That's the holiday weekend completely ruined then

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broken bone

***Thanks to the bloke for writing this down for me through the power of dictation. Hopefully I'll be back in action soon

It was one of the most dramatic things I can remember happening when I was a child. And I can still remember the sound Carl's leg made when he smacked into the wall, scrambling over to the other side in a flurry of arms and legs. Me and his little sister Emma just stood and stared, mouths gaping, like a couple of kids watching a really good fireworks display. One minute he was running, the next he was jumping. But he didn't quite make it. His shin knew all about it.

It wasn't till he started screaming in pain that we started to run towards him. Past the wall and there he was, rolling around the floor and clutching his leg, face in a horrible grimace. Just like a football player trying to get a free kick out of the ref, but this time for real.

"Get mum. Hurry up," he instructed. So we took off running again. I was taller and faster, so Emma ate my dust. I was the one to deliver the important message: "Carl fell over trying to jump the wall up by the Spar. He's hurt his leg. He wants you to come."

By the time we'd got back there, there was already an ambulance. The man from the pizza shop had called. Looks like he's got a broken leg, they told us. We need to take him to hospital. I snuck a look inside the ambulance, at all the tubes and wires and just stuff. Wow, this is like something that only happens on telly, I thought. It was even cooler than when a boy got run over in front of our house because I actually knew Carl, and I got to see into the ambulance.

He came home much later with a plaster cast on his leg which we all signed. I wonder if I'll ever break a bone, I thought, as I drew a big swirly pattern around my name.

Well, I finally did, 20 or so years later. And what an anticlimax. There was no ride in an ambulance, no accident, no drama. I went to the hospital finally as an afterthought, five days later. A tiny bone in my wrist is broken, somewhere close to my thumb. And I'm not even sure how I did it. I think I bumped it sometime on holiday, then crunched it bending my hand too far backwards during a yoga move.

Now, with a plaster cast from my thumb to my elbow, I've entered the realm of the one-armed man. I can't do up my shoes, chop an onion, or get my metro ticket out of its plastic wallet. Typing one handed, I feel like I'm approaching carpal tunnel syndrome at the speed of light. And the plaster feels like it's slowly shrinking. Constricting round my arm like a python squeezing the life out of it's prey. I'm even too old to have anyone sign it, so where's the fun in all this?

But then again I know I'm going to get my left arm back. Not like the girl I saw at the zebra crossing. Her arm, hanging down from her sleeveless denim shirt, stopped at the elbow. As we stood on opposite sides of the road waiting to cross and go about our days, she saw me. Took in my arm in a sling, and gave me a half smile.

What was she thinking? You think you've got it bad but you haven't got a clue? Or was she wondering if I was sympathising with her because of my predicament. And how did that make her feel?

The green man appeared and she went on her way, probably forgot all about me. But I remember her sometimes when I can't manage to do the everyday things I took for granted with two working hands. What would this be like if it was permanent? I really hope I never ever find out.

Back

Some days are worse than others. That's the way it's got to be. They can't all be ten out of ten for fun. Like Christmas or the last day of the school term, the day you finally rode your bike without stabilizers, or even just one brightened with a nice detail like the delivery of a crop of new movies fresh from Amazon.

Those are the gems. But some of them are just plain crap. And nothing takes the Oscar for downright rubbishness like the first day back at work after your summer holiday.

When the alarm goes off at 7am, first you don't remember where you are. Then you do, and the dread sinks in like paintbrush colour into the water jar of despair.

This is an outrage, you think. It's still dark outside. Just a day ago at this exact moment in time, I woke up, took a piss, then went back to sleep for another four hours.

Marbella to me is heaven on earth. You go from your bed to the pool – via breakfast – then to Las Sardinales for lunch. Eating coquinas or on an extra special day Arroz con bogavante (Rice with lobster) which the bloke manages to get down his front and over half the pristine white tablecloth. All of this with the sea breeze in your face and the thick sound of the waves lapping gently on the shore.

Then it's back home for a siesta, movie, more pool action, or if you're feeling extra energetic – a trip 400 metres down the road to the beach. After the sun has set – if you're lucky making a pink and purple mess of the sky – it's either a nice dinner at home, swapping stories with the family – or one out, where you might get to try something completely new, like rabo de toro (bulls tail) And this deserves a blog all to itself!

Repeat this sequence on every day of your holiday. Does it get boring? Not for me, and not in this lifetime.

And it's all just a memory when you rip yourself from your womb-like bed come Monday morning. The clinking of glasses around a round table by candlelight. The smell of la dama de noche in the garden while you dangle your legs over the wicker furniature and loose yourself in a book. The warm soft skin of the bloke's little nephew as he gives you a hug at bedtime.

Gone gone gone.

And in the real world your morning tea is too hot, the radio too loud. Your key feels alien when you turn it to leave the house. Your beloved little dog rubs your nerves up with sandpaper when she lingers too far behind.

The bus driver's: "buenas dias" is loaded with fakeness. The air con is on too strong and everything is slightly wrong, tiled 30 degrees off centre. The final stretch of pavement to those glass double doors of the office feels like a walk towards the GCSE maths classroom.

It's all, one, big, laboured, sigh.

But really, it's not that bad is it? Well not for me anyway. I have no business complaining really.
"Welcome back," says my boss. "How was it?"
"Oh it was great. Amazing, in fact. I can't believe it's over now, though."
"Ah come on, It's hardly a big chore, is it," he says raising his palms upward and outward. "Imagine if you had to go back to England"

Mood lifts by 50 feet immediately. He's right. My "back in real life" scenario is not rain, cold, sky to floor grey concrete and a job I hate. Post holiday blues have no place in my heart or my head. I need to remember that.

Things I like part two - the Metro

Once upon a time - in what now seems like a different life - I lived in London. For five years, in fact. Considering I've now been in Spain for six, the actual time I spent in the wicked city seems so disproportionate to the importance I put on it, and the way I still look at it as one of the defining periods of my life.

I arrived thinking I'd discovered the centre of the universe. It was a big fat "hooray" with a side helping of "yippee". I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, ever. Yet five years later I crawled away on my hands and knees.

One of the many things I was pleased to see the back of was the Tube. Something which seemed so cool and sophisticated when I first staggered off the train from Durham - "Wow, it runs every two minutes?" - but soon started to turn into the annoying friend who you think has got your back, but is actually - via a series of clever put downs - slowly eroding your self confidence.

It's zombie central in the morning. You try to avoid eye contact, and keep your face out of dangerously close armpits. If it's rush hour you're packed in like sardines, and it's so small you can almost feel the rounded walls closing in on you. Is that guy deliberately brushing up against you? should you say something and risk getting stabbed?

If you do manage to fight your way to one of the scratchy, carpeted seats - you have trouble trying not to think about the story which details what was found by a group of scientists when they took one of the seats away to be analyzed.

The blood of 10 different people, urine of as many, ditto sperm. Oh and two dead rats. It might be an urban myth, but it's something nice to think about when you accidentally touch the carpet.

Oh yeah, and that's not counting the nutters, the alkies, the flashers you might be lucky enough to meet, either on the trains themselves or in a semi-deserted station near the end of the line. and don't even get me started on the people who try to get on the train as soon as the doors open, before you've even got off. Is it any wonder you want to kill that posh bird who tells you to "please mind the gap between the station and the platform"?

So what's different about the Metro, you may ask. Surely the Metro has the potential for all of the above things. (Apart from the carpet filth, that is - the seats are made of plastic.)

And yes, perhaps it does. Perhaps I'm just lucky that I don't travel at rush hour. And maybe I've just been lucky in avoiding the gropers and nutters. But I genuinely like the Madrid metro. Would even, at the risk of being called a saddo, admit to being a bit proud of it.

It's so spacious and clean. No dust. No litter. impossible to play 'spot the rat' here. Not even the sniff of a mouse (though i did once see a boy with a hamster on his head). Yes there are beggars and buskers, but they're not in your face. Some play the pan pipes, one old guy even sells his poems.

And it's so cheap. 46 Euros for an abono - your monthly travelcard. I have no idea how much they are in London these days, but I'm guessing they're not that cheap (even with this new fangled Oyster card thing).

Far from busying themselves looking at the floor, people on the Metro openly stare at each other. It's something you'll soon find yourself joining in with. Whatever my obsession of the moment is, i find myself checking it out on other people. If i hate my toenails, i'll check out other people's manicures. I'm thinking of changing my hairstyle, so i'l look at all the other barnets in the carriage, and give them marks out of ten. I'll look over people's shoulders and read their book with them, their revision notes, the minutes from their meeting. Everything is public property on the metro, as far as the eyes are concerned.

The thieves would take it further, though - to them, your possessions are also up for grabs. And in fact i've had my wallet lifted, but not even that put me off. In fact, the security guards saw the theft happen and apprehended the robbing little cabron before he could leave the station. I got my wallet and all its contents returned to me. When does that ever happen?

But really, why do I like the Metro so much? Perhaps if i really sit and think about it, it has much to do with where it takes me. In the morning it delivers me to a job I love. In the evenings it drops me off to a home where I am genuinely happy or to see my friends, always so full of fun. Could it be the contented thoughts have just filtered back in a pavlovian way?

Moving on and staying put

As I've said before, living in Spain, you're used to saying goodbye. There aren't many who come here with the intention of putting down permanent roots. You'd think that after a while you'd get used to it, but you don’t – you still get that little sad flower pushing up shoots through the soil of your happy everyday existence.

This week I had to say goodbye to my longest-standing and closest work friend, Rachel – a girl I've seen almost every working day, (bar holidays and sick days of course) over the last nearly three years. And now suddenly I won't see her anymore.

She'll still be working for our company, in the London office. But it just won’t be the same. I’ll miss sharing the morning cup of tea with her, I’ll miss moaning about work and will have to just keep it to myself when I find something really interesting or gross when I'm scouring the papers first thing in the morning. Most of all I'll just miss her.

It's hard to pin point the moment when your work colleagues pass the point of just being someone you see every day and move into the happy territory of being your friend. But somewhere along the way, many of them just do.

Being outside of England, and working with Brits means you feel bonded together – the group of away fans sat in the home seats - more than people in your average office would. You have immediate shared ground. you go from lamenting the loss of pickled onion Monster Munch to moaning about amount of red tape there is when you want to do something like renewing your passport.

But all the time you're all just patting yourselves on the back for managing to live in Spain. All of it gives you a sense of togetherness.

And on top of this, in our office, we've lived some shared experiences we won't ever forget. I know I’ve cried on Rachel’s shoulder a few times, and she's returned the favour. We both started around the same time, though all of that is in the past now.

At her leaving lunch we were each theorising about what our next moves would be. One girl is toying with the idea of going home to do an MA, one says she feels things have to change for her and her German husband and their two kids, and she's fighting the idea that sooner or later they'll end up leaving.

Me, this is it for me now. This is my home, full stop. And much though I once thought that would scare me, it doesn't. When I first left England I had ideas of going to live in South America. To teach English in Japan maybe for a good few years. And while I might visit those places now I know I won't live in them.

Madrid is where I've put down roots. I've got my bloke - whose family are now my family - my lovely friends, and even my little dog Dani. And one day, hopefully sooner than later, I'll start my own family here.

It's not so much that 'this is it', but rather that 'this is my happily ever after'.