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!

Slices of domestic life in the House of Y

1. So yesterday, people of blogland, I made polenta. It’s this newly found enthusiasm for cooking, you see; all of a sudden, I can do it, and the finished product is usually rather good. I think. Except for polenta, which is fucking boring.

-J, I shriek, polenta is fucking boring.
-I know, he replies. He doesn’t know, of course, because he lives on tatties and slices of I can’t believe it’s not cardboard smothered in peanut butter; but if he pretends that he does, he thinks I won’t force him to try it.
-How do you know?
-Err.. my dad used to grow it in the garden. And frankly, if I see one more polenta, I’m going to e-x-p-l-o-d-e!
-Yeah. Anyway, it tastes of nothing, what can I do with it? I should phone my mum and ask.
-Why don’t you just google it? This way you don’t have to talk to anybody.
-No, I’ll phone my mum.
-Oh, she knows more than google, then, does she, he asks in that dangerous tone.
-I prefer the human factor.
-And how do you think all the stuff on google got there in the first place?
-My mum put it there!
-Exactly.

I don’t know who won, but even the cat wouldn’t eat the polenta. Next time, I think, cheese. Then you can all come for dinner.

2. I think the best way to not fall prone to a severe post-holiday depression is to start planning the next one. All I can say is: so many places, and if enough time, so little money. So now I’ll sigh watching the rain diluting London, and I’ll go back to reading Ulverton by Adam Thorpe, because it’s really really good.

3. Last night I had a date with my Special Lady Friend. We figured out that this was our fourth one. I don’t have anything to report except that I’m grateful for her excellent company, warmth, wit and kindness. (And she’s really hot, too.)

That’s all I have to say for myself today. Thank you for stopping by.

Cherry bomb Part One

1. Because it’s cold, I’ve had to have three desserts tonight. Look out for headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers: ‘Girl explodes. Cherries suspected.’

2. Saturday night's storm was only a little one. I blame the gay day and the gay beer and the infinitely cute lesbians in kilts, which distracted me and affected my vigilance. On Sunday, we made up over a bottle of mineral water, and tried to define the terms of our non-relationship relationship; then we went to our respective abodes, perhaps to confirm, solemnly, the fact that it’s not just about shagging.

3. It’s not just about shagging, you know.

4. But it’s not a relationship.

5. I wonder if she’s got a kilt…

Cherry Bomb Part Two
or 'TMI, sometimes'

- B, I say, I’m going to have explosive diarrhoea. 1 kilo of cherries.
- Nice. Thanks for sharing. Who said romance was dead?
- Romance IS dead. It was acquired in a hostile takeover by Disney and Hallmark, homogenised and sold off piece by piece.
- Such cynicisms in someone so young, it’s heartbreaking.. I need a card to make me feel better. A personalised one.
- Oh, honey, I’ll make you one, to go with the apron I’m going to knit for you, remember?
- Just make sure it has a pocket, so I can carry the card with me always… and stop it now, you’re scaring me.
- Hey, you’re the one talking about romance.. I don’t want romance.. therefore I share information about my ‘splosive ass. It’s a preventive measure.
- Commitment phobe.. and there’s me, going through the yellow pages.. .remov.. can’t spell U-heals…joke!
- HAUls. U-Hauls. Page 56. I got it book marked.
- Where is my inhaler? Crash cart, anyone?
- But seriously.. winter wedding maybe? You’d look so good in black against a back drop of snow.. and we could have little flower girls dressed as fairies.. or maybe big flower boys dressed as fairies.
- Oh no. eek.
- Hey, you were the one in a wedding dress on Saturday.
- This is an automated message service. Freda isn’t available at the moment; she’s rounding up the chickens and goats for sacrifice. 23.30 Friday. Don’t be late. Anyway, I’m sorry… Do I know you? Where did you get this number? Stop hassling me.

Ganet

1. Breakfast: tea and toast
Lunch : soggy lettuce, parsnip soup, slice o’ ‘I can’t believe it’s not cardboard’ bread, tap water.

2. On the way to work I was dreaming of fluffy pancakes with maple syrup; then throughout the morning it was crusty baguette with goats cheese, juicy white flesh nectarines, coffee éclairs; then as lunch approached I conjured up images of rare steak with shallot butter and sautéed potatoes washed down with a chilled rosé d’Anjou. The afternoon was devoted to ideas of tomato and olive oil bruschetta, then rhubarb crumble and perfectly ripe strawberries.

3. dinner, goddamnit: every single of those things til I burst, twice, and I don’t even care.


4. I wonder what’s going on, though. I’d like to read this as the very outward sign of my newly-found appetite for life, or something; I can’t think of anything I have to compensate for right now, besides the fact that work underfeeds me..and yes, I ma getting some, so it's not that either.

5. There’s no punch line. I’m too full to think.