Can I have sex with you tonight?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shandies kept walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I like part four - being friends with my parents

We're sitting in el maison de puerto, the bloke and I with my parents. They look so out of place to me here - staring round the room like it's an exotic foreign place they've landed in. Which, I suppose it is.

We won't be long, just a little stop off on the way to having lunch with the bloke's parents. As he is such a regular, we're being treated like kings. Plates of tapas keep appearing at the table, which we pick at. Mum is torn. "Oh this is so lovely," she says. "We shouldn't leave it or it'll look rude… But we don't want to fill ourselves up, do we?"

Dad has no such qualms. He'll have room for everything. "This is marvelous, isn't it Margaret?" he says to my mum, between putting slices of jamon and queso manchego in his mouth. He is hypnotized by the huge sizzling plates of t-bone steaks - chuleton - being whisked out of the kitchen door and carried through to the restaurant, leaving trails of steam in their wake. Nothing impresses my dad as much as food.

At this point he turns to me, and grabs my arm. "You've made the right choice here mind pet, " he tells me, and I feel that he's talking seriously to me for the first time since they've arrived. For the first time in maybe years, actually.

"You have such a great life here. Much better than you would've had in England. We're so happy for you."

It's a sentiment that mum expresses too. Almost with a sense of relief.

"The people at the Spar supermarket always ask granddad after you," she says. "He tells them, 'Oh she'll never come back to this country. She's got it good over there'."

It makes me laugh as I can see him doing it. Walking stick in hand, and his cheeky lopsided smile - one side higher than the other.

They are both relieved, bless them. How hard must it be when one of your children is living somewhere so far away. And you don't really have a clue how they're doing. When for so many years the phone calls are few and far between and the standard answer, rolled out without much of a thought, to the question of "how are you?" was always: "fine".

Somewhere, in the golden space of time between when I left home - aged 18 - and now, my parents stopped being mythical bullet proof creatures and started being real people. I couldn't tell you exactly when I started seeing them this way – perhaps it's something that's crept up over time. More likely the thought began to take root when I began to really fully process the fact that they aren't going to be around forever.
 
And in turn, their perception of me seems to have changed. My mum is no longer incredulous with disbelief when she rings up to find I'm cooking something. There's a sense of being a co-conspirator when we launch into one of those 'oh how hopeless our men are (but we still love them)' chats. Though we were never that inseparable, 'tell each other everything' mother-and-daughter team of which everyone knows at least one, we have become equals. We have become friends.

Over the course of the weekend they're in Madrid I realise how much I enjoy their company. We have real conversations. Even dad's crappy jokes - "I was born just after the second world war - it was in all the papers" make me laugh rather than irritating like they did when I was younger. Even though he's still rolling out the same ones.

They've been married over 40 years. And though they're not the type of people to kiss or hold hands in public, it's clear to me how much they love each other. They simply couldn't function apart.

They met in a sausage factory. My dad did deliveries and my mum worked in the office. She had lots of young men asking her out, but she chose dad, and they were married when she was 23, and he was five years older.

I feel so grateful that they're still both here, and still together. And I'm beyond relieved that they love the bloke almost as much as I do, and he loves them in return.

When we have to say goodbye at the end of the weekend, something strange happens - I feel tears prickling at my eyes. That never happened before. Is this what being a proper grown up means?

"I'll miss you," I shout down the road after them. These two people who are my now my friends. Who will go home with lots of happy stories about eating baby pigs and huge slabs of meat. "I can't wait till Christmas to see you again." And I smile inside, knowing I really do mean it.

Operation

I have to have an operation. I've been told I have endometriosis. Two things I didn't expect to be writing in this blog - two things I debated over writing in such a public place.

After all, when I started writing El corte a la Inglesa I saw it as a place to post funny stories about my life in Madrid. Should I really be sharing the not funny, potentially uncomfortable stuff too?

But after much thought I decided to go ahead - after all this is all part of my life too, and writing about it might help anyone going through something similar to feel a little better.

if you don't like the sound of that, stop reading - I won't be offended. I'm sure there'll be more funny stories to be posted in the near future.

So, I'd never even heard of endometriosis a few months ago. Chances are, you haven't either. It's a condition that affects millions of women that causes cells which usually grow in the uterus to grow in other places in the abdomen.

It's very common - as common as diabetes, but no-one really talks about it, as it's a "women's problem". They don't know what causes it, and there is no cure - though there are certain things you can do to put it in remission. No-one ever died from it, therefore research into it is poor - no motivation for the big pharmaceutical companies.

I've already made big changes in my life to become more healthy living, but there's just no getting away from the fact that I need an operation - something which (in my head at least) happens to other people, not me.

I had two minor surgeries when I was a kid (not counting the three teeth I had out under general anesthetic) and at the time it all seemed like a bit of an adventure. if the adults said it was alright and it needed to be done, then that was that. I even sort of liked being on the ward, with all the nurses, and drawing pictures for all the other kids.

But of course it's different when you're an adult, saddled with all your irrational worries and fears. The most part of me knows it'll all be fine, but there's a tiny voice screaming in my ear, telling me to be afraid.

Luckily the health care in Spain is excellent, and double lucky for me that being in a foreign country, I've got the bloke and his family around me. They have been amazing - coming with me to appointments (hard to concentrate when you're flustered and it's all in your second language) and doing and saying the right things at every moment to make me feel better.

And the reaction from all of my friends has been phenomenal. So many messages of love and support, really getting me through the low moments. What would I do without them? Makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to go through this kind of thing alone.

As one friend told me - everyone has to deal with this sort of thing at some point in their life. So this is my time. I've been lucky with my health for almost 30 years - one minor blip in that time is not too bad really.

In fact, some part of me is glad this has happened as it's put things into perspective. It's made me realise how lucky I am. I knew I had a good man in my life, but it's not till now i've fully realised just how great he is. I know for certain he's in this for the long haul, and I can depend on him whatever life throws. Ditto his family, ditto my friends.

Health is such a gift, and we take it for granted. It's a smack in the face when you're told there's something wrong with you that can't just be fixed with a day in bed or a course of antibiotics. I have no idea what it must be like for people who suddenly have to deal with the fact they have a serious illness.

So, my resolutions - don't sweat the small stuff anymore. Be healthy, but also make sure I live a little. Where possible, take every opportunity that comes my way - because you never know what's round the corner. Be the first to offer support to anyone who needs it. And absolutely without fail, regularly tell my family and friends just how much they mean to me.

Role models

It's an interesting question – who are your role models? And who were your role models while you were growing up? We got onto discussing it at a work lunch while talking about the typical things potential employers ask you when you're going for a new job. It's probably something you've sat down and thought about yourself, the night before a big interview. What did you say? And did you actually mean it? Or was it just a calculated comment - something you thought sounded good, would help you get the job?

Some of us at lunch found it easy to pick people out. There were the obvious current ones – Barack and Michelle Obama, Nelson Mandella – and the obligatory joke ones – Jordan, Kerry Katona and Belen Esetvan.

Me, I find it almost impossible to see famous people or celebs as role models. At first I thought it was the job I do that's made me feel jaded towards these so called 'stars'. But If I think back, long before my days of celeb news journalism, I never looked up to these kinds of people and emulated them. Sure there are a lot of people in the public eye that do great work for charity, are leaders in their fields, are inspirational in many ways. But none of them speak directly to me. None have made me get off my arse and say "wow, I want to be like you".

As one of our team pointed out, if you're in a minority, you need role models like this because often, you don't have much else to go off. She was the only black person in her Uni, for example. But I didn't have that issue.

“But you must have had someone you looked up to while you were growing up?” I was asked.

So I thought long and hard about it. Yes there was someone - my big brother Mike.

I have two brothers. I love them both of course, but it was Mike – ten years older than me – who became my hero.

He taught me it's OK to be different, good in fact to take your own road in this life. Break away and go somewhere both literally and figuratively far away from your everyday existence.

My earliest memories of my brother are of him painting. Doing his A Level art projects. Making huge clay heads and explosions of colour, which, if I was lucky, he would let me help him name. And painting his dungeons and dragons figures. Orcs, dragons and elves. I could sit and watch him for hours. He would tell me stories about ghosts and monsters to scare me, and sometimes he succeeded. But I didn't mind. I knew then he wasn't like other brothers.

He left home to train to become a priest when I was about eight years old, but realising that wasn't for him went to Liverpool to do a Fine Art and Theology degree – becoming the first person in our family ever to go to University. From that moment on he became almost like a mythical creature to me. I would look forward to when he would come home, bringing tales from Uni and occasionally friends or maybe even a girlfriend. Other worldly creatures who were vegetarians and spoke with strange accents. He would recommend me books – as he still does today – and I would devour each one. Everything from Tolkien to Stephen King and Richard Matheson – little gems that thrilled me because they told me what he liked, and it was all dark and interesting, and I liked it too.

One thing that really sticks in my mind was the time he picked me up from my guitar lesson after school. All of a sudden there was a commotion outside the school gates as the kids – and probably some of the parents too - crowded round to stare at the strange looking man with shoulder length orange hair, a manky looking jumper and jeans covered in paint and intricate drawings. Probably the sort of person you'd see every day in Eighties' London, but certainly not in Durham. At that point my ten-year-old self thought my brother was the coolest person in the world. Truth be known I still do.

He's a man of few words, never one to blather on about pointless crap. But when he does speak it's worth listening to. When he told me "Whatever you do, get out of Durham – go see the world" I took it as my gospel. And he led by example. Working in an orphanage in Romania, then after getting his PGSE qualification, going off to Africa to teach.

If I thought the stories from Uni were amazing, the ones from Africa made them look like a quiet night down the local boozer. I laughed so hard I thought my sides would split at one in particular – about one Christmas in Botswana. Him and his girlfriend had made a Christmas cake but a monkey came in through the window and pinched it. So Mike chased it around the room, screaming at it. He scared the poor monkey so much that it started pissing itself. But it didn’t let go of the cake. So there he was, running around his house, slipping on bits of cake and monkey piss, determined to catch the monkey. A lot different to any Christmas I’d ever had.

I wanted to be able to tell those kinds of stories. I wanted to travel. I wanted to be like my brother in so many ways. He is so creative – such a great artist. Like him I took A level art and my teacher quite unkindly told me I would never be as good as my brother. I was so angry at that I worked my arse off and managed to get an A, though I never had an ounce of the talent of my brother with a paintbrush.

Instead, words became my drawing materials. Writing is my creative outlet, and it’s something I’m damn lucky to be doing as a living today. But it might have been a completely different story if my brother and his girlfriend hadn’t let me live on the living room floor of their one-bedroom apartment in London after I dropped out of my ill chosen law degree. What if I hadn’t had that six months to sort my head out? If I’d gone back to Durham I doubt I’d be sitting here now, typing in my front room in Madrid. God knows where I’d be.

So thank you big bro. You paved the way for me to go and have adventures. Because of you, our folks weren't worried when I told them I was quitting London for Ibiza. Weren't surprised when I moved onto Barcelona and then swapped that for Madrid. And neither was I afraid, and never have I regretted anything I’ve done – and I’ve got you to thank me for that. I dance to the beat of my own drum but you gave me the confidence to find my own rhythm years ago.

Be grateful

Have you ever felt completely floored by your own insensitivity? Or just wished you could grab the ill-spoken words from the air and stuff them back down your throat? Then you'll know how I felt on my first night back in London on a homecoming trip to the UK which, as it turned out, constantly reminded me to feel grateful for what I have.

I was sitting in a Japanese restaurant with my long-time best mate Munki. Without thinking about it, I complained that when I go out with the bloke, it's only ever to places which serve huge slabs of meat.

She went quiet, then told me: "I haven't been out for dinner with my man for about a year."

Tacked on to the end should have been "so count yourself lucky". She didn't say that, though, but blimey I should have thought it.

Poor Munki. Her other half has bad food allergies, so going out for dinner is a near-impossibilty. And on top of that is the fact that they haven't found anyone to move into the flat they bought – meaning they have to pay both a mortgage and rent on the place they're living now. That doesn't give you much spare cash for wining and dining really.

And there was me, sounding like a right boorish brat, saying: "Oh I'm so sick of eating steak." What a total tool. Argh.

I really have so much to be thankful for. No money worries, no mortgage… not even a car I have to finance (why bother when the public transport in Madrid's so good? Plus the fact the bloke has a car, which one of these days he's finally going to let me drive, I'm sure).

I have a man who I'm quite sickeningly in love with, and I'm pretty sure feels the same way. (Though we do both have days we want to kill each other, but doesn't everyone?)

When I was back up in Durham I met up with a school friend who's expecting a baby. She was over the moon, but mildly concerned by the fact her husband has been out of work for a year. The money issue aside, he was feeling quite down about it.

That's another thing I should be thanking my lucky stars for. I have a job I love - writing for a living (albeit writing celebrity news). Could it be that I'm starting to take everything for granted?

I certainly felt that way when I found myself comparing my life right now to the harsh upbringing of my granddad, who grew up in the 1920s as one of seven sons and two daughters, one of whom died as a baby.

He started regaling stories from when he was a lad during my visit to see him, and it just about blew my mind. There was no electricity or running water in his house – light came from kerosene lamps and water had to be fetched from one of three communal taps in the street.

There was a fire to heat every room, and the children shared beds – sometimes three a piece, top to tail.

Grandad's first job, when he was 16, was working down the pit, where men were constantly injured and got sick from breathing in coal fumes. Some even died.

"Weren't you scared?" I asked him? "Scared?" He replied? "Get away, why would I be scared?"

There was only money for the oldest child to be educated – he went on to be a school teacher – while the rest had to make do with whatever they could get. After his stint down the pit, granddad went to work in a factory, on the gruelling night shift. But he has no grievances about the way things were.

He remembers with wonder seeing the first car and the first 'washing machine', a wooden box with a metal drum and handle to turn the clothes around.

The blacksmith had that in his shed, and his mother Tomasina, a formidable woman with long golden hair she would plait and pile up onto her hair, would send him round to do the washing.

In fact she would also have him fetching the flour, butter and eggs from the shop too.

"She always picked on me," said granddad with a twinkle in his eye.

When I asked why, he replied: "She told me all them other ones, my brothers, they had cow shite for brains."

I cracked up laughing while my mum, who was also listening, said "Charming!"

"What's wrong with that?" asked granddad. "It's not swearing!"

Next time I find myself moaning at my lot I will think back to granddad, and how hard he worked to give me the chance to be where I am today. I will never have to fetch water from a tap, or wash my clothes by hand. I do not have to face injury and death on a daily basis to earn money to support myself.

If I dare to complain about silly things like going out to much to the same restaurants then clearly it's me who has cow shite for brains.