressed to pin an age on any of them. Their friendship goes back to the Eighties, when they took the bloke under their wing and let him hang about with the older kids cos he used to swap computer games with one of their gang.
The most of them are there when we rock up to el Maison del Puerto at about 10pm. I was hoping at least one other wife or girlfriend would be there, but no, it's just the boys. Oh and me. Sticking out like a sore thumb and also wearing a dress, just to make the difference even more obvious.
There's el Gordo (fatty) who "isn't allowed out that much any more" since his wife had a kid. He's not fat at all since he got seriously into rock climbing, but the name stuck like a wellie in the mud. He's like a big brother to the bloke, who always listens to his advice.
A few feet above the rest is el Largo (the Large). I've never seen a man so tall - especially a Spaniard, which I usually pip in the height department. He talks so fast that I find him impossible to understand most of the time. Though I've never spoken to him about it he has an unusual job - he is a creative responsible for coming up for ideas for TV commercials.
It's curious, I've never spoken to any of them about their careers - I don't know what most of them do. The conversation here is just not about all that 'real life' boring stuff. I do know that Luisito (little Luis) runs a bar, though. at the moment he has longish hair and a beard but I don't know how long that'll last. He's dyed his hair pink in the past, and one time he wet shaved his hair off completely for a friend's wedding. I was talking to him for ten minutes before I realized who he was.
The last one here this evening is Miguelito (little Miguel). He's obsessed with football (He's the one who took me to el Classico not that long ago).
Together they seem like a herd of characters from a Almodovar film, all trying to be heard at once, and gesticulating wildly. (Bloke says: "You have to scream to be heard in this group" and don't I know it)
Amazingly, the fist hour of the night (and perhaps more) is taken up by bitching. Bitching! like a group of old abuelas (grandmothers) About how they weren't treated right at one bar or another, how another one serves garrafon (fake alcohol) About the correct etiquette of how to treat your friends if you own a bars.
Alcohol is a reoccurring theme. Would you think it's possible to talk about whisky for 30 minutes solid? Well it is. And not only that, these boys can really put it away. i thought I'd known big drinkers in my time but nothing compares to this group. In the two or so hours we're stood having tapas the bill lists 12 beers and 24 copas.
And they're truly eye watering measures, which keep getting bigger as the night goes on. Gordo is drinking neat whisky - in the final drink at this bar his measure reaches the top of the glass.
By the time we leave El Maison the barmen are crying with laughter at the bloke's imitation of the local San Martin accent: "Que paha tio?" And Miguel is doing football-style commentary of the barmen clearing up for the evening. Everyone apart from the bloke - who amazingly quit smoking two weeks ago - is chuffing on cigars, filling the bar with acrid smoke.
Before we leave, Largo tells me in his broken English that having a baby doesn't need to change your life. You can still to go out, you can still have fun. You can still go on holiday. His girlfriend had a baby three weeks ago and he certainly still looks like he's having fun. He admits his other half is staying home with the new arrival at the moment, but assures me that as soon as she feels up to going out with her friends he'll be happy to stay in with the baby. Sounds like a fair enough deal.
At that point I leave them, going home while they head off into Pelayos to tear up the town. Definitely five men on a mission.
When the bloke gets up the next afternoon he has to ring the others to piece together the night before. At least there were no fights this time. Two weekends ago the bloke got slapped in the face after he grabbed a girl by the arm to bring her to talk to Luisito. He thought this girl had been making eyes at Luis all night. But it had been another girl - this one had a boyfriend, who did the slapping. It was all smoothed over in the end though - and for some reason the bloke hugged the guy who had slapped him. He spent the next day beating himself up over it though.
Oh and the best thing was that Luisito was oblivious to the whole thing. "That's the last time I try and help him get a girlfriend," says the bloke afterwards.
What the bloke can remember is falling straight backwards, flat on his back, Charlie Chaplin style in the middle of a bar. And no-one coming to see if he was all right afterwards, apart from Luisito. "At least you didn't spill the drinks though," Luis tells him the next day.
And they can remember jumping over the chairs in their local bar 'If', and the other "normal" people sitting outside the bar waiting for them to leave before they came in.
The bloke apparently left the bar at 6.30am but didn't get home till a good hour later. Apparently Miguelito had to talk him out of going swimming in the lake.
Poor Gordo seems to have come off the worst, though. After telling the rest of the group to take it easy he ended up in the worst state, and has hurt his hand and wrist, though doesn't know how. The next day he has to go to A&E and ends up with a plaster cast, going all the way up to his elbow.
"Oh dear," says the bloke. "I don't think we'll be seeing him out for a while." I think he could be right.
I'm amazed they've got home in one piece. And i'm even more amazed, that the next day we all meet up again to go over the night's events (with the women in tow this time) they're all sitting round sipping on tinto de veranos, and not one of them has even the a sniff of a hangover. How is that possible? how is that fair?
Must be something in the Spanish blood. Either that or they've got livers of steel.
How the hell did he manage that? It was glued to the wall!
I groan and pull the covers over my head. This is not one of those Saturday mornings he will spring out of bed and go fishing. He's just on his way to collapse into a rum-induced coma after a night out with the Spanish crusaders.
Most people who meet my boyfriend for the first time probably don't know what to make of him. He's a bit of a strong character whose mouth moves a gear ahead of his brain. And he likes a drink or ten, after which he turns into a firing on all cylinders pub hobgoblin. But then if you think that's hard going, god you should see him when he gets together with his friends.
They're all at least five years older than him, though you'd never know it. In fact by their behavior you'd be hard pressed to pin an age on any of them. Their friendship goes back to the Eighties, when they took the bloke under their wing and let him hang about with the older kids cos he used to swap computer games with one of their gang.
The most of them are there when we rock up to el Maison del Puerto at about 10pm. I was hoping at least one other wife or girlfriend would be there, but no, it's just the boys. Oh and me. Sticking out like a sore thumb and also wearing a dress, just to make the difference even more obvious.
There's el Gordo (fatty) who "isn't allowed out that much any more" since his wife had a kid. He's not fat at all since he got seriously into rock climbing, but the name stuck like a wellie in the mud. He's like a big brother to the bloke, who always listens to his advice.
A few feet above the rest is el Largo (the Large). I've never seen a man so tall - especially a Spaniard, which I usually pip in the height department. He talks so fast that I find him impossible to understand most of the time. Though I've never spoken to him about it he has an unusual job - he is a creative responsible for coming up for ideas for TV commercials.
It's curious, I've never spoken to any of them about their careers - I don't know what most of them do. The conversation here is just not about all that 'real life' boring stuff. I do know that Luisito (little Luis) runs a bar, though. at the moment he has longish hair and a beard but I don't know how long that'll last. He's dyed his hair pink in the past, and one time he wet shaved his hair off completely for a friend's wedding. I was talking to him for ten minutes before I realized who he was.
The last one here this evening is Miguelito (little Miguel). He's obsessed with football (He's the one who took me to el Classico not that long ago).
Together they seem like a herd of characters from a Almodovar film, all trying to be heard at once, and gesticulating wildly. (Bloke says: "You have to scream to be heard in this group" and don't I know it)
Amazingly, the fist hour of the night (and perhaps more) is taken up by bitching. Bitching! like a group of old abuelas (grandmothers) About how they weren't treated right at one bar or another, how another one serves garrafon (fake alcohol) About the correct etiquette of how to treat your friends if you own a bars.
Alcohol is a reoccurring theme. Would you think it's possible to talk about whisky for 30 minutes solid? Well it is. And not only that, these boys can really put it away. i thought I'd known big drinkers in my time but nothing compares to this group. In the two or so hours we're stood having tapas the bill lists 12 beers and 24 copas.
And they're truly eye watering measures, which keep getting bigger as the night goes on. Gordo is drinking neat whisky - in the final drink at this bar his measure reaches the top of the glass.
By the time we leave El Maison the barmen are crying with laughter at the bloke's imitation of the local San Martin accent: "Que paha tio?" And Miguel is doing football-style commentary of the barmen clearing up for the evening. Everyone apart from the bloke - who amazingly quit smoking two weeks ago - is chuffing on cigars, filling the bar with acrid smoke.
Before we leave, Largo tells me in his broken English that having a baby doesn't need to change your life. You can still to go out, you can still have fun. You can still go on holiday. His girlfriend had a baby three weeks ago and he certainly still looks like he's having fun. He admits his other half is staying home with the new arrival at the moment, but assures me that as soon as she feels up to going out with her friends he'll be happy to stay in with the baby. Sounds like a fair enough deal.
At that point I leave them, going home while they head off into Pelayos to tear up the town. Definitely five men on a mission.
When the bloke gets up the next afternoon he has to ring the others to piece together the night before. At least there were no fights this time. Two weekends ago the bloke got slapped in the face after he grabbed a girl by the arm to bring her to talk to Luisito. He thought this girl had been making eyes at Luis all night. But it had been another girl - this one had a boyfriend, who did the slapping. It was all smoothed over in the end though - and for some reason the bloke hugged the guy who had slapped him. He spent the next day beating himself up over it though.
Oh and the best thing was that Luisito was oblivious to the whole thing. "That's the last time I try and help him get a girlfriend," says the bloke afterwards.
What the bloke can remember is falling straight backwards, flat on his back, Charlie Chaplin style in the middle of a bar. And no-one coming to see if he was all right afterwards, apart from Luisito. "At least you didn't spill the drinks though," Luis tells him the next day.
And they can remember jumping over the chairs in their local bar 'If', and the other "normal" people sitting outside the bar waiting for them to leave before they came in.
The bloke apparently left the bar at 6.30am but didn't get home till a good hour later. Apparently Miguelito had to talk him out of going swimming in the lake.
Poor Gordo seems to have come off the worst, though. After telling the rest of the group to take it easy he ended up in the worst state, and has hurt his hand and wrist, though doesn't know how. The next day he has to go to A&E and ends up with a plaster cast, going all the way up to his elbow.
"Oh dear," says the bloke. "I don't think we'll be seeing him out for a while." I think he could be right.
I'm amazed they've got home in one piece. And i'm even more amazed, that the next day we all meet up again to go over the night's events (with the women in tow this time) they're all sitting round sipping on tinto de veranos, and not one of them has even the a sniff of a hangover. How is that possible? how is that fair?
Must be something in the Spanish blood. Either that or they've got livers of steel.
02/08/2010
Things I like part five - Daniella
With Daniella it was love at first sight. Which sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
Long before the bloke and I got back together he would send me the occasional email telling me bits about his life. And I would do the same. But of course it was only the good parts - the bits that made me sound extra fun and just that little bit wild.
After all you don't want to tell the person who once made your stomach tie up in knots (and still did a little) about your moments of self doubt. The times when you really scratched your head and looked at the years stretching off ahead, wondering where they would take you.
One of these emails came with a picture attachment. "I've got a cocker Spaniard," wrote the bloke. "Take a look at my bitch Daniella."
After I'd had a little chortle to myself about the Spaniard/Spaniel confusion I opened the attachment. The bloke's brown eyes hit me like a brick. But before I could start to dwell to much on the ghost of relationships past, I looked at what he was holding in his arms - the cutest white little dog I'd ever seen.
After I'd decided that she seemed to be smiling, I stopped to check out the bloke's messy Seventies-style kitchen. Then I started to think about who would have taken the picture. Not for one minute did I ever think that I would one day make dinner in that kitchen. That I would effectively walk right into that photo.
But I did, and Daniella was part of the bargain. All of a sudden I was part of a ready made family of three. Constantly picking white hairs off my clothes, out of my shoes, and even out of my own hair.
By rights, she should have hated me, an intruder stealing away attention. Because of me she was instantly demoted from sleeping in the bed to her own basket on the floor, and was banished from the furniture. But she didn't.
Maybe it was because I took her on nice long walks, unlike her master. Or maybe it was because I made said master happy just by being around. Or maybe it's because - for all I love her - she's really not that bright and couldn't connect my arrival to her new rules.
There were new rules for all of us, after all. I couldn't play the radio really loud in the morning - you can't really do that in a duplex apartment to your poor sleeping partner at 5.30am. He couldn't play the TV really loud till the early hours of the morning - you can't really do that in a duplex your partner who needs to get up at 5.30am.
Deep fat fried anything wasn't on my menu. Salad wasn't on his. We found a middle ground - as eventually did, both habitually and culturally I think. And Daniella was there through all of it.
I like her for this and more. How she barks in her sleep when she'd never dare do that in real life. For the way she'll bustle happily up to any living creature she finds in the street - where it's a rotweiller or an angry mangy cat. How she's so loving with the bloke's nephews, even when they pull her ears and poke her in the eyes.
There is nothing bad about my dog and all the memories I have connected with her are good ones. How many things or people can you say that about?
12/07/2010
Champions of the world! (things I like part three, football)
Does God answer prayers relating to football? And who does he answer when he's got millions of people on either side praying for the opposite thing? That's what I find myself pondering as I see the bloke pull out the St Joseph pendant necklace he got for his christening and kiss it for the thousandth time.
Please don't let them score. Please let Casillas save it. I'll be good, I'll even quit smoking, God, I swear I will. You can almost see the words forming above his head in a thought bubble.
We are in our local, bar Yuppie, watching the World Cup final. The same place we've watched el classico when it's away, yes - but back then, it seemed like a different place entirely.
I've never seen it so packed, and nearly everyone bearing something showing their allegiance to Spain. A flag painted on the face, or the full on kit from head to toe. Ramon has hung an enormous flag behind the bar, and another on the wall, underneath the giant screen which is only brought out on special occasions.
We arrived an hour early, but we weren't the first to take our seats - which we reserved after the semi final. Behind us a group of young madrileños are already chattering wildly and sporadically tooting on horns. all are wearing red, apart from one guy with a white t-shirt emblazoned with the curious slogan 'No sex, please!' His partner in crime is wearing the tiniest pair of white shorts I've ever seen and a viking hat made to look like a half football.
In front of us an elderly couple - and they must be at least in their 70s - sit down and peer around with what my dear dad would describe as 'faces like slapped arses'. They're wearing matching white Spain caps and they soon order a bottle of Moet and Chandon. Which they're soon knocking back.
On the giant screen we're seen the replaying of all the goals and are now watching the VIP guests arrive. Charleze Theron slinks past the camera flashing us a dirty look, and Morgan Freeman sits down wearing what looks like a Dutch scarf. Then the Queen of Spain and her son Felipe and his wife Letizia arrive in the VIP box with the Dutch royals Crown Prince Willem-Alexander and Princess Maxima. And they all start hugging each other.
The rowdy Madrileños shout "guapa" when the queen comes on the screen.
Through all of this the bloke is quite calm. But when Rafa Nadal appears on the screen with his face painted yellow and white his nerves crack.
"Do you think we're going to win?" he asks.
"Of course we are. Pulpo Paul has never been wrong," I assure him.
Pulpo Paul the physic octopus. Another reason why this World Cup has been the best ever. he's predicted the winning team - by choosing between two muscle-filled boxes bearing each team's flag - every time. And tonight he's picked Spain.
The bloke retreats into himself, chaining fags with the rest of the pub and swigging his rum, until the starting whistle.
"Que nervous!" he tells me. "I never felt like this before with a game of football. I got the same feeling like I get before I've got an important meeting at work or something."
Before long I start to feel sick too. every time the ball goes near Casillas I join in with the screams of "No, coño!" and every near miss down the other end makes my stomach drop an octave.
It's soon clear this is going to be a dirty, violent match. And the British ref Howard Webb seems to be not calling it right. A clear red card - a karate kick in the chest - is let off with a yellow. But maybe he just doesn't want to ruin the game by bringing the Dutch side down to ten men so early. by the end he's given out a record 14 yellow cards and one red - double the previous final record of seven.
The first half ends nil nil, and then the second drags to the end with the same result. I can't take much more of this, really. I've perfected the the downward head between knees 'i can't believe it' move and the hands raised to the top of the head 'that was so close' formation. But it's gone to extra time.
This is torture but it's brilliant. I've never cared so much about football in my life. i remember a time I could take it or leave it. But right now I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world apart from watching this match.
And just when i think I can't possibly take any more - seriously, penalties might just kill me - Torres makes a play for it and Iniesta finishes the deal. It's going in, I can't believe it. As the ball hits the back of the net the reaction is instantaneous. the whole bar erupts, the smoked filled air filling with screams of joy.
I grab the bloke and we pogo up and down. On the screen Iniesta whips off his top - something which lands him a yellow card - revealing a dedication to Dani Jarque - the Espanyol player who died of a heart attack. Then the screen shows Casillas crying like a baby, and I realize I'm crying too. So's the bloke. So are most of the people around us. Hugging each other and crying. we're into 116 minutes but in our minds we've already won it.
The final whistle blows, and there's a fresh surge of celebration. The old man with the slapped arse face is completely transformed. He's on his second bottle of Moet and is spraying it like a Formula One winner. His wife whips a Spain scarf around her head like her life depends on it. The madrileño boys are high fiving and embracing, and still crying. A group of Brits at the bar are shouting "Champinones!" (mushrooms) instead of "campeones". No one bothers to correct them.
"I wish my granddad was here to see this," says the bloke, thinking of his grandpa Antonio, who sadly died coming out of a football match. So we toast to him and all the people we know who aren't around to see this.
Somos campeones del mundo. World Cup Champions for the first time. In history. Dare I say it, but I couldn't be more happy if England had won. There are five million unemployed in Spain and the economy has gone to shit but none of that matters now. Euphoria reins, and will do for a long time to come.
It's magic. Casillas breaks down when he's being interviewed live on TV by his reporter girlfriend and gives her a kiss. the manager Vincente del Bosque says: "Esto es la leche." (this is the bollocks)
Later we make our way home to the sounds of beeping horns. When I drop into bed, emotionally and physically drained, the chant of "Yo soy Español, Español, Español," rings in my ears and I can see a sea of red and yellow even when I close my eyes.
Viva España y viva el futbol!
27/06/2010
Things I like part one - Saturday mornings, 6.15am
I feel like I've arrived as a blogger - I've been tagged in my very first meme. The idea with this one is that you write seven facts about yourself, then you tag other bloggers and set them the same task, effectively passing the meme on.
While I don't actually know if I've been around long enough to start tagging other people, I will definitely take up the challenge myself.
Thanks to the very excellent Mr London Street for tagging me. If you haven't already checked out his amazing blog, you should. Be warned though, it's addictive.
So on with the meme. As Mr LS did, I'm going to go with seven things I like. Starting with…
1) Saturday mornings, 6.15am
Every Saturday - well, almost every Saturday - the alarm goes off at 6.00am on the dot. Crazy, I know. When you've been getting up at 7.00am Monday to Friday, why would you want to drag yourself from your slumber so early on the first day of your hard earned weekend? What would be so good to justify it?
One word - fishing. Putting fake rubber worms on the end of a hook, dangling them in the water and whipping them out with the force of a juggernaught when you feel the bite. When you reel in that whopper, it's all worth it. Well, as far as the bloke is concerned, that is.
That alarm is not for me, you see. It's his early morning 'up and at em' call. The one that gets him out of the bed faster than a black bass chasing his prey. it's unbelievable. This is the man who needs nine alarms to get him out of bed on a workday for a 9.00am start. Yet 6.00am on a Saturday morning is no problem, if you throw slimy scaly water dwelling creatures into the mix.
One thing you can say for my boyfriend is that he doesn't do things by halves. If he likes something, he'll take it to the extremes. Snowboarding in Spain won't do - he instead goes to Alaska, where you've got the best runs in the world, only accessible by helicopter.
When he was into making music, he would spend hours locked away in the studio he built himself, driving himself crazy with listening to loops and sorting through a thousand different synths, searching for the perfect one.
His new mistress is fishing. And over the course of the past year, she's crept into our lives, slowly but surely bewitching my boyfriend and trying to steal him off me.
Friday evening trips to the fishing tackle shop have become a regular thing. You wouldn't believe the amount of paraphernalia - imported from America and Japan - you could fit into one room. Racks of brightly coloured-fake worms - some with glitter in them, some smelling of different fruits; a million different sized hooks and weights, little fake fish baits that look scarily real, and a million other things that i have no idea about.
And on the walls pictures of the owner Paco with various monsters he's caught during various competitions. One day the bloke hopes to have his walls filled with similar pictures, I'm sure.
Luckily the bloke has a partner in crime, my friend Sa's boyfriend Chucho. While we meet up with Two Shandies and PB for drinks at Lago, the boys go off fishing.
"I wonder if they sit and talk about you and Sa when they're together in the boat?" wonders Two Shandies.
"No, they just talk about fishing," says Sa.
"What, for seven hours straight?" asks Shandies, disbelieving. "Surely that can't be possible?"
Yes, it is. i've seen it in action. And the bloke has done his research. His bedtime reading is 101 Bass Fishing Tips. Whenever he's alone with use of the DVD player, he sticks on something that features men on boats showing you how to do drop shot or some other technique to raise your chance of success. They usually feature Kevin van Dam, the god of fishing - an American who's become a multi millionaire through fishing competitions. Some of the big tournaments have 1 million dollars prize money. The fact that i know these things troubles me.
But really, not that I mind so much. i've been on the boat with him and I can see the appeal. The sun is setting, blowing up pink and purple candy floss clouds in the sky. The lake is a rippled mirror, and it's all so peaceful.
I've even felt the thrill of hooking a big one. On my first go the bloke showed me how to cast, and pointed me in the direction of where he knew there was a a big female.
Before my hook had even hit the water, she jumped out of the water and bit down on the bait, and my rod bend double as she raced away. The bloke's eyes nearly popped out of his head. he grabbed the rod off me and wrestled the monster into the boat. She was the biggest catch of his fishing career - 3 kilos - and I had hooked her. The range of expressions on his face were comical. From pride and wonderment to extreme annoyance and jealously that his girlfriend had trumped his record.
I never much bothered with it after that. It's not like I can ever do better. I like to go out on the lake - but with the intention of sunning myself and reading a book. I certainly wouldn't leave my sleep at 6.00am on a Saturday morning - no matter how beautiful the lake looks when you're the only one there and the sun is creeping above the horizon.
So 6.15am is the time i love best. When the bloke has showered, got his fishing gear on, given me a goodbye kiss, and skipped out the door into the darkness. Not that i've seen him skip, but I'm sure that he's not far off actually doing this.
I fluff up the pillows, spread myself out in the bed, which is now all mine for the rest of the morning, and fall back to sleep. When I wake up four hours later the sun is probably shining and I can't help but feel happy with my lot in life.
While I don't actually know if I've been around long enough to start tagging other people, I will definitely take up the challenge myself.
Thanks to the very excellent Mr London Street for tagging me. If you haven't already checked out his amazing blog, you should. Be warned though, it's addictive.
So on with the meme. As Mr LS did, I'm going to go with seven things I like. Starting with…
1) Saturday mornings, 6.15am
Every Saturday - well, almost every Saturday - the alarm goes off at 6.00am on the dot. Crazy, I know. When you've been getting up at 7.00am Monday to Friday, why would you want to drag yourself from your slumber so early on the first day of your hard earned weekend? What would be so good to justify it?
One word - fishing. Putting fake rubber worms on the end of a hook, dangling them in the water and whipping them out with the force of a juggernaught when you feel the bite. When you reel in that whopper, it's all worth it. Well, as far as the bloke is concerned, that is.
That alarm is not for me, you see. It's his early morning 'up and at em' call. The one that gets him out of the bed faster than a black bass chasing his prey. it's unbelievable. This is the man who needs nine alarms to get him out of bed on a workday for a 9.00am start. Yet 6.00am on a Saturday morning is no problem, if you throw slimy scaly water dwelling creatures into the mix.
One thing you can say for my boyfriend is that he doesn't do things by halves. If he likes something, he'll take it to the extremes. Snowboarding in Spain won't do - he instead goes to Alaska, where you've got the best runs in the world, only accessible by helicopter.
When he was into making music, he would spend hours locked away in the studio he built himself, driving himself crazy with listening to loops and sorting through a thousand different synths, searching for the perfect one.
His new mistress is fishing. And over the course of the past year, she's crept into our lives, slowly but surely bewitching my boyfriend and trying to steal him off me.
Friday evening trips to the fishing tackle shop have become a regular thing. You wouldn't believe the amount of paraphernalia - imported from America and Japan - you could fit into one room. Racks of brightly coloured-fake worms - some with glitter in them, some smelling of different fruits; a million different sized hooks and weights, little fake fish baits that look scarily real, and a million other things that i have no idea about.
And on the walls pictures of the owner Paco with various monsters he's caught during various competitions. One day the bloke hopes to have his walls filled with similar pictures, I'm sure.
Luckily the bloke has a partner in crime, my friend Sa's boyfriend Chucho. While we meet up with Two Shandies and PB for drinks at Lago, the boys go off fishing.
"I wonder if they sit and talk about you and Sa when they're together in the boat?" wonders Two Shandies.
"No, they just talk about fishing," says Sa.
"What, for seven hours straight?" asks Shandies, disbelieving. "Surely that can't be possible?"
Yes, it is. i've seen it in action. And the bloke has done his research. His bedtime reading is 101 Bass Fishing Tips. Whenever he's alone with use of the DVD player, he sticks on something that features men on boats showing you how to do drop shot or some other technique to raise your chance of success. They usually feature Kevin van Dam, the god of fishing - an American who's become a multi millionaire through fishing competitions. Some of the big tournaments have 1 million dollars prize money. The fact that i know these things troubles me.
But really, not that I mind so much. i've been on the boat with him and I can see the appeal. The sun is setting, blowing up pink and purple candy floss clouds in the sky. The lake is a rippled mirror, and it's all so peaceful.
I've even felt the thrill of hooking a big one. On my first go the bloke showed me how to cast, and pointed me in the direction of where he knew there was a a big female.
Before my hook had even hit the water, she jumped out of the water and bit down on the bait, and my rod bend double as she raced away. The bloke's eyes nearly popped out of his head. he grabbed the rod off me and wrestled the monster into the boat. She was the biggest catch of his fishing career - 3 kilos - and I had hooked her. The range of expressions on his face were comical. From pride and wonderment to extreme annoyance and jealously that his girlfriend had trumped his record.
I never much bothered with it after that. It's not like I can ever do better. I like to go out on the lake - but with the intention of sunning myself and reading a book. I certainly wouldn't leave my sleep at 6.00am on a Saturday morning - no matter how beautiful the lake looks when you're the only one there and the sun is creeping above the horizon.
So 6.15am is the time i love best. When the bloke has showered, got his fishing gear on, given me a goodbye kiss, and skipped out the door into the darkness. Not that i've seen him skip, but I'm sure that he's not far off actually doing this.
I fluff up the pillows, spread myself out in the bed, which is now all mine for the rest of the morning, and fall back to sleep. When I wake up four hours later the sun is probably shining and I can't help but feel happy with my lot in life.
21/06/2010
My Spanish is better than you manners
What do you do when someone tells you your Spanish is rubbish? Well for a start, you can kiss your good mood goodbye. Wave goodbye to your nice afternoon - but keep your smile still there, plastered on your disbelieving face.
I should have seen it coming. This particular guy used to love telling me my Spanish was crap. But he hasn't for ages, at least six months, and I thought we were past all that.
But here he is, doing it again. In the aftermath of someone's birthday lunch, in front of a big group of people. Totally uncalled for. He says it once, he says it again for emphasis, and I realise everyone is looking at us, waiting to see what I'll say. No one is going to come to my rescue, tell him to shut up.
So what do you do? Say: "Hey, my Spanish might not be great, but it's better than your manners"? or "Actually I can speak OK, but big groups like this really scare me, so I tend to stay quiet and listen"? Or "How do you know, you've hardly talked to me? I spent ten hours at a party last weekend talking Spanish all the time and lots of people said it was actually getting better. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it."?
But I don't say any of that. Instead I make a joke of it. "My Spanish is fine. It's just that you don't speak it very well." And everyone laughs, including me and him. And my smile is still plastered on, though I'm glad of my sunglasses, so no one can see the pathetic tears of embarrassment and anger prickling at my eyes.
"He doesn't mean it in a bad way," says the bloke. "We're all like that in this group, we just take the piss about things we shouldn't." And I know he's right - this guy isn't trying to be nasty. He really has no idea how much it upsets me.
He's never studied another language, never lived in another country. Never had to walk the tightrope of trying to follow a group conversation of a group of tipsy friends who've known each other half their lives and half speak in their own version of Spanish. He's never lost concentration and slipped down into total confusion, desperately scrabbling to catch the threads of conversation again to pull himself back up.
The fact is that I never thought of myself as a shy person. But in my second language I can be. And it's really hard in a group of people who know each other inside out the way they all do. And someone publicly putting down my language skills doesn't help. Surely anyone would be able to see that?
Maybe not. I used to be an English teacher. I would never never ever think of critisising one of my students in class for their mistakes. What would that do, apart from make them feel down on themselves? How could someone be so cruel?
But perhaps you wouldn't realise that unless you've seen it for your own eyes. The same way that you should know that if someone doesn't understand you the first time, you should slow down your speech. Maybe use easier words. Not just repeat the same sentence at the same speed, like this guy does every time.
A bit later he overhears when I misunderstand something a girl is telling me about her telephone. He throws his hands up and says: "You see?" Like it's a perfect example of my rubbishness.
"But so, what?" says the girl. "We understood each other in the end."
The bloke jumps in to help this time: "And how's your English? I'd like to see how you get on in a big group of British people."
"My English is terrible," he says. "But I've not been living in England six years."
Then he turns to me. "It's completely normal you don't improve. You work with English people, you speak English with him. If you're only speaking Spanish in situations when you're forced to do it, it won't get better. But there comes a time when you've just got to take matters in your own hands."
I'm tired, I think. I've been here like seven hours already and I want to go home. I've had enough of all this for today. "I'm trying my best!" I tell him.
But am I really trying my best? My Spanish is improving slowly, but it's nowhere as good as it should be to say that I've been six years in Spain, and that I have a Spanish boyfriend.
I don't take classes anymore, and though I've even blogged about my intentions to Speak Spanish with the bloke, I've even failed in doing that. I don't read books in Spanish like my friend Two Shandies does. What am i really doing apart from speaking it on a needs must basis?
I came here to immerse myself, but have i really done that? I seem to still have one foot firmly planted in the English bubble. If i'm not careful I'll end up like Michael Robinson - a famous football commentator here who still confuses his tenses and articles, and has the worst accent ever, after 30 years living here.
Though I still half want to kill that friend of the bloke's, I think he might have done me a favour. Call it a massive kick up the arse, if you will.
A similar thing happened with my a-level art teacher. He told me I would never get above a c - I would never be as good as my brother. You bastard, I thought. i'll show you. So I worked my behind off. Completely went over the top and painted so much I got pains in my neck from bending over the paper, and stains under my nails that wouldn't wash out for months. Couldn't hardly carry my portfolio to school.
Sure enough I got an A. Take that you horrible man - how can you me so mean to an 18-year-old? And well, truth be known, my stuff really wasn't as good as my brother's - he had a real god given talent. But I learned then that no-one has the right to tell you you you're rubbish - you can't do something, you're not good enough. and if you set your mind to what you want you can achieve it, if you're prepared to work at it.
So this time I am going to get serious about my Spanish. And maybe one day soon this friend of the bloke's will turn to me and say, "wow, your Spanish has really improved". But you know what, I won't hold my breath. Some people only seem to notice the stuff they can make you feel small with.
I should have seen it coming. This particular guy used to love telling me my Spanish was crap. But he hasn't for ages, at least six months, and I thought we were past all that.
But here he is, doing it again. In the aftermath of someone's birthday lunch, in front of a big group of people. Totally uncalled for. He says it once, he says it again for emphasis, and I realise everyone is looking at us, waiting to see what I'll say. No one is going to come to my rescue, tell him to shut up.
So what do you do? Say: "Hey, my Spanish might not be great, but it's better than your manners"? or "Actually I can speak OK, but big groups like this really scare me, so I tend to stay quiet and listen"? Or "How do you know, you've hardly talked to me? I spent ten hours at a party last weekend talking Spanish all the time and lots of people said it was actually getting better. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it."?
But I don't say any of that. Instead I make a joke of it. "My Spanish is fine. It's just that you don't speak it very well." And everyone laughs, including me and him. And my smile is still plastered on, though I'm glad of my sunglasses, so no one can see the pathetic tears of embarrassment and anger prickling at my eyes.
"He doesn't mean it in a bad way," says the bloke. "We're all like that in this group, we just take the piss about things we shouldn't." And I know he's right - this guy isn't trying to be nasty. He really has no idea how much it upsets me.
He's never studied another language, never lived in another country. Never had to walk the tightrope of trying to follow a group conversation of a group of tipsy friends who've known each other half their lives and half speak in their own version of Spanish. He's never lost concentration and slipped down into total confusion, desperately scrabbling to catch the threads of conversation again to pull himself back up.
The fact is that I never thought of myself as a shy person. But in my second language I can be. And it's really hard in a group of people who know each other inside out the way they all do. And someone publicly putting down my language skills doesn't help. Surely anyone would be able to see that?
Maybe not. I used to be an English teacher. I would never never ever think of critisising one of my students in class for their mistakes. What would that do, apart from make them feel down on themselves? How could someone be so cruel?
But perhaps you wouldn't realise that unless you've seen it for your own eyes. The same way that you should know that if someone doesn't understand you the first time, you should slow down your speech. Maybe use easier words. Not just repeat the same sentence at the same speed, like this guy does every time.
A bit later he overhears when I misunderstand something a girl is telling me about her telephone. He throws his hands up and says: "You see?" Like it's a perfect example of my rubbishness.
"But so, what?" says the girl. "We understood each other in the end."
The bloke jumps in to help this time: "And how's your English? I'd like to see how you get on in a big group of British people."
"My English is terrible," he says. "But I've not been living in England six years."
Then he turns to me. "It's completely normal you don't improve. You work with English people, you speak English with him. If you're only speaking Spanish in situations when you're forced to do it, it won't get better. But there comes a time when you've just got to take matters in your own hands."
I'm tired, I think. I've been here like seven hours already and I want to go home. I've had enough of all this for today. "I'm trying my best!" I tell him.
But am I really trying my best? My Spanish is improving slowly, but it's nowhere as good as it should be to say that I've been six years in Spain, and that I have a Spanish boyfriend.
I don't take classes anymore, and though I've even blogged about my intentions to Speak Spanish with the bloke, I've even failed in doing that. I don't read books in Spanish like my friend Two Shandies does. What am i really doing apart from speaking it on a needs must basis?
I came here to immerse myself, but have i really done that? I seem to still have one foot firmly planted in the English bubble. If i'm not careful I'll end up like Michael Robinson - a famous football commentator here who still confuses his tenses and articles, and has the worst accent ever, after 30 years living here.
Though I still half want to kill that friend of the bloke's, I think he might have done me a favour. Call it a massive kick up the arse, if you will.
A similar thing happened with my a-level art teacher. He told me I would never get above a c - I would never be as good as my brother. You bastard, I thought. i'll show you. So I worked my behind off. Completely went over the top and painted so much I got pains in my neck from bending over the paper, and stains under my nails that wouldn't wash out for months. Couldn't hardly carry my portfolio to school.
Sure enough I got an A. Take that you horrible man - how can you me so mean to an 18-year-old? And well, truth be known, my stuff really wasn't as good as my brother's - he had a real god given talent. But I learned then that no-one has the right to tell you you you're rubbish - you can't do something, you're not good enough. and if you set your mind to what you want you can achieve it, if you're prepared to work at it.
So this time I am going to get serious about my Spanish. And maybe one day soon this friend of the bloke's will turn to me and say, "wow, your Spanish has really improved". But you know what, I won't hold my breath. Some people only seem to notice the stuff they can make you feel small with.
11/06/2010
Dead battery
"We're fucked," says the bloke. "We are so fucked." This is serious - I've only heard him say this on a handful of occasions - one being the time when we accidentally did an illegal u-turn in front of the police. Well, the u-turn itself wasn't an accident, but doing it in front of the policia certainly was.
Like adults who only swear once in a blue moon, he wheels out the phrase at the crucial moment - and I know things are not good.
He turns the key in the truck's ignition. It wheezes like an old man then dies away to nothing. Turns it again, now there's only a high pitched scream, then silence.
"We can forget about going fishing," says the bloke, glancing sadly at the pile of rods stacked up between us. Then even more forlornly at the lake, glittering invitingly through the back windows of the chevvy.
The battery is dead. We are stuck in reverse in the lane by the boathouse, meters from the shore. The afternoon turns in a matter of seconds.
All business now, the bloke whips out his phone and calls for help. But he's soon spitting curses again when it dies too – cutting him off mid sentence. "Great," he says, putting the useless phone to his forehead, as if he could bring it back to life with the power of his brain.
I pass my mobile and he begins to tap digits from memory, pure Rain Man style. That's something I've always been fascinated by. Despite problems with dyslexia as a child he has a photographic memory where numbers are concerned. He can recite the phone numbers of friends and family, without trying, even as far back as remembering his landline in London, seven years long gone.
As he talks to his brother I get out of the truck, and sit down on hot concrete to wait.
"Charlie's coming to help us," he says. "If we're lucky we can get it started, go home and swap it for the car then get back in time to still go fishing."
And then: "Will you go get me some cigs while we wait?"
It used to really annoy me, him asking me to buy him cigarettes, when he knows I hate him smoking. But he looks so stressed it doesn't even cross my mind to argue. So I grab the euro bill out of his hand and set off for "el Club"
There's maybe two hours of daylight left, but el pantano (the lake) is in fifth gear. In my head it's Madrid's beach - with a sandy shore, families lounging on towels, boats roaring up and down dragging wake-boarders behind them like children running with kites.
I can feel grains of sand already in my shoes as I go, even though I haven't been anywhere near the shore yet.
To the left there's a bare-chested man fixing the sail to the base of his windsurfing board, two little dark-haired, slack-jawed boys squatting down watching him intensely. Just behind them two tiny girls in bikinis chase each other round in circles cackling wildly.
I wonder at what their childhoods must be like, growing up with this as their playground. How wonderful to be dipped in delight on a daily basis, run barefoot through the surf before going home for tea. I can count the amount of times I went to the beach as a child on ten fingers, and though my memories are hazy, I remember wellies and raincoats to have played a starring role.
Before I can stop myself I'm playing my favourite game – the one that I stopped myself playing well before the operation, but have taken back up again now, now that i know that everything seems to be OK.
It's very simple - just looking at children and wondering if they could be ours - what would our kids look like? Would they be blonde, like the little girls tearing after each other, or dark, with deep brown eyes, like the boys, still sat watching their father with their hearts' proud eyes? Would they be shouting at each other in English, or Spanish? I can't wait to find out.
A car sweeps past and I have to look twice. It's a bright blue Mini Cooper with a Union Flag roof and wing mirrors. The guy driving it looks about as British as Antonio Banderas though. What on earth was he thinking? I'd like to drive a Spanish equivalent of the gaudy car around Durham and see what happens.
As the moving piece of Britain disappears from view my eye falls on a van emblazoned with 'DOGOKI' and 'CATOKI', which puts my mind in a spin. Is it like Karaoke for pets? But a backwards look reveals a slogan, todo que necesitas para tu mastcota (everything you need for your pet). It's nothing more than the van of a pet shop.
Up the concrete walkway, like a catwalk to pisshead-ville, is el Club, where the bloke and his brother finished up at silly 'o clock last night, playing 50 games of darts. It's straight out of the Seventies, a square mess of glass, metal and stone - decorated with ship's laterns, rope, and water skiis - with a terrace overlooking the lake. It could have been magnificent once, but now the white paint is creeping with black and green stains and the curtains are worn and patchy.
I push through the glass doors to see the bar manager Vol Damm sitting watching TV. No customers, only dust particles glistening in lines where the last of the evening sun shines through in rays.
Vol Damm jumps up to get me some change for the machine. He's a curious creature – mean face that screams 'hard as nails', tattoos and gold Nike tick earrings. He's Romanian but speaks flawless Spanish, much better than mine.
I want to ask him if his name is in fact the same as the beer we have here or if everyone is pronouncing it wrong. I want to know how he came to be running a bar here, in a comunidad in Pelayos, in the middle of nowehere.
But instead I put my money in the cigarette machine and say: "They're not for me, you know. They're for your friend," mentioning the bloke's name. Vol Damm laughs, showing a few missing front teeth. I smile back, remembering that the bloke has a sore arm from arm wrestling Vol Damm last night in a moment of madness. I consider telling him about what's happened with the truck, but decide against it, in case he feels obliged to help.
Back at the truck a crowd has gathered, each person alternating between scratching their heads and giving advice about what could be wrong. Even the guy from the boat house, who was arguing with the bloke half an hour earlier, is trying to help. There's a huge buzz of excitement when the engine revs into life suddenly, followed by a round of curses when it dies away after Charlie has disconnected the jump leads.
I sit down again to wait. The sun is sinking lower in the sky. Mums are trying to talk and bribe their ninos round to the idea of home time.
There's a tickling in my shoe, and I take it off to reveal a giant ant, slightly crushed at the bottom. I tip it out and watch it struggle around in crooked lines, several of its legs bent and useless. My stomach sinks when I realise I'm going to have to kill it. Silly thing to get sad about, it's only an ant. I eat meat, I wear leather. What's the problem? But still, as I crush it under my shoe I feel guilty. It's not moving now. Where does it go, the life?
I've barely had time to think it, when another giant ant comes along, lifts the remains of the dead one above its head like a champion weightlifter, and scuttles off. Waste not want not. Wow.
With a lion roar, the engine starts up. This time it sounds like we might be going somewhere. "Get in quick!" shouts the bloke.
The ants are immediately forgotten as I spring up - using my index fingers and thumbs like a champion sprinter - and run towards the truck. I won't tell him about them, it would sound like a silly thing to say it out loud.
But I can't stop thinking about it later, when he does finally hook that first special fish that makes all the effort worth it.
Where does the life go when it's not there any more?
Like adults who only swear once in a blue moon, he wheels out the phrase at the crucial moment - and I know things are not good.
He turns the key in the truck's ignition. It wheezes like an old man then dies away to nothing. Turns it again, now there's only a high pitched scream, then silence.
"We can forget about going fishing," says the bloke, glancing sadly at the pile of rods stacked up between us. Then even more forlornly at the lake, glittering invitingly through the back windows of the chevvy.
The battery is dead. We are stuck in reverse in the lane by the boathouse, meters from the shore. The afternoon turns in a matter of seconds.
All business now, the bloke whips out his phone and calls for help. But he's soon spitting curses again when it dies too – cutting him off mid sentence. "Great," he says, putting the useless phone to his forehead, as if he could bring it back to life with the power of his brain.
I pass my mobile and he begins to tap digits from memory, pure Rain Man style. That's something I've always been fascinated by. Despite problems with dyslexia as a child he has a photographic memory where numbers are concerned. He can recite the phone numbers of friends and family, without trying, even as far back as remembering his landline in London, seven years long gone.
As he talks to his brother I get out of the truck, and sit down on hot concrete to wait.
"Charlie's coming to help us," he says. "If we're lucky we can get it started, go home and swap it for the car then get back in time to still go fishing."
And then: "Will you go get me some cigs while we wait?"
It used to really annoy me, him asking me to buy him cigarettes, when he knows I hate him smoking. But he looks so stressed it doesn't even cross my mind to argue. So I grab the euro bill out of his hand and set off for "el Club"
There's maybe two hours of daylight left, but el pantano (the lake) is in fifth gear. In my head it's Madrid's beach - with a sandy shore, families lounging on towels, boats roaring up and down dragging wake-boarders behind them like children running with kites.
I can feel grains of sand already in my shoes as I go, even though I haven't been anywhere near the shore yet.
To the left there's a bare-chested man fixing the sail to the base of his windsurfing board, two little dark-haired, slack-jawed boys squatting down watching him intensely. Just behind them two tiny girls in bikinis chase each other round in circles cackling wildly.
I wonder at what their childhoods must be like, growing up with this as their playground. How wonderful to be dipped in delight on a daily basis, run barefoot through the surf before going home for tea. I can count the amount of times I went to the beach as a child on ten fingers, and though my memories are hazy, I remember wellies and raincoats to have played a starring role.
Before I can stop myself I'm playing my favourite game – the one that I stopped myself playing well before the operation, but have taken back up again now, now that i know that everything seems to be OK.
It's very simple - just looking at children and wondering if they could be ours - what would our kids look like? Would they be blonde, like the little girls tearing after each other, or dark, with deep brown eyes, like the boys, still sat watching their father with their hearts' proud eyes? Would they be shouting at each other in English, or Spanish? I can't wait to find out.
A car sweeps past and I have to look twice. It's a bright blue Mini Cooper with a Union Flag roof and wing mirrors. The guy driving it looks about as British as Antonio Banderas though. What on earth was he thinking? I'd like to drive a Spanish equivalent of the gaudy car around Durham and see what happens.
As the moving piece of Britain disappears from view my eye falls on a van emblazoned with 'DOGOKI' and 'CATOKI', which puts my mind in a spin. Is it like Karaoke for pets? But a backwards look reveals a slogan, todo que necesitas para tu mastcota (everything you need for your pet). It's nothing more than the van of a pet shop.
Up the concrete walkway, like a catwalk to pisshead-ville, is el Club, where the bloke and his brother finished up at silly 'o clock last night, playing 50 games of darts. It's straight out of the Seventies, a square mess of glass, metal and stone - decorated with ship's laterns, rope, and water skiis - with a terrace overlooking the lake. It could have been magnificent once, but now the white paint is creeping with black and green stains and the curtains are worn and patchy.
I push through the glass doors to see the bar manager Vol Damm sitting watching TV. No customers, only dust particles glistening in lines where the last of the evening sun shines through in rays.
Vol Damm jumps up to get me some change for the machine. He's a curious creature – mean face that screams 'hard as nails', tattoos and gold Nike tick earrings. He's Romanian but speaks flawless Spanish, much better than mine.
I want to ask him if his name is in fact the same as the beer we have here or if everyone is pronouncing it wrong. I want to know how he came to be running a bar here, in a comunidad in Pelayos, in the middle of nowehere.
But instead I put my money in the cigarette machine and say: "They're not for me, you know. They're for your friend," mentioning the bloke's name. Vol Damm laughs, showing a few missing front teeth. I smile back, remembering that the bloke has a sore arm from arm wrestling Vol Damm last night in a moment of madness. I consider telling him about what's happened with the truck, but decide against it, in case he feels obliged to help.
Back at the truck a crowd has gathered, each person alternating between scratching their heads and giving advice about what could be wrong. Even the guy from the boat house, who was arguing with the bloke half an hour earlier, is trying to help. There's a huge buzz of excitement when the engine revs into life suddenly, followed by a round of curses when it dies away after Charlie has disconnected the jump leads.
I sit down again to wait. The sun is sinking lower in the sky. Mums are trying to talk and bribe their ninos round to the idea of home time.
There's a tickling in my shoe, and I take it off to reveal a giant ant, slightly crushed at the bottom. I tip it out and watch it struggle around in crooked lines, several of its legs bent and useless. My stomach sinks when I realise I'm going to have to kill it. Silly thing to get sad about, it's only an ant. I eat meat, I wear leather. What's the problem? But still, as I crush it under my shoe I feel guilty. It's not moving now. Where does it go, the life?
I've barely had time to think it, when another giant ant comes along, lifts the remains of the dead one above its head like a champion weightlifter, and scuttles off. Waste not want not. Wow.
With a lion roar, the engine starts up. This time it sounds like we might be going somewhere. "Get in quick!" shouts the bloke.
The ants are immediately forgotten as I spring up - using my index fingers and thumbs like a champion sprinter - and run towards the truck. I won't tell him about them, it would sound like a silly thing to say it out loud.
But I can't stop thinking about it later, when he does finally hook that first special fish that makes all the effort worth it.
Where does the life go when it's not there any more?
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.
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.
25/03/2010
Surprise
The poor bloke. He gets a lot of stick from me for being no good at romantic surprises. Until this week I could think of two over the course of our relationship. 1) When he told me he was taking me to McDonalds and instead we pulled up outside our favourite Mexican, where he'd booked a table. 2) When he asked me to get him some water from the fridge and I grumblingly did so, only to find a bottle of perfume in there waiting for me where the jug of water should have been. Ten out of ten, both times.
For some men this sort of thing comes naturally. You hear about girlfriends being whisked away to Paris for the weekend on surprise trips by their significant others, who have secretly acquired their passports and even packed a suitcase of all the clothes they'll need for the trip. Surely they're embellishing the truth? Or going out with men who are secretly gay?
Anyway, I digress. Yes I berate the bloke for being crap in this area – but this week he came up trumps. It started out on the wrong foot though, when I arrived home to find an extremely grumpy bloke, peeved I was two hours later than he'd expected me to be.
We got into a stupid row about whether or not I'd in fact told him that morning, while he was in the shower and half asleep, that I would be late. But it was weirdly interrupted by him asking me to fetch him some pipas (salt-covered sunflower seeds) from the kitchen.
Not wanting further arguments I stomped off to the kitchen in a huff. But when I opened the cupboard to get the pipas my brain stopped working for a moment. I was seeing a brand new iPhone in there, but my mind just wasn't processing it.
He'd completely got me. Maybe if he'd asked me to get him a bottle of water and put it in the fridge like last time I would have twigged. But no.
An iPhone! He'd got me an iPhone – the only thing I'd been coveting for at least the past year, maybe more. As far as romantic surprises go this was the numero uno. Far more superior than jewellery, flowers or chocolates or any of that stuff. And better still, it was the third generation model, and therefore better than the one he had. I now have a better phone than my techno nerd boyfriend, oh how that must have hurt him to order. A sure sign of true love.
In my days of English teaching, a student told me that if you expect men to come up with romantic surprises, you will always be disappointed. It's just not in their nature, she said. Especially not Spanish men, who don't like to plan things, make dinner reservations, and prefer to just go with the flow. For special occasions you have to tell them exactly what you want, and most of the time if you're reasonable they'll be happy to make you happy. For celebrating Mother's Day this enterprising lady had all but given her husband a list of what she wanted – breakfast in bed, followed by an extra two hours sleep while he looked after the kids then lunch at a restaurant, which he would choose for them and book.
I liked her attitude. It was easy and everyone was happy. She was clever. (that's probably why she was a company director.) So I thought I would just take the same tack with the bloke, who has shown himself to be very romantic in other ways, but crap at surprises. But perhaps I was wrong on that last detail.
The iPhone incident has shown me that he does have it in him to catch me off guard in the most fantastic way.
For some men this sort of thing comes naturally. You hear about girlfriends being whisked away to Paris for the weekend on surprise trips by their significant others, who have secretly acquired their passports and even packed a suitcase of all the clothes they'll need for the trip. Surely they're embellishing the truth? Or going out with men who are secretly gay?
Anyway, I digress. Yes I berate the bloke for being crap in this area – but this week he came up trumps. It started out on the wrong foot though, when I arrived home to find an extremely grumpy bloke, peeved I was two hours later than he'd expected me to be.
We got into a stupid row about whether or not I'd in fact told him that morning, while he was in the shower and half asleep, that I would be late. But it was weirdly interrupted by him asking me to fetch him some pipas (salt-covered sunflower seeds) from the kitchen.
Not wanting further arguments I stomped off to the kitchen in a huff. But when I opened the cupboard to get the pipas my brain stopped working for a moment. I was seeing a brand new iPhone in there, but my mind just wasn't processing it.
He'd completely got me. Maybe if he'd asked me to get him a bottle of water and put it in the fridge like last time I would have twigged. But no.
An iPhone! He'd got me an iPhone – the only thing I'd been coveting for at least the past year, maybe more. As far as romantic surprises go this was the numero uno. Far more superior than jewellery, flowers or chocolates or any of that stuff. And better still, it was the third generation model, and therefore better than the one he had. I now have a better phone than my techno nerd boyfriend, oh how that must have hurt him to order. A sure sign of true love.
In my days of English teaching, a student told me that if you expect men to come up with romantic surprises, you will always be disappointed. It's just not in their nature, she said. Especially not Spanish men, who don't like to plan things, make dinner reservations, and prefer to just go with the flow. For special occasions you have to tell them exactly what you want, and most of the time if you're reasonable they'll be happy to make you happy. For celebrating Mother's Day this enterprising lady had all but given her husband a list of what she wanted – breakfast in bed, followed by an extra two hours sleep while he looked after the kids then lunch at a restaurant, which he would choose for them and book.
I liked her attitude. It was easy and everyone was happy. She was clever. (that's probably why she was a company director.) So I thought I would just take the same tack with the bloke, who has shown himself to be very romantic in other ways, but crap at surprises. But perhaps I was wrong on that last detail.
The iPhone incident has shown me that he does have it in him to catch me off guard in the most fantastic way.
14/02/2010
Fright Night – a Valentine’s Day date with a difference
I want to hate Valentine’s Day. I really do. Valentine’s Day, with its nazi romance-by-numbers, corny clichés and billboard naffness. I want to ignore it and coolly say: “Oh no, we don’t celebrate things like that,” when people ask what plans me and the bloke have for February 14. Every day is Valentine’s Day for us. We don’t need an excuse to be romantic, etc, etc.
But truth be known I don’t hate it. I can’t quite manage to hate it. For all it’s been commercialised to within an inch of it’s life and is just another excuse for the consumer industry to sell us more shit we don’t need, I just love the base idea of it. A day devoted to the special person in your life.
Yet when I think back to Feb 14ths gone by I can’t think of a single one that stands out from the others. But I certainly won’t have that problem about Valentine’s Day 2010, which I’m sure I (and the bloke too) will remember until we’re 80.
I’d told bloke to keep Saturday night free, as I had a surprise for him. He agreed, and proceeded to display a range of emotions for the rest of the week, from mild excitement to slight fear.
This continued, right up until five minutes before we left the house on Saturday night. “Please tell me where we’re going,” he begged. “I don’t like surprises.” Then, with a look of complete horror: “Oh my god, we’re not going to the place with the transvestites, are we? Please tell me we’re not.”
After I’d faithfully promised there were no transvestites involved, we grabbed a taxi into town, and departed on Calle San Roque. As we approached the place where we were going to spend the evening, I felt a pang of disappointment when the bloke said: “Oh I know what this is.”
But his guess: “It’s that nice Mexican place, isn’t it,” was so far off it wasn’t even in the same dimension. We walked through the door to be greeted by this sight:
“Oh my god, what the hell is this?” said the bloke, half laughing, eyes wide with shock. “What have you done?”
What I’d done was booked us into el Ultimo Mordisco (the last bite) Self titled “the most terrifying restaurant in Madrid. Twee house track Lady by Mojo was playing loudly over the soundsystem, but the CD kept skipping. Sound effects of people screaming and what sounded like Vincent Price laughing were playing over the top.
“Do you think this is going to be alright?” said the bloke nervously, trying to look everywhere at once. “What on earth are we going to find in there?”
Before he could make a run for it, We were greeted by a man wearing a maid’s costume, (ah so much for my promise of no cross dressers) wig, and huge platform shoes. He said the lady of the house, the Duquesa wanted to welcome us but she had a terrible hangover. And she was having some trouble with her daughter, who had been left at the altar.
He took us through and showed us to our seats, and left us to peruse the menu –shaped like a coffin and featuring dishes with names like Pesadilla (nightmare), Hombre Lobo (wearwolf) and Fantasma. (ghost)
The place - I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Decked out in skulls, snakes, cracked mirrors and extoplasm. Gloomy as hell, but with a clubtastic lazer system, weird electric fake crystal chandeliers and flashing mini LED trees brightening the place up.
As the bloke put it: “This whole thing is so wrong. The staff are wrong, the music is wrong, even the food is wrong. I don’t want to eat it ‘cos I’m having psychosis it’s come from a dead person. It’s like every horror film we’ve ever watched rolled into one. It’s brilliant.”
He was right. We soon got to meet the Duquesa – the maid, now in a different outfit and blonde curly poodle wig and the splitting double of the real life Duquesa de Alba – and her daughter, fully decked out in a wedding dress and corpse-like makeup. Their whole aim was to mess with your head, whether it was getting up on stage and performing a routine to a mash up of Mecano songs or telling you they’d put drugs in the sangria.
I could hardly eat my food either. My solomillo came with a frambuesa sauce that just looked like congealed blood.
The music was similarly designed to freak you out. It ranged from The Final Countdown by Europe, to some unidentifiable early Nineties techno to Thriller, with all kinds of weird noises thrown in for good measure.
To my absolute delight there was even a bingo at the end of the night. And the icing on the cake – bloke won. So we came home with the possibly the best prize I’ve ever seen up for grabs in any competition, ever – a garish looking fluffy cat toy that raps and wiggles about with a mouse hanging from it’s mouth. We spent ages making it sing when we got home and trying to figure out what it was saying, and in what language. “Filthy bitch” and “mother and father” were in there somewhere, but beyond that, it’s hard to tell.
So that was Valentine’s Day my way. Not everyone’s cup of tea, and certainly not many people’s idea of ‘romance’. But just as I thought he would, bloke loved it. And our shared love of things like that, things which are quite off key, which is one of the things I really love about our relationship.
We really are two weird peas in a weird pod.
***Click here to see the rappin' cat in action
26/01/2010
I'm leaving on a jet plane…
I got home Monday night to find a slightly sullen bloke tinkering with tunes on his computer. "Would a cup of tea cheer you up?" I asked. "No, but a game of darts and a few drinks would," came the reply. Honestly, sometimes I think he's more British than I am.
A few games later in our local bar, the wonderfully named Yuppie, and bloke had perked up slightly (yes, because he won). Good, stuff – everyone gets the Monday blues after all. But no, it was more than that, he admitted.
"You'll be gone on Wednesday, and I'm really going to miss you."
Then it hit me – god I was really going to miss him too. Sure I was looking forward to spending a week with my friends and family, but ouch, I would miss him. Not a feeling I've had to cope with for a long time.
At the start of our relationship (second time around) It was all long goodbyes and thinking of him at odd moments in the day. Madrid and Barcelona may be cities in the same country, but they might as well be on the other side of the world when you know you won't be seeing the object of your affection for a whole month.
Couples kissing on the metro make you want to spit and the sight of people holding hands in the street is almost too much to bear. Before long you even find yourself pining for your other half on those wild nights out with your mates. Then kicking yourself for being such a hopeless saddo. Such is the nature of those tricky long distance relationships.
We managed it for a year before I threw my toys out of the pram and basically said "I'm moving to Madrid whether you like it or not."
So I did. And it wasn't until then that we really got to know each other. But despite the few arguments that inevitably come when two people try and negotiate the new and strange business of living together for the first time, we pulled it off.
And four years later we are incredibly happy, and that emotion of "missing" each other is just redundant.
But here it is again. And only just slightly less painful, says the bloke, than the first time we ever said goodbye, circa 2002.
Only six months into our relationship, the first time around, and circumstances had thwarted us. He had to return to Madrid and I was going to stay in London to pursue my shiny new career as a freelance journalist. There was nothing for me in Spain, or so I thought. Three years later I changed my mind though.
As we kissed goodbye then at the departure gates, trying to hold back the tears. I somehow knew that despite our fresh and surprising declarations of love from the night before, it wouldn't work out this time around.
The distance would be too much. We had too many issues we had to sort out separately and I would have to let it go. And it was going to hurt. A lot, maybe more than it had ever hurt before. I was right.
But I also knew, as I watched him disappear through the sliding doors and out of my life, that I would see him again one day. And happily, I was right about that too.
A few games later in our local bar, the wonderfully named Yuppie, and bloke had perked up slightly (yes, because he won). Good, stuff – everyone gets the Monday blues after all. But no, it was more than that, he admitted.
"You'll be gone on Wednesday, and I'm really going to miss you."
Then it hit me – god I was really going to miss him too. Sure I was looking forward to spending a week with my friends and family, but ouch, I would miss him. Not a feeling I've had to cope with for a long time.
At the start of our relationship (second time around) It was all long goodbyes and thinking of him at odd moments in the day. Madrid and Barcelona may be cities in the same country, but they might as well be on the other side of the world when you know you won't be seeing the object of your affection for a whole month.
Couples kissing on the metro make you want to spit and the sight of people holding hands in the street is almost too much to bear. Before long you even find yourself pining for your other half on those wild nights out with your mates. Then kicking yourself for being such a hopeless saddo. Such is the nature of those tricky long distance relationships.
We managed it for a year before I threw my toys out of the pram and basically said "I'm moving to Madrid whether you like it or not."
So I did. And it wasn't until then that we really got to know each other. But despite the few arguments that inevitably come when two people try and negotiate the new and strange business of living together for the first time, we pulled it off.
And four years later we are incredibly happy, and that emotion of "missing" each other is just redundant.
But here it is again. And only just slightly less painful, says the bloke, than the first time we ever said goodbye, circa 2002.
Only six months into our relationship, the first time around, and circumstances had thwarted us. He had to return to Madrid and I was going to stay in London to pursue my shiny new career as a freelance journalist. There was nothing for me in Spain, or so I thought. Three years later I changed my mind though.
As we kissed goodbye then at the departure gates, trying to hold back the tears. I somehow knew that despite our fresh and surprising declarations of love from the night before, it wouldn't work out this time around.
The distance would be too much. We had too many issues we had to sort out separately and I would have to let it go. And it was going to hurt. A lot, maybe more than it had ever hurt before. I was right.
But I also knew, as I watched him disappear through the sliding doors and out of my life, that I would see him again one day. And happily, I was right about that too.
19/01/2010
On the wagon: dry January
I normally don't even entertain the idea of making any New Year's resolutions. Why torture yourself any more in what is without doubt, the most depressing month of the year?
But in 2010 I have. I've quit drinking for the entire month.
Why? Well, mainly just to see if I can actually do it. When I started to think about it, I tried to remember a full week that I've gone without a drink. I couldn't. As for a weekend without booze, you're probably talking 1995. Rubbish.
I've always had a reasonably healthy relationship with drink. Like everyone I got off to a bit off a rocky start at the beginning, though. White Lightning + Strawberry 20/20 = a bit of a mess.
But after the school play party, when I woke up on the floor at someone's house with only one eyebrow and a vague recollection of trying to set fire to his shower curtains, I realised drink in large quantities doesn't always make for the best night out.
And there's nothing worse than the double whammy of a clunking hangover (the taste of dead badger in your mouth, the headache elves hammering on the inside of your skull with arsenic-laden icepicks and the nausea fairy stirring up your guts) and the creeping fear of "I know I probably did something out of order last night, but I can't remember"
Just ask the bloke, who has "seen the light" twice this year already and quit drinking (after a 20-rum-a-night-special) only to be seen with a beer in his hand less than 12 hours later. Yes, I know, it's not easy.
Because I swing from feeling mildly smug about my non-drinkingness to feeling like a freak when I tell people I don't know. They look at me with pity, like I've just told them I've got a nasty disease.
And waiters and barmen don't like it. They take it as something of an insult – especially if they're trying to offer you a complimentary shot at the end of a meal. One even offered to make me a weak shandy. The owner of our local, Ramon told me my game of darts would suffer if I drank water instead of Martini (he was right though, I lost both tournaments – a personal worst for me)
A friend of mine in Durham is also having a dry January. When she announced it on facebook, friends rushed to tell her not to do it. "You won't feel any better," they told her. "You'll just feel miserable and you'll be sober" Some were scandalised that she wouldn't be drinking at their birthday celebrations. Can't you be sober and still have a good time? Do you have to be pissed to be a fun person?
I've had a few nights out straight now, and I think you CAN have a good time without the booze. Even more so in some cases, as you don't get sleepy, you can hold a conversation, and you can spring out of bed the next day, hangover free, and able to remember everything.
You probably won't spend less, though. Water costs the same as a glass of wine at most places here. But after a while, that fuzzy slightly thick feeling you get in the mornings seems to disappear.
And after a certain point in the night you may find friends start to repeat themselves or just annoy you. Yes you are just like that when you're pissed.
Mind you, to stay off the sauce, you've got to find your substitute drink. Too much orange juice and you'll want to vomit. And you can't drink coke all night. Well, you can, but you end up wired on caffeine and addicted to that instead of booze.
In the end I started drinking sparkling water with lime juice, on the advice of my mate Rew, who has been off the juice for some time.
It was a good tip. If you suspend disbelief slightly it's just like you're drinking a nice vodka lime and soda. Almost.
But in 2010 I have. I've quit drinking for the entire month.
Why? Well, mainly just to see if I can actually do it. When I started to think about it, I tried to remember a full week that I've gone without a drink. I couldn't. As for a weekend without booze, you're probably talking 1995. Rubbish.
I've always had a reasonably healthy relationship with drink. Like everyone I got off to a bit off a rocky start at the beginning, though. White Lightning + Strawberry 20/20 = a bit of a mess.
But after the school play party, when I woke up on the floor at someone's house with only one eyebrow and a vague recollection of trying to set fire to his shower curtains, I realised drink in large quantities doesn't always make for the best night out.
And there's nothing worse than the double whammy of a clunking hangover (the taste of dead badger in your mouth, the headache elves hammering on the inside of your skull with arsenic-laden icepicks and the nausea fairy stirring up your guts) and the creeping fear of "I know I probably did something out of order last night, but I can't remember"
Just ask the bloke, who has "seen the light" twice this year already and quit drinking (after a 20-rum-a-night-special) only to be seen with a beer in his hand less than 12 hours later. Yes, I know, it's not easy.
Because I swing from feeling mildly smug about my non-drinkingness to feeling like a freak when I tell people I don't know. They look at me with pity, like I've just told them I've got a nasty disease.
And waiters and barmen don't like it. They take it as something of an insult – especially if they're trying to offer you a complimentary shot at the end of a meal. One even offered to make me a weak shandy. The owner of our local, Ramon told me my game of darts would suffer if I drank water instead of Martini (he was right though, I lost both tournaments – a personal worst for me)
A friend of mine in Durham is also having a dry January. When she announced it on facebook, friends rushed to tell her not to do it. "You won't feel any better," they told her. "You'll just feel miserable and you'll be sober" Some were scandalised that she wouldn't be drinking at their birthday celebrations. Can't you be sober and still have a good time? Do you have to be pissed to be a fun person?
I've had a few nights out straight now, and I think you CAN have a good time without the booze. Even more so in some cases, as you don't get sleepy, you can hold a conversation, and you can spring out of bed the next day, hangover free, and able to remember everything.
You probably won't spend less, though. Water costs the same as a glass of wine at most places here. But after a while, that fuzzy slightly thick feeling you get in the mornings seems to disappear.
And after a certain point in the night you may find friends start to repeat themselves or just annoy you. Yes you are just like that when you're pissed.
Mind you, to stay off the sauce, you've got to find your substitute drink. Too much orange juice and you'll want to vomit. And you can't drink coke all night. Well, you can, but you end up wired on caffeine and addicted to that instead of booze.
In the end I started drinking sparkling water with lime juice, on the advice of my mate Rew, who has been off the juice for some time.
It was a good tip. If you suspend disbelief slightly it's just like you're drinking a nice vodka lime and soda. Almost.
07/01/2010
Sick chef
Jan 5th, Reyes night. When Los Reyes Magos (the magic kings – ie the three wise men) bring presents to all the good kids of Spain.
Honestly, this beardy trio completely kicks Papa Noel’s arse. The whole evening’s news programmes are devoted to tracking them. They’ve arrived in Sevilla, they’ve been spotted in Barcelona, and we must all be good and go to bed early and they might just leave us what we’ve asked for in the morning.
Well what did they bring me? A bucketful of germs. It finally happened, I got ill. So while I could hear the children from next door through the wall doing the riverdance and screeching and hyperventilating, I was on the couch with a duvet. Spaced out from Frenadol.
The annoying thing about it is that I’m not very ill, just mildly ill. I feel slightly sick and weak, my throat feels like it’s been lightly rubbed with sandpaper and I have a pansy strength headache right in the middle of my skull.
But I’m not burning with fever, coughing my spleen up or bunged up with mucus. If you look closely you wouldn’t even know.
It’s bloody annoying. I never get ill – the last time I can remember feeling anything other than tip top (not counting hangovers) is May last year. And no matter how many oranges I eat I can’t shift it.
One good thing has come out of it though – I’ve discovered the bloke can cook. And well! Wonders never cease. He’s taken pity on me and relieved me of chef duty. He even made me a cup of tea.
And on the first night left me speechless by whipping up some delicious Carabineros a la plancha (bigger than a prawns, smaller than a lobster – no word exists for them in English) and an apple and goat’s cheese salad. He even made the sauce by burning up some sugar and vinegar. Wow.
I did have a giggle to myself when he asked me where the square pan was though. “What, the one we left behind when we moved house in 2007?” I guess it has been quite a long time since he got busy in the kitchen.
Honestly, this beardy trio completely kicks Papa Noel’s arse. The whole evening’s news programmes are devoted to tracking them. They’ve arrived in Sevilla, they’ve been spotted in Barcelona, and we must all be good and go to bed early and they might just leave us what we’ve asked for in the morning.
Well what did they bring me? A bucketful of germs. It finally happened, I got ill. So while I could hear the children from next door through the wall doing the riverdance and screeching and hyperventilating, I was on the couch with a duvet. Spaced out from Frenadol.
The annoying thing about it is that I’m not very ill, just mildly ill. I feel slightly sick and weak, my throat feels like it’s been lightly rubbed with sandpaper and I have a pansy strength headache right in the middle of my skull.
But I’m not burning with fever, coughing my spleen up or bunged up with mucus. If you look closely you wouldn’t even know.
It’s bloody annoying. I never get ill – the last time I can remember feeling anything other than tip top (not counting hangovers) is May last year. And no matter how many oranges I eat I can’t shift it.
One good thing has come out of it though – I’ve discovered the bloke can cook. And well! Wonders never cease. He’s taken pity on me and relieved me of chef duty. He even made me a cup of tea.
And on the first night left me speechless by whipping up some delicious Carabineros a la plancha (bigger than a prawns, smaller than a lobster – no word exists for them in English) and an apple and goat’s cheese salad. He even made the sauce by burning up some sugar and vinegar. Wow.
I did have a giggle to myself when he asked me where the square pan was though. “What, the one we left behind when we moved house in 2007?” I guess it has been quite a long time since he got busy in the kitchen.
04/01/2010
NYE in Barcelona = men in wigs and makeup
We were in Barcelona. The bloke was on my left, in spandex pants, a blond Kurt Cobain wig and a t-shirt with fluorescent naked women on it. Somewhere on the right was the Director of Barcelona, resplendent in another blonde wig – long and curly, tres Dolly Parton, heaps of blue eye shadow and a garish Hawaiian shirt.
The room was a sea of wigs, fur coats, face paint, silly sunglasses, and sequins. And everyone had a cup of twelve grapes, eyes glued to the TV screen, waiting for the chimes which would see in 2010.
That was how I spent the last few moments of 2009. The Director's glam rock fancy dress party (clearly just an excuse for him to plaster his face with makeup) was in full swing.
And happily we managed to avoid watching the countdown on Telecinco, which meant I kept my vow not to watch Belen Estevan. Instead it was some over excited woman on Channel 3 whose chest was desperately trying to escape from her dress.
No matter, the chimes finally began and everyone was locked into their own grape zone. Just you and the grapes, trying to wolf down the little beggars - one for each dong - to bring good luck for the coming year.
I managed it (the secret is to pick ones the size of peas) but I wouldn't have felt too put out if not. Why? This 'ancient' tradition was apparently a marketing ploy started by some canny farmers 100 years ago when there was a surplus of uvas.
The last time I had New Year's Eve in Barcelona, my relationship with the bloke was just getting off the ground for the second time around. I still lived in Barcelona and he was visiting from Madrid.
It was an Eighties fancy dress party (what is it about the Director and the urge to dress up ridiculously?) and the first time the bloke had met my friends. Poor thing. One Spanish guy in a room full of incredibly pissed up and lairy Brits. Dressed like Superman, George Michael, various characters from Fame and even a Scouser, a la Harry Enfield.
It could have gone really wrong but no - he was totally on their wavelength. Got on amazingly with them all and the feeling was mutual. We ended up the day after sealing the deal by carrying on the celebrations in a pub in Gracia owned by a man who was the reincarnation of Salvador Dali.
Four years later and much has changed, but a lot is still the same. We've dispersed slightly (the Scouser married a lovely American gal and is now having adventures in Japan and a few others are back in England) But the friendships are as strong as ever.
And everyone remains resignedly unashamed about going out in fancy dress. To a club. Strangely, the bouncers almost didn't let us in, but repented at the last minute. The Director even got chatted up by a couple of strange men "I hope I get to kiss a lovely lady like you tonight," one said.
Meanwhile Craig, visiting from the Midlands - who looked like a cross between Pat Sharp, the count from Sesame Street and the Hitcher from the Mighty Boosh - faired a bit better. He got asked "is that your real hair" by a couple who'd bet against each other on it and had South American tourists queuing up to have their pictures taken with him on the metro ride home.
It was something of a bizarre night, but that's to be expected in Barcelona, which seems to be a catalyst for ridiculousness and excessiveness. It kicked off before we had even left, with the bloke declaring that he felt bad juju about flying, and booking us a couple of tickets for the high speed train instead. (an action which was repeated on the return journey)
Perhaps the best thing about the trip, though, was the chance to get to know the Director's new-ish girlfriend better. I went away happy that he's in good hands. Science Chick is a good match. Not only is she muy guapa, but she's super intelligent and an all-round Spanish fireball. Just what he needs.
And let's face it. Anyone who doesn't get put off when their boyfriend goes out looking like Pat Butcher's long-haired sister, getting chatted up by men in the process, must really love him.
The room was a sea of wigs, fur coats, face paint, silly sunglasses, and sequins. And everyone had a cup of twelve grapes, eyes glued to the TV screen, waiting for the chimes which would see in 2010.
That was how I spent the last few moments of 2009. The Director's glam rock fancy dress party (clearly just an excuse for him to plaster his face with makeup) was in full swing.
And happily we managed to avoid watching the countdown on Telecinco, which meant I kept my vow not to watch Belen Estevan. Instead it was some over excited woman on Channel 3 whose chest was desperately trying to escape from her dress.
No matter, the chimes finally began and everyone was locked into their own grape zone. Just you and the grapes, trying to wolf down the little beggars - one for each dong - to bring good luck for the coming year.
I managed it (the secret is to pick ones the size of peas) but I wouldn't have felt too put out if not. Why? This 'ancient' tradition was apparently a marketing ploy started by some canny farmers 100 years ago when there was a surplus of uvas.
The last time I had New Year's Eve in Barcelona, my relationship with the bloke was just getting off the ground for the second time around. I still lived in Barcelona and he was visiting from Madrid.
It was an Eighties fancy dress party (what is it about the Director and the urge to dress up ridiculously?) and the first time the bloke had met my friends. Poor thing. One Spanish guy in a room full of incredibly pissed up and lairy Brits. Dressed like Superman, George Michael, various characters from Fame and even a Scouser, a la Harry Enfield.
It could have gone really wrong but no - he was totally on their wavelength. Got on amazingly with them all and the feeling was mutual. We ended up the day after sealing the deal by carrying on the celebrations in a pub in Gracia owned by a man who was the reincarnation of Salvador Dali.
Four years later and much has changed, but a lot is still the same. We've dispersed slightly (the Scouser married a lovely American gal and is now having adventures in Japan and a few others are back in England) But the friendships are as strong as ever.
And everyone remains resignedly unashamed about going out in fancy dress. To a club. Strangely, the bouncers almost didn't let us in, but repented at the last minute. The Director even got chatted up by a couple of strange men "I hope I get to kiss a lovely lady like you tonight," one said.
Meanwhile Craig, visiting from the Midlands - who looked like a cross between Pat Sharp, the count from Sesame Street and the Hitcher from the Mighty Boosh - faired a bit better. He got asked "is that your real hair" by a couple who'd bet against each other on it and had South American tourists queuing up to have their pictures taken with him on the metro ride home.
It was something of a bizarre night, but that's to be expected in Barcelona, which seems to be a catalyst for ridiculousness and excessiveness. It kicked off before we had even left, with the bloke declaring that he felt bad juju about flying, and booking us a couple of tickets for the high speed train instead. (an action which was repeated on the return journey)
Perhaps the best thing about the trip, though, was the chance to get to know the Director's new-ish girlfriend better. I went away happy that he's in good hands. Science Chick is a good match. Not only is she muy guapa, but she's super intelligent and an all-round Spanish fireball. Just what he needs.
And let's face it. Anyone who doesn't get put off when their boyfriend goes out looking like Pat Butcher's long-haired sister, getting chatted up by men in the process, must really love him.
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