Eliza

1. For six years, War raged on between us.

2. I would never live up to her gardening standards, she knew it and despised me for it.
In spring, in summer, I would try to hide from her, cower, sneak back in at the mere flicker of net curtains - in order to avoid her heavily accented monologues about her garden and its roses, about my pile of mud and its weeds. She made me feel like a horticultural deliquent.

3. She liked her giant old lady knickers to dry out in the West London breeze; sometimes, in-between washing loads, we would get to see the sun setting on the horizon.

4. And now, people of Blogland! it is with some sadness that I must report the following: Eliza is no more. A professionally grim faced policeman knocked on our door, late at night, that week it was so cold in London, you remember? and no we didn't have any contact details for her family.

5. Eliza's giant knickers will not grace our living room view ever again. Elvis and Sid, her vicious cat, will never kick our very own Pancho's ass ever again. There will be no more heavily accented monologues about my incompetence.

6. I'm sad, because I'm projecting. Perhaps, like Eliza, one day I won't die alone in a country that isn't mine, and the police won't find any contact details.

7. Read Tieg Larsson's 'The girl with the dragon tattoo'. Really.

Not funny.

1.Blogfolk, don't you find that Christmas is just like PMT? I do.

2. Consider how it builds up, and with it a deep-seated, gut-churning anxiety; you know something is going to happen, you know the date even. You get more anxious, grumpier by the day, yet your forget why the suicidal feelings, the sudden bouts of despair, the snapping at family members and kicking of small pets. And then..

3. ..and then it's over! The tension suddenly eases. Ah, the relief. PMT, Christmas day, same thing. This year, I killed two birds with one stone; I'm exhausted.

*that'll be Pre-menstrual tension. Read your Cosmo already.

1. Blogfolks, do you know what today is? I do. It's coming back to blogging day. I won't lie to you, people of blogland: I wasn't on a total blogging hiatus; it's just that for the past year I've been involved in a specific project, which required a specific blog. Somewhere else.

2. Today, in the horror that is central London on pretty much any day, but especially when school's out, I found a phone; a posh one, with Prada written on it- because I'm not entirely labelwise, or I don't care, I first thought it was 'Pravda', like the Russian newspaper, and thought: how beautiful! a communication tool named after Truth; but no.

3. High on Good Intentions I went through the address book; I would call the owner if a home number was listed, say I'd found their phone and send it to them.

4. No home number; what to do? Ah, call someone else. Who are the friends?

5. The outbox reveals dozens of abusive text messages, complete with insults and bodily threats.

6. I'm taking the phone to Oxfam. What would you do?

Blogfolks!

I might be back, I might not. If nothing new appears within the next two weeks, this blog will be scrapped altogether.

An ordinary afternoon with my mum

-Have I told you about my colleague’s daughter?

-Mum, is it another hospital story?

-you see, they found out - she’s only 18 months old- that she had leukaemia and

-Because if it is, you know I don’t want to hear hospital stories.

-and then, she needed a bone marrow transplant and

-do you know why I don’t want to hear hospital stories, mum?

-her brother is 4 years old, can you imagine? so they did a transplant and they didn’t know if it was going to work or if

-because, remember, I’m due for a hospital stay at some point and I’m anxiety in a tube, a concentrate of worry - I don’t want to know what horrible things might ha

-and she caught one of those, those superbugs that are so easy to catch nowadays, and

-what i want to hear is that things will go fine, y’know? That hopsitals can be relied upon?

-and suddenly she was about to die, and they realised the nurse had given her ten times the necessary dose of morphine

- this, for example, does not make me feel good. Mum. Pleaa

- because nurses make mistakes! and luckily the baby pulled through but just to say, one has to be very, very vigilant.

-thanks, mum.

1. Bloglanders, I hope you're well. I am just back from baking in the Madrid heat for two weeks, made new friends, saw what I wanted to see and more, walked, sweated, ate, drank, talked and listened a lot, too. I have felt better in those weeks that I had done in a very long time. I don't think I spent longer than an hour alone at any time.

2. My apologies for the extremely crap new design, it's just that I don't have my very own web designer around at the moment, and I was here toying with the idea of just scrapping the whole thing - have you ever felt the temptation of the 'delete this blog' button? Well, I have, and I am, perhaps to just leave it, or perhaps to start afresh somewhere, I don't know yet.

3. if the cat lets me, I'll unpack then pack again; off again tomorrow. Be well!

¡Hola todos! Perhaps I won´t come back. That´s all.

Blogfolks, I've painted my bedroom walls, now I'll start thinking about what to pack as I'm about to leave London and this pitiful excuse for a summer that we're having. I'm going to Madrid again, I didn't see it very well last time. Then to France, where I'll be reading history books as a way of cutting myself off from the present. Then I'll take a train up to Scotland and try to avoid black pudding suppers. Be well!

The Chelsea flower show is for amateurs

Blogfolks, my emotional world being a rollercoaster, what do I have left but to retreat to the haven that is the Garden At the House of Y? Let me take you for a guided tour.

Careful as you step down; aaaah, here's our Chlamydia. This picture clearly doesn't do justice to its blossoms.

A little further on, let me introduce you to Laurel and Hardy, rose bushes; one is short and fat, the other, etc. Latin name : catus pissus, because it's where the cat, etc.

Of our Our neighbour on the left I can say very little, except that she often laughs, alone in her kitchen, late at night.A little like in a gothic novel, if it were not spoilt by the color and the size of her pyjama bottoms out to dry in the garden. (baby pink, 28).

On the other hand, we are well acquainted with the Neighbour on the right;, Elisa..Mostly, I am, because J cowers. I shall never even dream of reaching Eliza's gardening standards, and she knows it, and despises me for it. Eliza hailed from Naples three decades ago, and proudly displays her banner over my humble plot of land as a clear sign of domination. Sometimes, when her pants are dry, we get to see the sun.

Eliza's minion, Sid – he's probably not really called Sid, it's only what we call him because he's vicious. Sid wants us all dead, starting with our very own PanchoCat. It's just envy, really.

Blogfoks, this is all for today, because I'm either hungry or depressed; sometimes I can't tell the difference. Be well!

Blogfolks, this is what I've been doing: checking the weather forecast at regular intervals, to check things are still in limbo. Watching the weeds grow in my garden. Ignoring people, not returning phone calls, generally shrugging. Doing grammar exercises in my head like some form of mental yoga, not to keep fit, but rather to attain some kind of calm. Looking at the half-painted walls in my bedroom and not caring one bit. Playing old memories in my head. Burrying my face into my cat's furry belly until she gets pissed off and prises herself away.