Meatloaf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Year's resolutions - is there any point?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3) Write, write write

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

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

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

5) Expand my cooking repertoire

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

6) Get driving again

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

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

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

Day two - Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

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

Day three - Monday

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New York part one

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

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

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

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

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

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

Day one - Saturday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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.

Percebes: the strangest looking thing you thought you'd never eat

Aquí se vive muy bien. Aquí se vive muy bien (People live very well here / Life is good here.) That's what was going round and round my head like a mantra as I sat down for breakfast/lunch with the bloke at our new favourite restaurant in town.

Why? It was a Tuesday, and one of Spain's brilliant fiesta days. Which meant that normally we would be at work but instead we were sat down, ready to have a glass of ice cold Rueda and tuck into a plate of my favourite dish of all time, percebes.

I remember the first time I clapped eyes on them, when the bloke took me to Santiago two Christmases ago. I was like, ‘I’m not eating that, they look like little alien penises!’

And indeed they do – little alien troll claws that come from the sea. But once you manage to get the fleshy bit out of the ugly trunk and into your mouth there’s no going back.

They taste like the sea, all salty chewy goodness. Much better than an oyster (which however much you dress it up with lime or chilli is like gargling with snot) and minimum chance of getting sick off them as they’re actually cooked.

There are only two potential problems. One: The probability of you squirting your dining partner in the eye with percebe juice whicle you’re trying to get them open is high. (I actually did this to the bloke's madre once.) Two: They’re bloody pricey, especially now as Christmas approaches.

The price at the place we ate had been hiked up from 25 Euros per quarto to 35. We had a medio. 70 smackers. Ouch!

The reason they’re so pricey though is that it’s quite dangerous to collect them. They only grow (live? What’s the correct term here?) on the rocks where the waves break. So the percebe fisherman has to scramble in in the space between waves and get battered around in the surf. Rather them than me.

In my opinion they’ve deffo worth shelling out for, though, and they’re probably top of my list of things I thought I’d never eat or like, but do, since moving to Spain.

When I first arrived in the country I hated olives, thought jamon looked horrible and would be really put off by the sight of blood oozing out of a steak. (I think for the first year I lived in Barcelona I only ate tuna salad.)

But now I like all of the above. Hell I even suck the gunk out of prawns’ heads and eat callos (tripe, basically).I now drink coffee (after insisting I hated it for the first 25 years of my life.) And I’ll even have the occasional glass of red wine (I said I’d never drink it.)

Thank you Spain. And the bloke for making me consume alien-looking things. When it comes to what I eat I am a changed woman.