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.

Cushion

1. At first it's exciting being an expat, of course, because it's a zillion times better than just leaving home, and you learn the codes of this country you picked, and you get used to being a foreigner; perhaps you even like it, because it gives you things to compare (where-I-come-from-we-do-this-so-much-better) reasons to bitch (deeply-ingrained-xenophobia-lalalala) and an accent to cultivate.

2. The hardest times come with the phone calls, somebody has died, grandparent, brother, friend. It's hard being far away, and easier too, because you're cushioned from the reality of what's just happened, of what's happening. And the practicalities, they're excellent for extra cushioning :I can't possibly go, not now, I can't leave work, and anyway ryanair will never have seats left for tonight/tomorrow, so the logistics of flying over there take precedence. I can't/won't have to face that grief.

3. actually I don't even think I want to talk about it so I'll sign off here, blogfolks. Don't let your friends and relatives near tall bridges, ok?

1. My excuse for not doing something is usually that I'm lazy, but this time, Blogfolks, it's just that I've been very busy.

2. I went to Madrid for two weeks, you see. In my decision to love most things about the country whose language I'm learning, I'd decided to love its capital city.

3. What's there not to love? It's as famous for its nighlife as I'm notorious within my circle of friends for my hatred of clubbing. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought of a lush breakfast, and the food in Madrid is rather shit. Friendly staff in a café in the morning can make my day, and Madrileños aren't exactly famed for their great sense of service. I rented a shithole of a flat (precious little light, not much more hot water, a flamenco-loving overweight upstairs neighbour) with two strangers and found classes to go to; then I proceeded to elect my favourites out of the 300 000 bars of Madrid.

4. In Spain they say that a bar can be judged from the quantity of crap on its floor. The more crap, the better that bar will be. Because in Spanish bars you eat with your drink, there are olive stones to spit out (onto the floor), gambas shells to drop (onto the floor), and various bits and pieces and morsels and crumbs, too.

5. Number one favourite: Cañas y tapas (off calle mayor): the nice cross-eyed waiter plied me with enough tapas with my beer at lunch that I wasn't even too drunk for my afternoon class.

6. To sever myself from a two week-diet of beer, tortilla española and coffee, tonight I went to the chip shop. I'm just a b ig, fried potato.

7. I have more to say, but I'm really too lazy. Hope you're well!

Bloggente, I've been in Madrid for two weeks and I might come back to Blighty tomorrow

If what they say is true and we are indeed what we eat, then I am turning into one gigantic tortilla espanola.

I'll tell you about the rest when I'm back. Be well!

The Practice Easter Egg season has started again in the House of Y.

Every year around the end of January, J sits me down for a serious chat – mostly to remind me that

1. Easter is just round the corner.
2. When it comes to chocolate, it’s not Quality, it’s Quantity.
3. to make sure he gets to live his Easter Experience to the fullest, he needs, in chronological order:

a. a Practice Egg about three (3) weeks prior to the actual event.

b. A second egg just to make sure he is getting it right.
c. Another practice egg purchased by me to show my support in his endeavour.
d. The Proper Easter Egg (again , hint: quantity, not quality)
e. Any other egg I might be receiving in the course of my professional activity (I've been known to come home with seven)
f. The post- Easter egg(s), on sale at Woolworth’s.

Yesterday at sainsberries', you could get 3 crap eggs for a measly £3.75! You should have seen the glint in his eyes.

March, I think

Hello, blogfolks, do you know what day it is today? I do. It's freezing and geeting hailed on day. It's also give up all plans about going into town day, because of Sudden Grumpiness. It's also Wear a Wooly Hat at Home day; because I won't turn the heating on before 7pm. I don't want to talk to anybody, nor do anything constructive or useful, so I might book myself a flight to Madrid instead. Hope you're well.

1. It started like this: I've been trying to find something to write with, and it got me thinking:

2. Blogfolks, do you know what the STASI used to do to break people psychologically? This : they would break into their house, remove one type of household items, then leave without trace. Sponges; lightbulbs. Something. A week or so later, they would break in again, remove some other item. Spoons. Then disappear without trace. And finally, a week later, one last time, shoe laces, or corkscrews. They knew that by then the house owners , no matter how close, no matter how trusting, would have turned against each other and started to disintegrate. Of course that could work because no-one in East Germany knew that that's what their police was up to. Clever, huh?

3. I really wonder where the biros go in this house.

I think I have finally broken up with my shrink so I poured myself a glass of wine, and I've been crying into it ever since.

It's not that I don't want to go anymore. I tell him I can't afford it any longer, which is the truth, but not the whole truth.

Fifteen Things I do not like, in no particular order and just because I feel some bile coming up

1. The anxious feeling I get when, sat on the top deck of the bus, I hear a gaggle/herd of screeching teenagers come up the stairs. It's a mixture of intense, armpit-moistening annoyance, and fear; I'm not impressed with myself about the fear aspect.
   
   2. Blue mascara. On other people, since I would not touch the stuff unless they paid me. Sometimes My Own Mother wears it and this feels me with Horror. Ensues a Serious Talk (from me to her) reminding her of all the people we don't like who also wear it and why we don't want to be like them.
   
   3. Waking up every morning, unfailingly, at 4.40. Then waking up again at 5.011, which is too close to 6 for me to fall back to sleep properly.
   
   4. Not getting over what my dentist once said to me: today, you've had more work done that I ever had in my entire life. I had to make him repeat to make sure I'd heard it right. What??
   
   5. Scrabble.
   
   6.Beige. Navy blue. Bottle green. Maroon. As well as pastel colours on adults.
   
   7. People who don't return what I lent them. Books, DVDs, socks. I just don't understand.
   
   8. Seeing children, especially girls, wearing uncomfortable clothes. Frilly pink frocks. To me, it only confirms that some parents have the worst reasons for having children in the first place.
   
   9. Parents screaming at their offsprings in public. Because when they do it in private, I'm not there to see it. Clearly.
   
   10. Loud little boys with hair shaved down to a 1 wearing football shirts. It makes me very very sad.
   
   11. Yappy little dogs and usually their owners. Which is unfair. It's not the dogs' fault if they look like retarded rats owned by bipeds who really want fluffy toys.
   
   12. The fact that Spam and corned beef did not disappear after the end of Rationing. And the fact that it's all that some people can afford to eat.

   13. Trifle, cucumber sandwiches, fish paste for sandwiches, cheese and onion crisps – those monuments of British culinary tradition.

   14. Being patronised. Being told something I already know.

   15. Long nails on hands or even worse, on feet.

Shrinking, in more ways than one

Blogfolks, it feels like I'm disappearing, and not just because yesterday I bought a skirt one size smaller than I usually need. In so many ways I'm disappearing: because I was tempted to lie and write 'trousers' because skirts are what my job requires and I can't condone that and that is swallowing me. I'm disappearing because for the past month I haven't been eating my normal amount, hence the dropping a size. In a perverse way, I celebrate this by looking in the mirror several times a day. Hello, size 10 ass, I hadn't seen you in a few years. I'm disappearing on this blog, because all I post about is not eating and the odd comments are about how good mash is. What? Perhaps disappearing too the same way i am with this therapist I have, trying to break up but he won't let me, saying I am not taking responsibility for ending this process, and I get annoyed because it's true, and just not going anymore will be disappearing, too. I'm disappearing from friends' lives because I don't want to do what they do or have fun and they don't want to know about that. I'm disappearing from my relationship with my girlfriend because she's busy and rightly so, and I'm not very good at being her girlfriend anyway, because I'm shrinking.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself, just looking at things and realising what's happening: spending time vicariously – Ugly Betty is really very good, I saw all 16 episodes- and I had to put down 'Traité d'athéologie' because I feel dumb. Today I listened to a friend tell me about her sex stories, and asking for advice, and I couldn't admit I didn't care. I like to blame it on winter but perhaps there is in me a mechanism, do you know? I've come to care very little about what is not little.

I don't know why, blogfolks, but i'm interestingly hight tonight, and I can't explain that by the mash potato diet I've been on for the past three weeks. Oh no.

Still.

I just wanted to say:

I love my favourite J, housemate and best friend extraordinaire, because when watches Question Time on TV, he feels empathy for the Members Of The Public (the ones on the panel which is meant to throw questions at politicians) who can't get a sentence right and end up embarrassiong themselves. Yup, empathy;instead of feeling superior and confident that he would do a better job.

I love my Special Lady Friend because when I suggest she comes over tomorrow night, she always says yes like she means it. Yay!

I love the vet, because the new flea product she sold me (for which I'll have to sell my first new born, I think) got the cat high, which is always entertaining; and killed off the fleas, too. I've been busy picking them off my bed.

That's all I wanted to say. Look at me, all full of love. And mash potato. Be well, don't let February get you down.

Blogfolk, I'm being up to my neck in things I can't relate on here, because they're too important, so I might make myself scarce on here for a while. Just because I can't multitask too well.

Be well!

This should really be an Ode to my blender

1. Ah, blogfolks, do you kow what I have been doing with my time? I do. I have been devising creative ways of producing healthy, yet tasty meals that I won't have to chew, because chew I cannot do without feeling like I've been hit in the teeth with a sack full of pebbles. At this moment in time, there are four categories of foodstuff in my world: 1. edible because liquid 2 edible because puréed or mashed, but who in their right mind would want a cup of fish? 3. edible with a copious amount of work and an interesting element of pain 4. torturous or impossible. Most foodstuff including the Best Things in the world fall neatly into category 4 and will remain there for a while, methinks.

2. When I'm not planning, swallowing or digesting mash, or maybe also when I'm doing all of those things, I am becoming addicted to a Spanish TV series that, should it be in English or French, I would never dream of watching sober. Looks like my brain as well as my chewing ability are on standby. I have watched two episodes today and all this vicarious living is starting to make me hungry.

3. Other plans include taking my Special lady Friend to France for a day, mostly so that she can have a nice lunch and perhaps stock up on pâtisseries, whilst I can order for her then mostly watch her eat.

4. Tonight, I let the cat out at night for the first time ever. I feel like an anxious parent whose 15 year old daughter has gone out on her first date. Yes, I'll be waiting up. There are foxes around, and they're not wearing braces.

5. Be well!

J's infallible guide to getting a free dinner, tip #1

Book table for two in restaurant on Valentine's night. Turn up with one rose and a watch. Place rose on table, check watch at regular intervals and sigh. Sigh some more. After a sufficient amount of time, shake head in resignation and order meal. With some luck and in an ideal world,* they shouldn't charge you for the meal. Or pour you a glass of wine on the house. Or at the very least feel sorry for you.

*being reasonably attractive might help, too.

Gloop

Potatomashwithoniongravytomatosoupporridgepotatomashwithmeltedcheesecarrotsoupporridge.

And repeat.

I can't eat solids. At lunch, my workmates look at me funny. I'm turning into a grumpy cow. I'm constantly, constantly thinking about food, because I'm constantly, constantly hungry. Gloop digests too quickly.

Thankfully, I have something left to see me through these hard times.

Riojagewurtztraminnerbrandybeerroséd'anjoumartinamarettobourgognechianticôesdurhône.

And repeat.

Train tracks

Woah, yesterday was a day and a half. As horizon-widening as it is, I don't spend all my time using soaked earphones, you know, I also go places, do things, and getting ridiculously lost. Yesterday's things involved walking around a strange northern city in a concentric way until I found myself back at my exact starting point; yesterday's people involved a very friendly, very dykey policewoman who put me in a good mood for the rest of the day, and a very brisk brazilian orthondontist who just knew what to do to sabotage that mood- I'm not a wuss, lady, it's just that hitting my teeth with pliers does hurt a wee bit.

Now I can't eat and I look like a 15 year old. And not in a good way. Did I mention that I can't eat? Sweet Jesus, help me, but more importantly, help my friends who are going to have to put up with me.

I didn't check, I put the earpiece thing right in, without pausing to think that this damn cat of mine sees mouse tails everywhere. It was very wet.

Apart from that, I've mostly been working a lot and coming home late. The cat needs to keep itself entertained somehow, pobrecito.

1. When I was eight I read a Russian children story whose morale was that people who insisted on telling their dreams should be shot because they were boring fucks. I think that's what it said anyway. Still, let me tell you that last night I dreamt that I was kissing my shrink. He didn't have a beard in the dream, either, so it was quite nice; I was smiling when I woke up.

BANG!

Still, I do wonder what it means.

2. I furiously feel like dancing salsa, but my Special Lady Friend has broken her toe kicking bricks! What are we to do? While she is mending and trying to pretend it's nothing, I'll sway about in the kitchen. Off I go. Be well!

1. About two months ago, it was; I sent her a long, long email, because we hadn't seen each other since September; I told her what I'd been doing, my plans for the next few months, my lack of good resolutions for 2007, my love life, my search for meaning and what I'd had for breakfast. How was she, still seeing the same girl, and could we meet up soonish, would she like to come over for dinner?

2. Tonight saw a reply: Must catch up soon. Call me.

Perhaps I don't deserve my friends...

1. Is it too late, bloglanders? If it is, nevermind, a happy shiny new 2007 to you anyway. I was considering joining the above demonstration against 2007 (apparently it stinks of old socks) but decided it was futile. Weren't calendars printed already? So I have given in.

2. I suppose things have got back to normal -that is to say, fairly chaotic- in the House of Y since NYE. That night I tried to get my Special Lady Friend to salsa with me ; she clearly didn't find that normal at all, but she complied with her usual good humour. Yay! I am indeed very lucky, even if she really can't salsa. Yet.
   

3. One of my presents this Christmas was a bottle of what must be my favourite wine in the world. A golden coloured, fragrant, delicate nectar, it was waiting to be packed at the bottom of the staircase. I was planning to take it back to London with me as a salsa aid, you see. Later I found a golden, fragrant puddle and a very puzzled cat with an equally fragrant front paw. What was left to do but laugh? I didn't wipe the cat's paw; who slept late the next morning.

4. In other news, all is well. Be well!