¡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.