Barbara O'Neill - Woman - Because We're Worth It

9
THERE GOES SUMMER...
Despite continuing bright sunshine, summer’s gone. Is this a sad thing? Of course not. Think Valencia, think sun. It’s never far away.

And with the cooler weather what better pastime than a game of Petanca. If you’ve been following this column you will know that me and himself have become aficionados. So it was, with great pleasure, that we accepted an invitation to play at our friend’s house out in the campo. This time our leader and editor and his lovely editress wife were also invited. Our friends are also journalists so we decided it would be editors against lowly-hacks, although, as I pointed out, this isn’t my only job, I’m a respected freelance writer and broadcaster – I’ve been rejected by Mills and Boon for God’s sake, so I must be good! All this bluster because I didn’t fancy the chances of my team. Competitive is just a word but I wanted a fighting chance so, on the strength of my cv, I dragged my editor over to my side, thinking he looked like a handy man with a ball. Some initial cheating and shoving went on - I’m naming no names – and it turned out that red wine and heavy metal balls are a dangerous mix. Play went into injury time – it really hurts when you drop a petanca ball on your toe, and sandy gravel is unpleasantly painful against a bare arm if you should happen to keel over when trying to measure the distance from the jack to your ball (or so I’m told). And forget trying to locate said tiny jack from the starting circle after the fourth glass, it becomes invisible – it does, it really does!

Back at apartamento O’Neill, Himself decided to trim the carob tree that stands resplendent in our courtyard. It is a large tree and, if you know anything about carobs, their branches, if not checked, can fall off and kill or maim those unfortunate enough to be sitting beneath. A vital task, then. But not as performed by Captain Dangerous. Unable to watch as he scampered up the trunk and pulled himself along the branches with his saw, I retired to my office to get on with some work. A sudden cry and I was on the scene in seconds, to find him hanging by one hand, several metres above the ground, laughing down at me. I despair.

I’m sure you’ve seen the skeleton of the building that fell down just behind the Serrano Towers and were, perhaps, inconvenienced by the blockade that meant you could not get to your home. The Police, as always, are extremely helpful when you explain your dilemma but going via Extramadura is really not an option. The only option is to take to the narrow streets of the Barrio del Carmen and find a route that, at least, brings you out somewhere near where you live, where you can park, and is not too far to walk carrying a heavy shopping bag. Huh! I have a love-hate relationship with this city.

I am a near hopeless technophobe but a special offer on an ipod and docking station, well, I’m (almost) ashamed to say a salivating greed overcame me. When the box arrived to reveal the cool black station and silver ipod with my name engraved on it, I was, well, moved, you know? Himself was impressed, I could tell. ‘Show me’, he said. And I really, really wanted to ….. and I will, once I’ve ploughed through the 624 pages of the instructions. It looks nice, though, and every so often I give it a little prod or a poke …gazing affectionately at its little screen that will one day light-up and speak to me. I’ll get there … I will …

Another consequence of the cooler conditions is the indoor dinner party. But even wintry Valencian weather is, of course, simply divine when compared with a foggy November in Blighty. Two of the ‘happen to be in your vicinity and why don’t we drop in’ task force called last week, forcing us to invite them over. Why did we used to like them in the UK? I really can’t remember. Anyway, they turned up with a ‘this weeks’ selection from Waitrose’ bottle of red wine in return for supper with four courses. I spent a fortune on ingredients, an hour pouring over a recipe and another hour in a hot kitchen preparing the food. I made wonderful little plates of nibbly-yummy things to go with an aperitif - but – and this is where doubt crept in – whilst I’m killing myself cooking, my friends are chatting and laughing and, apart from the odd ‘This is lovely, Ba.,’ pay no attention to what they’re eating and, by the time the main course has arrived - and ten minutes later it’s gone – and the remaindered pudding is just a little pool of delicious sauce, I’m at the ‘what’s the bloody point?’ stage. I find myself wanting to shout: ‘I spent hours cooking that you miserable bastards and you’ve just stuffed it down your throats with barely a thought! Good manners dictate that one cannot say any such thing, of course. I can do a good glower and sulk though… better than Nigella Lawson – and I’m slimmer. The point is, I suppose, is that we’ve become Valencians in the food sense. We think about what we eat, we enjoy it, we talk about it as we’re eating it, what went into it, what the flavours are. We finish eating and we stay at the table opening more wine or pouring a digestif, we talk some more, we play some music – Spanish eating is hog heaven, not pigs at the trough. Civilisation at last.

8
GOD'S LITTLE BAKER
The Germans and the Russians have their black bread, the Italians, foccaccia, the Indians scoff their chapattis with anything edible and the Greeks break their teeth on paximadi. The French, of course, believe there is nothing finer than a baguette; whilst I champion the humble barra. Eaten with just about every meal it is indeed the staff of life for most Spaniards. And it is consistently good. Of course, we all have our favourite panaderias, each of which produces the best barra ever eaten, somewhat like ‘my mother makes the best paella’. Which is nonsense, because I do. There are some cultures that hold bread in a reverence bordering on religion – obviously haven’t tasted Bimbo white sliced. Further, President for life Saparminat Niyazov of Turkmenistan renamed the word for bread (chorek), after his mother (Gurbansoltan Edzhe), as another of his eccentric policies. I can just hear everyone chanting ‘Pass the Gurbansoltan Edzhe, please’. Or not.

So what else has been happening in Valencia this month? Oh yes, it rained – with a deluge worthy of Tennessee Williams. Valencians, unused to water from the skies, peered up in amazement. Like Australians with snow they touched it gingerly and withdrew, cancelling appointments and keeping children from their daily lessons, lest they catch cold, or worse, get wet. And the Spanish don’t like driving in the rain (afraid of getting their tyres wet?), so the roads have been relatively traffic-free for a while.

Apartamento O’Neill has seen some frantic activity this week as I finally got round to finishing a bedspread I’ve been making since 2003. It is a magnificent piece of work made from heavy velvet in rich reds, browns and yellows, with majestic Indian elephants advancing across it - and this is where it all went to rats. Elephants regally marching from bed head to foot – good. Elephants hanging precariously by their toes along each side – not good. This, I recalled, was why it was put hastily away on that fateful day in March 2003. How had this happened? Why did I not notice? It was yet another example of ‘How difficult can it be?’. After sending to UK for more material I realised I could have bought a perfectly fine store bought bedspread for a fraction of the cost. So I tell myself it is unique and avert my eyes from the slightly crooked seams, the scarlet thread that shrieks along them because I ran out of cotton. I do not look at the missing head of elephant number three on the far side (well you try dragging a king size bedspread through a portable sewing machine and see what happens), and I remind myself that it is all my own work. Anyway, Himself was very complimentary. ‘Well done, poppet’, he said kindly. A pause. ‘What is it?’

¿HABLA ESPAÑOL?
After a year in Valencia I thought I would by now be semi-fluent. I am a hopeless fantasist. I get by – which is simply not good enough. So, I am off to lecciones in español. I think. Going to sign up at the local evening class I am asked by a sadly resigned secretary if I can speak English. ‘Ye-es,’ I say, baffled by his query but unable to ask the question needed for the correct answer. Then I must take this form, he tells me, pay in cash at this bank, bring it back with a photocopy of my residency card and come back on October 2nd where the teacher will meet me in reception. I am worried that I have now signed up for a course in Spanish for Latvians or something equally obscure. I’ll keep you posted.

This month also saw the arrival of an old boyfriend with his new partner. After a week of yelling at each other and disagreeing on just about everything I realised why our relationship hadn’t, and could never have, worked. He’s impossible. He is in Hong Kong at the moment and, having asked for some information, sent an email saying that he’ll only be available via email on an ad hoc basis. I emailed back, saying I was awaiting a reply from someone and to check his emails daily. ‘I already said that, didn’t I?!!’, he returned. I shot back: ‘YOU said ad hoc – and stop bloody shouting at me!’ I can’t believe we’re carrying on an argument across continents.

7
A BOULE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD THUNK AS SWEET
Yes, I’ve taken up Petanca. And what a satisfying game it is. Friends in the country have a Petanca pitch and invited us for a weekend. To begin, first you throw the small wooden jack ball and then everyone has to try and get the closest with the two 700g balls allotted to them and voilá, the nearest one wins. How exciting is that? I mean I’m talking straight under hand throws here, none of your over arm girlie stuff and … well, that’s about it really … but you can play as many games as you like … before exhaustion takes over … or tedium sets in … OK, what about Golf, then? A lot of people play that and seem to like it.

AS NATURE INTENDED
There is a pool on the roof of my complex. On Tuesday, innocently wandering up for a swim, I came across a naked man calmly drying himself before settling into a lounger. Forced to beat a hasty retreat before being spotted (we English, of course, never wishing to embarrass our fellow man) my mind gallops through endless scenarios, mostly involving children, I mean, suppose I had been a child and not a mature adult …. but wait, he’s not one of my mine. He’s a native. Do Spanish children suffer those excruciating spasms of fear, disgust and shock that we Brits, who have been brought up to revile nakedness, are racked with? To which even those of us who went through the horrors of the boarding school system are not exempt. Of course not. I am over-reacting. After all, it’s not as if he was old, or ugly, or misshapen, disfigured or tattooed with snakes and cockroaches. Actually, he was in his early thirties, dark, slightly curly hair, with big brown eyes, clean-shaven and kinda cute and … isn’t it amazing how much the human eye can record in only two short seconds? I wonder if he has a swim routine?

WHEN IN ROME
… enjoy the holiday month and do nothing. However, one of the problems of living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world is that people want to come and stay with you. If I had been an only child I wouldn’t now be beset with pleas from small nieces and nephews to come and stay. Particularly this year with UK weather in such flux. ‘Auntie Ba can we come and stay?’ No. ‘We won’t be any trouble.’ No. ‘You haven’t seen mummy since last September.’ We talk on the phone a lot so, no. All of this is, of course, to no avail and they come anyway. However, I have got them down to one at a time. Noah is an amazing child. What other ten year old do you know who can recite the latest Olay skincare advert, word perfect, with every nuance of the ghastly presenter. Or who knows all the words to ‘California dreamin’, ‘Hips don’t lie’ or ‘Another one bites the dust’? and can sing them in harmony. The child is not human. But what to do with children in Valencia in an often hot and humid August? Not a lot. The boating lake in the Cabacera Park is closed during the week, making me wonder if, with Valencia being known as the city that has turned its back on the sea, it has also turned its back on the tourist. The sea is so warm it is no longer refreshing to swim in at Malvarossa, El Saler or any of the small beaches close to La Pobla de Farnals. But there is the City of Arts and Sciences and there is the night dolphin show with synchronised swimmers at l’oceanografic. Beautifully done, despite the vague derision that always seems to accompany the spectacle of grown women cavorting in time to music. Noah asked for an explanation of why I thought it just a bit cheesy, which took me the best part of half an hour to extricate myself from without entirely giving in. ‘Well’, he said at last, ‘I wouldn’t have minded having my photograph taken with them afterwards.’ Mmmm.

There are also all the fiestas in the various villages with their accompanying masclétas. We dragged the poor boy out to Olocau for the midnight show of Argentinian and Mexican musicians and dancers – which we all rather enjoyed. He misses The Tomatina – thank the Lord of Small Mercies!

LAMP GENIE
You may recall that I have a longing for the art deco lamps that abound in the city. My friend Mimi has come up trumps. At the Rastro market last Sunday she spotted a most beautiful lamp in need of some care and gave it to me as a present. Never one to not say thank you nicely, I wonder what I can do in return and decide, as she lives in a city apartment, to invite her over for lunch and a swim – Tuesday would be good for me …

6
SUPER FURRY ANIMALS GO INTO FURNITURE PRODUCTION …

I wanted to tell you about a spectacular piece of overtaking that occurred between Ayuntamiento and Paz – however, my editor has threatened me with a motoring column if I so much as mention Spanish drivers ever again … so we’re left with a day in the life …

I am, I confess, a slave to that temple of bodge, Brico Depot, or Leroy Merlin, or Bricogenio – any will suffice as long as I get my fix. Thwarted in my attempt to make a bookcase (finding a piece of timber in Spain that doesn’t resemble the hind leg of a donkey is, I have come to believe, impossible) I settled on painting the courtyard furniture – this, the result of himself saying, after a particularly spectacular shopping fest at Zara: ‘Darling, we must economise’. Well, that was the gist of it. Anyway, it is common knowledge that I do not heed my own advice, particularly when I hear myself saying ‘How difficult can it be?’. This should set off very loud warning bells. But it doesn’t and it didn’t. Four cast iron chairs with rattan backs and seats and a glass topped table with cast-iron legs. I had an hour to spare …

Picture, if you will, a madwoman leaning on a chair back with her legs through the arms, paintbrush at the ready. This works perfectly well until the time comes to paint the backs of the legs where it becomes evident it can’t be done without also painting my own. This achieved (on both counts, and I don’t recommend it), stepping out of the chair becomes another hurdle – and results in thick black bars across the sides of both knees. Move to Plan B. Tip second chair on its back and paint the front surfaces but not the arms (ah, too late), then turn the chair upside down and paint the remaining surfaces being careful not to smudge the arms. Plan C. Dry your tears and blow your nose then hide the two remaining chairs in the garage and resolve to make any future guests squash up on the rattan sofa. Now I am ready to look at the table and say very positively: ‘I can do this!’ It’s just a little table. I mean, how difficult can it be?

As three hours have now passed it is time to get a beer and a bowl of crisps. It is hot and my paint has gone lumpy. I add a little more thinners and turn the table upside down to paint the inside of the legs (the table’s, that is). Turn said table upright and paint the metal rim holding the glass top in place. So far so .. ah, a splodge of paint on the glass. A splash of thinners on the end of the old bedspread I am using as a ground sheet and voilá the paint disappears. However, in the process the bedspread has dragged across the freshly painted metal rim and left a furry residue. No matter, I will sort it out later the thing is to get the job done before himself gets home. And look, I only have the outsides of the legs left to paint! In a back and forth slippy-slappy motion those legs are done in a moment (as are mine now covered in blackheady-looking spatters) but thinners will remove it I tell myself), until, that is, a playful little zephyr sent by the gods heads for my bowl of crisps and deposits several of them onto the table legs. Trying to prise brittle potato chips from black, sticky paint is doomed to failure so I dab at them with an edge of the bedspread forgetting, in my haste, that the fluff comes off. Super Furry Animals come onto the radio with ‘Hit and Run’ (how very apposite because it may come to this) and I wonder vaguely if the table might constitute a marketing opportunity? Then a wave of defeat rushes over me and I sit, disconsolately, in the chair. As I place my hands on the arms I realise that they are still wet. How can this be? It is hot and sunny … it is then that I notice the picture on the thinners can of a little girl swimming underwater in a pool. A bubble message issuing from her mouth tells me that this product is specifically for pools and rubber … I throw the beer into the hydrangeas (forgetting I’m supposed to be reviving them for Mimi), pour myself a large gin and tonic and survey the horrible mess before me. There are black speckles all over the glass table top, underneath where I can’t get to them until the paint dries. Its legs are all crispy and furry. I am covered in black metal paint that won’t come off with pooly/rubbery thinners, or nail-varnish remover. Will acetone get it off or will my skin dissolve? Not worth the chance AND we are going out to dinner… he will be home in an hour.

Human nature being what it is I run through the list of lies I might get away with: ‘This man broke in and ruined our garden furniture …’ …’It’s your fault, if you hadn’t been so mean I wouldn’t have had to go through all this…’ ‘The Black Plague has come to Valencia and I am the first victim, you mustn’t come home, darling, I’ll be all right …

This, of course, is complete nonsense and so I do the only thing possible. Shove the objects of my folly into the boot, drop them at the dump, drive like a maniac, or a Spaniard (sorry, Ed) to the garden shop, ignore the way people are staring at me, replace the furniture, buy some proper thinners, race back home, clean up, be waiting with a drink and a dazzling smile, say brightly: ‘Look I painted the furniture this afternoon’, bask in the sunshine of his smile and wonder how the hell I’m going to explain the bill …. simple.

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5
I WAS DRIVIN’ ALONG IN MY AUTOMOBILE ….
heading for the America’s Cup complex when the traffic lights turned red. Of course I stopped, refusing to play the Spanish game of how many cars can get through a red light before the oncoming traffic becomes a bit of a worry - forget danger, no-one here knows what the word means. They know where their horns are though and I was given to understand that everyone was very cross with me. As I pondered this, the lights went green and, now having robbed everyone of at least 2 minutes of their journey time, the cacophony of hooting Spaniards was deafening. I left the grid with a Lewis Hamilton spin (Fernando what is happening?) showing just what we Brits are made of – straight into a cycle lane. I don’t know how this happened but – and here’s the interesting bit – with six cyclists and an electric wagon carrying a hay bale behind me, it was assumed that I had found a shortcut, so they all toddled patiently along in my wake until I managed to extricate myself. Even the Policia at the roundabout decided not to remonstrate with me, no doubt wondering if this was a good ruse for getting to their chosen café for almuerzo the following morning. So does this give us a clear insight into the Spanish psyche? Erm, not really. They have a racehorse mentality in that they loathe being overtaken on the road; they have a healthy disdain for the rules yet will stand patiently in what passes for a queue when met with the monumental bureaucracy that permeates every walk of life here; they are charming and helpful on a one-to-one basis and yet, and yet … hmmm … I’m working on it …I will crack this … it’s only a matter of time …

COOKERY LESSONS IN EL CORTE INGLÉS
When I worked within a couple of hundred yards of Harrod’s Food Hall we referred to it as ‘the corner shop’. I feel the same about ECI. Last week, when browsing through the cheeses a man accosted me. ‘Er, do you speak English?’ he asked in a broad New Zealand accent. Here for the America’s Cup they are everywhere (half of them seem to be staying at our house) and it only took a nod and smile from me before I found myself surrounded by about fifteen grateful smiling faces. After introducing everyone to everyone thereby ensuring a party would happen later in the week we all went first to the drinks section for dry ginger for the brandy, then onto the fish for the barbie (any tips on a good marinade?), then an explanation on Spanish cheese and, finally, a charming young couple who needed to know how to cook pasta and prepare the cream sauce that her mum makes that is just delightful. The recipe for this was unhappily lacking because their laptop had ‘packed a sad’ and she couldn’t ask. Uh-huh.

OH THE GRAND OLD DUKE OF YORK …
he had ten thousand men - well, six kiwis, actually – and he marched them up to the top of the hill (in this case along Jorge Juan) and he marched them down again. Then along Cirilo Amorós, then back up and along Conde Salvatierra. But why, I hear you ask? Restaurant booked for two (it’s fabulous, the chef is divine and talented and I’m not sharing) but, with no sense of direction (it’s a woman-thing, that or my brain cells are deteriorating at an alarming rate, although it has now been proven that alcohol does not kill them off – so that’s all right), I am forced to lead my exasperated friends onward muttering ‘I know it’s here somewhere…’ The good thing is that along the way we picked up a Japanese tourist who, not paying attention had followed us instead of his own group. After a lot of bowing and smiling and asking if we would write to him he hurried off into the sunshine… Valencia, the place to meet people …

AND FINALLY did you know that when starting up a two-stroke strimmer you must not, under any circumstances, be holding a lighted cigarette and/or be talking on your mobile phone? It says so in the instructions so it must be true …. The Spanish will, of course, doubtless agree …

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4
City of Light(s) Again
Now that I have come to terms with not being able to have what I want, I can actually look at street lamps without an envy of covetousness overwhelming me – yes, really, I am that strong. Mimi has shown me the error of my ways and I have listened … however, (and I have to say this) it was her fault that I went astray in the first place. From dropping off The O’Neill (or ‘himself’ as he’s known to me) to go America’s Cupping, Mimi decided we should go to the Asian supermarket in Manuel Candela. We turned off the Calle Baleares too soon and got caught up in the maze of streets to the south. Once pretty houses, in various states of disrepair, leaned against each other with apparent content, their once bright colours now faded, their ornate balconies decorated with pots and plants – and lamps. Another Gollum moment and I see them all in my courtyard garden …. well, best not to go there now, if I can’t have them I can’t … but walk these streets and you’ll see what I mean. In fact, almost every street in Valencia has at least one example of what could be described as an art nouveau street light. What an amazing city.

After the supermarket we went off to Zara, where Mimi found a dress that she decided was so me I just had to try it on. Our intention to shed some of those michelinas has not quite happened – yet – and Spanish women are so tiny … and what law is it that allows you to get into the dress that is one size too small but not get out of it again? Having got so far, a panicked wriggling got the dress up above my head but now I was pinned at the elbows by the belt. Arms pointing at the ceiling, head swathed in folds of black material I tried every manoeuvre that Houdini had ever thought of and some, not having bosoms, he hadn’t, until I could feel the onset of hysteria. Finally, Mimi put her head round the curtain and offered assistance. Zara’s changing rooms are only meant for one person, one small person. Bent double, half in half out of the cubicle, we staggered back and forth as Mimi attempted to remove the dress. It was then that I recalled I was wearing my Bridget Jones knickers. Well, they are very useful for under trousers and … well, just and. Mimi began to laugh – always fatal – and it was a further five minutes before the dress finally relinquished itself into her hands – to leave me standing in my underwear (and those knickers) in full view of the store. Renee Zellweger I am not and the man staring at me was certainly not Colin Firth. Why wasn’t I wearing my Elle MacPherson’s? Mortification is only a word ……
but I’ve stopped waking up in the night …. remembering the look in his eyes ….

La Limpiadora
Safe at home once more, I attempted to distract myself with a little light housework. This is quite a common occurrence and I wonder if I am turning into a true Valenciana. It has long been my belief that Spanish women are born with cleaning implements attached, ones that grow with them as they gain maturity. I base this on the fact that one never sees them without either mop or broom, or those long, clothy, flagelatery things they use to clean anything that doesn’t move. It is the only explanation and I think it may be happening to me. I have begun to wear rubber gloves, just in case, taking too long to mop the floor, the handle may somehow graft itself to my fingers …

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3
Mmm …. I’m shovin’ it ….
… junk food that is, or, specifically, English food. It’s time to say goodbye. No more Marmite, baked beans, Cheddar cheese, cream crackers, Gordon’s Gin….. and we won’t mention the M word. We live in Valencia, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Its cuisine is superb, its wines legendary. Didn’t we come here to live the life? Well, didn’t we? So what’s gone wrong? Because I’ve seen you (and you know who you are) scampering down the street clutching contraband just picked up from rellies at the airport. ‘Why don’t you come out for a long weekend, sis? Bring a big case and fill it with …..’ Sound familiar? Shame on you! From now on we’re eating in the Spanish kitchen. We’re eating paella on Sunday, we’re eating fried morcilla, potato and onion, montaditos, tapas, pinchos, longanizas and snails. If I can eat escudella (made from chicken’s feet, lamb’s foot and ankle and lungs, among other delicious ingredients), so can you. I’ve looked at cattle snout with tripe, how good does that sound? I’ve made a Spanish-ish omelette. I’ve done my bit. But you….? come on, take that first step – you know you want to ….

So what’s in your cupboard I hear you ask? OK, just to set things in motion I’ll spill the beans. Yes, I have some and yes, they are Heinz and, yes, they are in my cupboard. But I don’t want you to think I’m going to eat them. Oh no, they are there to gaze at now and then, to remind me of past bad habits …the unopened Gordon’s in the kitchen, the Magnums in the freezer. It’s like a photo in an album ‘Oh, do you remember that ….?’ kind of thing. A sort of, ‘daddy loves froggy’ item and I am definitely, not, ever, going to eat them. I’m over it. I don’t need them… any more ….. I’m moving on…. now …. I am ….

Mimi and I have just joined a city gym. We thought the aquarobics class would be fun and would help us lose a few of the michelinas gained over a long, cold winter. However, there are rules. Swim caps and flip-flops must be worn. Flip-flops, OK, but swim caps? Have you seen what’s on offer? Humiliation is not just a word – and it’s certainly not for me. Surely human rights come into the issue? I don’t look good in hats, especially those of the tight rubber with flowers or small plastic animals variety. It would be a shame to have to resign before we’ve started but a complaint, nay, a stand must be made, I feel. Especially since Mimi is threatening to buy one of those lookey-likey hair ones.

After all that rain followed by sun my car looked decidedly dirty and dusty. I could, of course, have gone into the garage for a drive-thru jobby but, no, why not do-it-myself I thought? Not fortunate enough to have off-street parking, I discovered the garden hose would reach into the street. A bucket of hot soapy water, a cloth and a leather … I even discovered my husband had a jet wash attachment. How difficult could it be? Wet, that’s what it was. Why do people put themselves through this? Not yet having purchased my swim hat (and this is not definite, you understand) I put on my sou-wester. Not sufficient to keep dry, I was also forced to don Wellingtons and my husband’s swim shorts (the only item I could find that was relatively waterproof). I still got wet – and laughed at, which was hurtful. In England I would be counted as just another eccentric, here, it seems I am totally Sid and Doris. I expect I’ll get over it.

CITY LIGHTS
Next time I’ll be out and about in those lesser-known city streets – the ones we get lost in when we’re on our way to somewhere else. I have bought Mimi a special screwdriver and she will be out there with her ladder, collecting those exquisite wall lamps I’ve tagged, which are destined for my courtyard garden – well, she would be except she has refused, saying it is dishonest, illegal, unethical and … well, other things. I am extremely put out but she won’t budge and I do, grudgingly, admire her pluck, knowing how I shall make her suffer for denying me what I want. And I shall bow to her request to point them out to you (proving that I am a reasonable and sharing person) in the hope that you will admire them as much as I
do, from afar, of course. Mimi made me write that ….

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2
VEXED IN THE CITY
City drivers! And I’m not talking about cars (although it has to be said that Spanish drivers must number amongst the worst in the world in terms of impatience and lack of ruth. The trouble is they all think they are Fernando Alonso), no, I’m talking about a different set of wheels. If you read my previous column you will know that, after major surgery (well, it hurt a lot) on my foot, my friend Mimi came up with the brilliant idea of a wheelchair in the city. Since then, I have been ‘driven’ by several volunteers, and it is my strong opinion that a test should be administered before anyone is allowed onto the streets. My husband in particular, it transpires, is not fit to be in charge of an invalid. On the way to the fireworks during Fallas, he, talking with our friends as they strolled along, managed to tip me into the gutter (he had somehow lost the seatbelt), into a wall, trapped my hand in a railing and, on the way home, allowed me to be captured by revellers in a dark street somewhere off Navellos. I don’t wish to discuss it. After such an experience one would think I had had enough, but no, after our disastrous shopping expedition at the beginning of March, Mimi once again took me onto the streets. Mimi, it seems, has a masochistic streak. First, we tooled off to Zara Home where, due to an attack of bed linen gluttony and some of those charming little knicky-knacky things they do so well, I have since had to take out a second mortgage on my house. The shock of spending so much money then brought on a need for a gin and tonic. This achieved, we wove our way to Bañon where I spied a ‘must have’ wooden bowl. The fact that it was at least a metre in diameter did not deter me. Despatching Mimi to get it for me, I watched as she staggered across the shop floor, legs buckling (exaggerating, as usual) to hurl it onto my lap. A bargain at 19 euros.

Lunch at the Colón Mercado proved a little disappointing. I am not a difficult person and I do understand ‘busy’ or ‘under-staffed’ or ‘there will be a short wait’ but when a restaurant is not full and a lone waitress is flinging herself from table to table in a rather alarming manner trying to take orders, serve and settle bills all at the same time, I do feel a complaint should be made. What were the other waiters doing? They were standing at the bar arguing like demented primates, that’s what. The food was cold, sub-standard and uninviting. I shall be monitoring the restaurant and if things don’t improve I may consider naming names …. check out the restaurant guide over the coming weeks. After lunch, I began to experience a peculiar sensation in my legs. I freely admit to hypochondria. I was convinced my foot op had gone wrong, I now had gangrene in my lower limb and would have to have it amputated. A hyperventilating woman in a wheelchair is not a pretty sight – until Mimi pointed out it was the weight of the wooden bowl on my lap for the past two hours that was the cause. I told her she must use one of the Zara bags to place it in and strap it to her back somehow. She’s a good egg, Mimi. Bowl in place, she continued our tour of the city without a murmur of complaint. And I know it must have hurt – but I’d do the same for her and she knows this, I think.

FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES
I cannot leave you without at least a mention of Fallas. What an event. The spectacle never ceases to amaze, however many times you see it. The Ofrenda is as beautiful as it is emotional and an invitation to share the experience from a balcony above the Plaza de la Virgen was an opportunity not to be missed. We arrived at 10 to be greeted with fine wine and delicious food. The night was cool but not unpleasant and there were the fireworks to look forward to. Then, Anita Darling arrived – with that bag. Since our last encounter, I have developed a cunning plan. And it is this. Whilst on a lightning visit to London, I bought a fabulous coat from Chesca. I knew that Anita would covet it, as I knew it would go perfectly with her bag. BUT, and here’s the dilemma, is it she who has the coat gets the bag (I think so) or does the bag (and I don’t mean you Anita, really I don’t) get the coat? Once again, I am vexed in the city ….

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BECAUSE WE’RE WORTH IT

After a painful foot operation my good friend Mimi came up with the idea of giving me a wheelchair tour of the city. At three euros a day - I always thought she was cheap, until she explained she meant the chair - the plan was that we would shop, we would take a small gin near Ayuntamiento and watch the 2 o’clock Mascletá, we would have lunch somewhere chic and shop – a little.

The day dawned warm and sunny. The chair was black and chrome and went well with my outfit … I climbed in, we left the building (after a slight collision with the lift – the swelling has gone down now) and Mimi deftly wheeled me into the Plaza de la Virgen. Off we went at a cracking pace, leaving those not nimble enough to get out of the way in our wake. I see a new side of Mimi and experience a fleeting moment of concern. Across the Plaza we sped, into Reina taking a sharp left at Pas where, who should we bump into but Anita Darling. Always a vision of style the poor dear looked a little jaded after a marathon fest in Rome. We chatted about what I know not, my eyes glued to her handbag, a near edible confection of grainy, brown leather. I experience one of my Gollum moments and reach for it muttering ‘Oooh precious…’. Horrified, she snatches it from my grasp, her eyes full of reproach. I am ashamed but not sorry – that bag has my name on it and one day it will be mine! Er, where were we? Ah yes, on our way to Colón and El Corte Ingles. The road is clear and Mimi swerves across the pavement down the kerb and across the tarmac trusting the momentum will get us up the other side. It doesn’t. We come to a sharp halt and I find myself almost catapulted onto hands and knees, worse, my recently purchased Alinghi sunglasses are projected onto the pavement and I am reduced to shrieking at passers-by not to tread on them. Yes, I am shallow but I’m not ashamed. At the rear of ECI Mimi spots the wheelchair access and, careless of life and limb (mine), trundles me across the traffic up and down several kerbs until I feel I am in a cocktail shaker. We arrive breathless by a ramp that we see requires ropes and pitons. Mimi is not in the least fazed by this. I am tipped backwards until we are looking each other in the eye. I feel a scream rising but it’s too late. Onward and upward we go, er, backwards, er, wheel dangerously close to adjacent stairs, Mimi, aggghhh, my hand is trapped against the wall. I cling to the rail and for a moment we are stable until a young, red clad employee comes flying down the stairs to help push. Again we are on the ascent until, clearly not up to the job, she tells Mimi to take over. We begin to lose ground again – and then one of those strange coincidences occurs. Just as a man rushes down the ramp to pull us up, another gives Mimi a push from behind – except he is bigger and younger. The man ahead stumbles and I foresee us running him over, a casualty of his own good will. Shall I have to give up my wheelchair as we take him to the first aid station? I do hope not. But all is well. We reach the summit, plant our Union Flag and stagger off to get a battery for my watch, observed by our helpful employee, a suspicious glint in her eye.

We misunderstand directions and go the wrong way – several times. I decide I don’t want a battery. I’ve never liked my watch. I give it to a passing stranger and suggest we go and have a gin and tonic. But Mimi is not a quitter. ‘One last try…’ she murmurs encouragingly. The lift arrives and in we go. Seven men re-assemble themselves to line the walls. I sit before them. Wherever I look I cannot escape that my eyes are on a level with their crutches. They become aware of this and stand rigid, their hands shaking with some primeval urge to cover their masculinity. No-one speaks. The lift does not move. I want to ask if anyone has pushed the button but my Spanish deserts me. I feel the rise of hysteria and fear my nose is running with the effort to suppress inappropriate laughter - or am I dribbling? I can hear Mimi wheezing with her own demons. I cannot hold on, I need to get out – now. A lifetime seems to pass and then we are free, shrieking with unparalleled mirth, our faces cleansed of make-up, a spectacle of English madness. Limp from our exertions, Mimi declares we should go and have a facial. The girl on the l’Oreal counter is perplexed by our request to look like Jennifer Aniston or Andie Macdowell…… ‘but they’re in the adverts’ we chorus. Surely she can see the likeness? And anyway … aren’t we worth it?

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