The reaction to time spent in Spain...

Life can be the strangest thing, can’t it? Six months ago, I was fanning myself with a handful of foolscap as the Spanish sun gained more and more velocity with each spring to summer day. There I was, wearing shorts and getting brown, making plans and enjoying using a new language – I even managed to make people laugh, which I’m told is a sign one’s on their way to fluency.

But then everything changed. Quite out of the blue, circumstances about-turned drastically and life wasn’t all sunbeds and sangria (which it wasn’t really in the first place, but you know what I mean) but instead, a tall uphill struggle to get by each day. Nobody died or anything, but basically speaking, someone shuffled my set of cards while I wasn’t looking.

At the beginning of September, my boyfriend and I returned to the UK after our 18-month-long Spanish trip. It wasn’t quite the return we’d planned to make, but relief underpinned our repatriation: I for one was missing gravy and drizzle like I didn’t think it was possible to do so. And so, here we are, back in Blighty, idly forgetting all the Spanish we learned and rapidly losing any trace of the bedded-in-for-the-long-haul tans we worked so hard to develop.

After recovering from the long-haul road trip home and the inevitable roll of catch-up phone calls and coffees with faces I hadn’t seen for two years, it was time to get back into the land I call home with a half social, half networking trip to meet up with contacts I’d put on ice while I was away. This was all very jolly; people seemed genuinely pleased to see me. As one would expect, there were piles of stuff to catch up on, notes to compare and anecdotes to recount. But one thing struck me, and I don’t think I was wrong in thinking it mighty odd.

By contact four, I realised that I wasn’t being asked many questions about life abroad. Certainly not as many as I would have assaulted a homecoming friend with. “Where the hell have you been?” was the regular opener; “And what were you there for?” was the follow up, a raised eyebrow I took for impress. I gave my answers; “Spain, for 18 months!” and, “Same sort of thing as before… Experiencing the place as best I could. Oh, and I was involved in opening a bar!” And then, silence.  Accompanying the silence was a look; it’s difficult to describe in words, so I thought I’d draw it…

The eyebrows; arched and suspicious. The mouth; pursed. The jaw; clenched. The eyes; wide, piercing, horrified. Sure, I was in the Alicante region, I’d explain, but I was miles away from Benidorm. This didn’t appear to appease anyone though. And then, after a few more beats of silence, they’d change the subject entirely: “Shall we get some lunch?” or “So, what are your plans for the weekend then?” and so on.

Stumped, and a little disappointed I wasn’t being regaled home with excited questions like, “How do I say ‘f**k you’ in Spanish?”, the best acknowledgement I’d get was a solid hand on my shoulder, a wink and a, “It’s good to have you back with us.” Like I’d been in a coma or something, or diversifying as a bounty hunter or a drug mule. It was really weird.

I aired my observations to contact number eight after he asked me pertinent and enquiring questions about my Iberian experience. Ironically, I found myself mildly horrified at his interest in my time away. “I’m starting to get paranoid,” I told him. “Has something very grave happened between Spain and the UK in my absence that I’ve completely managed to miss?” He laughed at me and wiped the mirth from his eyes.

“You know it’s code, don’t you?” He said. I told him I didn’t know what he meant.

“Spain. It’s code.”

I was struggling to understand. “You. Been overseas in Spain for 18 months.” I still wasn’t grasping the point. “It’s a totally feasible sentence length. You were also involved in setting up a bar. That’s what ex cons say when they don’t want to tell anyone they’ve been doing ‘Her Majesty’s Service’.”

Time served at Her Majesty's Pleasure

So, I’d gone from demure globetrotter (sort of) to enigmatic convict. My perception of my status quo spun on its head: I was aghast, but I was also wildly excited by the strange badge of rebellious deviant I now found myself posed with, should I wish to run with it. If I wanted to, I could be a Bad Girl, just like on the telly.

And run with it I did with contact nine, you know, just to spice things up a bit. Asking polite questions, half morbidly fascinated, half terrified of me, it was clear she wanted to run for the hills. I mumbled something about Morocco, a boat, flashing lights, midnight… I then stared into the middle distance pensively like Joey Tribbiani, blew needlessly on my coffee and made a mental note to maybe join an am-dram group to get back into the swing of British community.

After a fun ten minutes or so hamming up the fake story of my last year-and-a-half, I explained I’d been pulling her leg. The silly thing was, she hadn’t given me any weird looks when I told her I’d been in Spain helping out with a bar. So when I did eventually backtrack and tell her that I’d been pulling her leg, I don’t think she believed me. It’s apparent to me now that I can be my own worst enemy.

Anyway, just to be super clear here, I have genuinely been in Spain, nothing spurious, and it was sheer coincidence that a friend of mine opened a venue into which I threw my tuppence worth. That largely consisted of dancing and helping musicians carry their equipment back to their vans after a gig, but you know… Who knew that this Spain yarn is a line deployed by jailbirds? I’ve always thought of myself as someone who knew stuff like that so, after the joy being able to communicate verbally without second-guessing everything and drowning myself in proper gravy has worn off a little, I now feel two things on returning home: 1) Not nearly as streetwise as I’d considered myself to be, and 2) bizarrely guilty for an imaginary crime I had no dealings with.

I was considering France for my next stint away. If there are any codes or false alibis associated with France, I’d be very grateful to know about them. Thank you.

No damp, dreary, drizzly days in Spain...

In March, my boyfriend and I observed the one-year anniversary that marked our move to Spain. Well, actually, we didn’t observe it at all because we forgot about it completely until dinnertime. We thought we ought to celebrate the occasion, so we opened a bottle of Rioja, which isn’t unusual on any given day, but you know…

I’ve never proclaimed to be one of those ‘My Native Country’s A Pile of Shit’ people, and I’m definitely not a sanctimonious ex-pat (not that all of them are, but there are some that make you want to make high-pitched noises of the insufferable variety) but at the start of 2010, I was well up for experiencing something other than the UK. I’d not done much travelling before and was keen to flex my other-culture muscles in a full-time capacity. I was eager to soak up another language and I was dead into eating myself silly in tapas.

But as the year has ticked on, I’ve found myself missing things that only Britain can offer. So, Lonely Planet recently dissed our magic isles. Quite frankly, Lonely Planet can go spin on a rusty spike: the UK may not be able to offer up much that compares to exotic beaches in Thailand, gastronomic pizzazz like Italy or the chic city life like that of the US, say. But it is magic, even if it is a mongrel of a landmass. I’d like to share with you some of the things I viscerally miss about the UK; the best of British you just can’t replace…

Pubs

Yep, there’s a viral bar culture round this bit of Europe – so much so, it’s generally part of people’s daily itinerary. But it’s just not the same: no uncomfortable Jacobean pews, no grotty velvet upholstered bar stools, no wooden casks on proud display, no tankards, no dodgy carpets, no brass Shire horse paraphernalia, no florid old boys speaking in undetectable dialects (well, actually that bit is pretty similar actually), but most importantly, none of the off-chance conversations struck up over a mutual appreciation for Doom Bar.

Drizzle

Yup, I know; crazy. But hell, do I miss those damp, dreary days when only a pot of stew will do. Spain certainly isn’t immune to icky weather, but it deals with it differently. In fact, I’ll go as far to say that from what I’ve experienced of dear Spain, it has no idea how to deal with rain and dark skies at all. Back in March, our household awoke to what I can only describe as British skies in February. Neither of my two Iberian housemates emerged from their rooms all day (except to eat pizza and look genuinely depressed). Me, my boyfriend and our two Czech neighbours actually stood outside and high fived, united in rejoice for the cosy weather. We got wet, smiled a lot and then scurried off to make potato-based meals. It was heaven.

Other drivers acknowledging that you’ve given way to them

This isn’t a tradition in Spain whatsoever. I get affronted.

Cake

I mean real, trampoliney sponge with jam/carrot/butter icing/chocolate fondant/lemon in it. Nothing – NOTHING I tell you – can replace a good old Victoria sponge or lemon drizzle. Okay, the Spanish love their puddings and sweet pastries with a capital L but almond cake is as near as you get in to what we Brits recognise as bona fide cake. And even then, it’s rarely iced.

Stephen Fry

In Spain, there’s a prime-time TV show called Buenafuente, which is more or less on a popularity par to the likes of our British late-night talk shows – Jonathan Ross, say. So, I don’t understand its subtleties and I have it on good authority it’s very funny. But it definitely isn’t fair substitute for QI or anything on Dave.

Gravy

Quite simply, I want to see my plate overflowing with brown juice. I’m sick of salsa.

The Union Jack

Hell, would you get me?! I’m more than aware that I of all people tread on thin ice in the split opinion stakes, but I tell ye; when I tuned in to that wedding (if you’re not sure which one I mean, click here for a hint), I cried a little bit. It wasn’t because I was delirious for the couple in question, and I’m sorry to say so, but I was probably the least interested person in the world about THE dress (McQueen or not, I just don’t get wedding dresses). I was perfectly fine until I saw the wonderfully familiar streets of London adorned with that jaunty red, white and blue affair all over the place. I thought of Vivienne. I thought of The Who. I thought of the Sex Pistols, of pie, chip shop chips and ale. I thought of Earl Grey tea and 50 pence pieces. I even thought of Geri Haliwell, and I wanted all of them in my eye line immediately. Even Geri Haliwell.

Massive Trees

Round where I live at the moment, pine trees are ten a penny. But it’s not the same. I’ve almost forgotten what trees with leaves look like. You know, the kind that wilt up and go brown in September. The kind that grow off huge branches, sprouting sideways out of gigantic columnal trunks. I want to stand in a wood where a score of different trees make me feel thoroughly inferior.

Slap it all on a plate and I'll devour the lot!

Plates full of food

Bangers, mash, peas and gravy (see above). Slap it all on one plate and watch me devour the lot. And lick it clean. Quit this picking at a little ceramic pot in the middle of the table – it looks fussy.

Carpets

I totally get the functional aspect of not having a carpet tradition in Spain when for only three months of the year the average temperature only nudges the patch marked ‘really rather chilly’, but whenever I walk into houses here, I’m always haunted by a sense of something vital missing.

Double-decker Buses

It’s incredible what you notice that you didn’t really notice before when you suddenly notice something’s not there to notice anymore. I. Miss. Buses. I’m craving riding up front of the top deck looking at discarded trainers, towels, leaflets and balls atop of bus shelters. Yes, while outside the drizzle smears itself all over the bus windscreen.

Furious Apology

Us Brits are mocked for the way we apologise when someone else bumps into us. Even we’re aware it’s a tad ludicrous. But can we help it? No, we can’t. We were born to be sorry for stuff that isn’t our fault, and by gum, I miss those odd little exchanges. So deprived am I of inverted apology, the Brit I am actually believes I’ve developed bad manners.

Music

You absolutely cannot, in no way, in a million years ever even attempt to beat how absolutely brilliant the British music scene is.

Getting on with it

Not to be confused with martyr-like stoicism, because that’s plain annoying. In fact, the younger generation of my paternal family have a mock slogan sending up our collective opinion of our stoic beyond reprieve grandmother: “It’s only pain, darling.” This was her advice to my seven-year-old brother when he fell out of a tree and landed on the blade of a saw. Anyway, I digress… I’m alluding to the ‘mañana’ thing. You may or may not know that it isn’t simply a case of putting things off until tomorrow as it suggests: what it actually means is that business will be seen to when the spirit takes the individual in question. The record so far, in my experience, of the ‘mañana’ thing is six months and even then, I had to initiate the action. This is saying something because I’m Cornish and us pasty munchers have our own version of ‘mañana’ – it’s called ‘drekkly’.

Oh for a bog-standard cup of instant...

Instant Coffee

Call me insane – do, go ahead – but the familiar insipidness of Douwe Egberts struck me divinely between the eyes on my last visit home. Sure, the coffee in Spain is unbeatable (even motorway service stations serve the best coffee money can buy – and it’s only €1 at that…) but when my friend concocted a bog-standard instant cup for me back in Brighton a few months ago, I devoured it, like a human in a desert would water.

Cornish Accents

Mentioning ‘drekkly’ brought a nostalgic tear to my eye just then, so I guess I ought to include my fondness of the Cornish accent. However, this isn’t technically exclusive to my Mediterranean Homesick Blues, because I’ve not lived full-time in Cornwall since I was 19. But my boyfriend (who’s from Wales) bought something in a charity shop last week (the British ex-pats organise this novelty around this area) and was served by a Welsh cashier; they said Welsh stuff to each other and I was dialectally jealous. I miss being called ‘Maid’…

Tune in next time for my thoughts on European-ness, what I don’t really miss about the UK, and my relationship with it therein as someone who disabuses people when they refer to me as English.

What would be in your Room 101?

I consider myself pretty tolerant and in the main, someone who respects the value of optimism and staying positive. I also like to exercise understanding (well, what reasonable person doesn’t?) and a good dose of benefit of the doubt when it comes to other people. But sometimes, the forgiveness card is tricky to keep hold of in this Poker game called Life. The reason I’m telling you this is because I fear what follows might be a bit of a bummer. Or perhaps not a bummer as such; just not particularly upbeat. And certainly not tolerant.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself in abundant discussion that links very much back to the Room 101 concept. Unless you’re Pollyanna, we’ve all got pet peeves: other people’s farts, Comic Sans font, nose picking, certain use of certain words, Bono… I thought I’d share mine with you, but like the popular TV show, I’ve also offered substantiation as to why my personal pet hates really get my back up. You may not be interested, but isn’t it funny how tiny trivial things can really get just that little too deep under our skin?

Socks

I don’t do them. I totally do tights, no probs, so it’s not like my shoes smell or anything. But, it was pointed out to me by my beloved boyfriend, after I’d ransacked his sock drawer one too many times, that perhaps I’ve got a sock related hang up. I’m not dissing their function, but for some reason the sight of them in shops repels me. Thank heaven for Santa Claus, I guess, and my boyfriend’s smalls drawer.

But Why?

I can tell you precisely why. When I was at school – too many moons ago than I’m comfortable acknowledging now – there was a girl who turned me onto existentialism through socks alone. She wasn’t/isn’t a bad person or anything, but she’s get a little too squeaky about socks. Her favourite shop was Sock Shop (of course) and every week, without fail, she’d sport whatever new pair she’d bought over the weekend. She had glove socks (where each toe has a special compartment all to itself), she had musical socks (ffs), she had F.R.I.E.N.D.S socks, she had stripy, spotty, zigzaggy socks. Worst of all, though (and this was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me) she had Bang On The Door socks, with all the different characters, stuffed and tacked on to the ankle. It might sound a tad dramatic, but I absolutely questioned the point of everything because of those Bang On The Door socks.

Pie Crust Shoes

Never trust a man who wears shoes with seam detail that resemble a Cornish pasty. Rounded off with an overly thick rubber sole and more than likely capped off at the ankle by the hem of a pair of ill-fitting polyester trousers (shoes and leg wear from Burton, I bet ya…), this dude’s a wannabe Lothario/a UPVC windows salesman/sartorially clueless, all of which – worse in three-way combination – do not equate a good idea.

But Why?

Er, probably because they’ve hissed their WKD breath at me all too often in clubs over the years. I might also have got off with one once. I didn’t call him for the most part, because of his shoes.

Cuddly toys for adults? No, thanks!

Cuddly Toys

This isn’t to be confused with Teddy bears or stuffed caterpillars owned by people under the age of ten. I get that. It’s adults who ‘do’ cuddly toys, or cuddly toys marketed at adults, pitiful looking bears clutching cheap resin plaques with saccharine legends like, ‘Be My Valentine’ or ‘Hug Me’ that gives me a panic attack. And don’t get me started on 26-year-old people, usually the female variety, who line up their stuffed animals on their bed in place of cushions. **SHIVERS** Everything’s wrong with that. There’s nothing attractive about receiving a fluffy teddy as a talisman of someone else’s sense affection. Personally, I’d prefer the £15 hard cash spent buying the thing to go and buy Valium.

But Why?

Hmm… This is a tricky one. But my feeling is that the Bang On The Door socks with their little stuffed ankle heads might be something to do with it. I had teddies as a kid and was cool with that – I still am – but I think the bottom line is that I believe in adults retaining an element of the childlike about them; but out and out childishness? There’s a massive difference.

‘Soaking’ Dirty Dishes

I might be on my own here, but a certain man in my life (who, for a boy, is actually preternaturally well tamed on the domestic front) when faced with washing up doesn’t really wash up. Instead, he runs a full sink of hot soapy water and dumps all the dirty crockery Etc. into it. He then walks away from the sink. The water goes cold, the suds dissipate and the water, given an hour or so, ends up looking like an anaemic squid has been murdered in it. It’s yours truly who cleans up afterwards. I pull the plug out, let the water drain, heap the wet dishes out of the filthy sink and I start the process from scratch as it’s supposed to be done. When quizzed about his method, he tells me he’s ‘soaking’ them. Newsflash, boyf: we didn’t eat a well-done casserole last night, we had tartlets and salad. We also had a couple of glasses of white wine each. On my watch, none of that requires industrial soaking.

But Why?

That ‘Matter’ scene in Withnail & I was funny and everything, but come on: washing up is not scary or difficult. There’s no need to avoid chores by dressing them up with so-called ‘methods’. Oh, and please wash the glasses first before the water gets greasy. Ta.

Why oh why are you sniffing the milk?

Milk Sniffers

You know when there’s a two-pint flagon of semi-skimmed in the fridge, with its use by date stamped on the cap? And when the use by date isn’t until next Wednesday? And it’s only just been opened and only two cuppas worth used? But how there’s always some suspicious type who has to ram their nose down its neck and have a good sniff? Yeah, that. It really gets my goat. But hey, you know what really makes me want to hurt someone? When said milk sniffer has flared their nostrils a few times, had a good whiff and isn’t confident that the milk is okay to use and puts it back in the fridge. Cue gunfire.

But Why?

Basically, I think it’s a neurotic demonstration of other people’s lack of trust that one’s able to keep one’s milk refrigerated and/or ensure the supply isn’t rancid. That and the haunting image of a work colleague (i.e. fellow waitress in a restaurant I worked at in my youth) who possessed an interesting nose that she’d probe down the neck of the in-house milk bottles every time someone ordered a cappuccino. That summer, I developed a tic because of this, which comes back to haunt me whenever I see a nose hovering over the neck of a milk bottle.

A top 1990's fashion faux pas...

The other day, I found myself engaged in an email exchange where my recipient and I reminisced about our lives as late teenagers. To say it was nostalgic would be dishonest as, quite frankly, I’m really pleased that stage of my life is history. And to say I’ve come through it unscathed would is also quite the truth: memories themselves are penance enough.

This time of year is steeped in nostalgia, from the visceral flutter autumn tends to provoke through to those (oftentimes, idealist) cosy days at home when only a fire, a sheepskin rug and chestnuts will do. And, so with this nostalgic ambience in mind, coupled with anniverserial recollections of the run up to Christmas and all the ‘parties’ I threw myself into – sometimes all too literally -when I was 18, I’d like to share with you the fashion faux pas, bad haircuts, embarrassing values and general areas of the late 90s I hope never come back round to haunt anyone.

Office Wear as Fashion

If you were an emerging fashionista in the late 90s (arguable though that statement might be against what I’m about to say), you probably owned a few fitted shirts. Colours came in baby blue, burgundy, sometimes shiny purple and often petrol blue. With added lycra also, these blouses cut a flattering shape, but the funny thing about them was we wore them to clubs at the weekend. There was also a slew of bootcut, lycra added trousers (once again, frequently shiny) that could be teamed up with foam platforms, like the ones Red or Dead made. Failing the open-toe foam platforms, because it wouldn’t have been right to wear those to work, a chunky Mary Jane affair worked equally well. Or how about those lycra added office skirts with a cheeky slash up the thigh? Team one of those up with a square panelled, slash back 100% lycra top in lilac and you’re away. From dancefloor to boardroom in one fell swoop – it made the dirty stop out thing on a weekday entirely possible.

Dresses Over Trousers

Following on from the above, what about that trend for wearing cutesy, doubled layered, fitted 100% lycra dresses over aforementioned bootcut, added lycra trousers? Hey, we were quite the fire hazard back then, weren’t we? Well, I totally went for this layering combo and even went as far as sticking a bindi on my forehead. I might have looked like a capitalist Bhuddist, but at least I was down with the fashion of the time.

No Coat…

Okay, so this isn’t really exclusive to the late 90s, but reflect, if you will for a moment, on the strange rebellion / choice that most girls in their late teens tend to prefer: going out without a coat. I was guilty of this, of course, trotting up and down the hallowed streets of my home town at midnight in December, shivering my skinny rear off as I went off in search of my lift home, my mum, parked several streets away (in compliance with my instructions) once kicking out time kicked off. What’s the statement here? I remember feeling ‘cool’ (fucking freezing in fact) but I’ll never know why or for what. These days, when I see wanton 17-year-olds trip-trapping through the night coatless, I’m always struck by their ‘wet’ appearance: as in, why does it look like someone’s thrown a bucket of water over them? Please tell me it’s overzealous use of incorrect hair product and not actual water. That would be cruel – they’re still learning.

Beware the caustic lure of Sun In...

Sun In

Thanks to the likes of Bliss and Sugar, I discovered Sun In’s caustic wonder when I was 13. It didn’t look good then, but somehow, that didn’t stop me trying it again and again on my brunette hair right up until I left sixth form college. To be fair to myself, I was aware it looked merde, but at the time Alexander McQueen (R.I.P) was getting jiggy with an odd cyber monk thing, wherein which his runway models had funny little monastic fringes invariably hued in dicey orange colours. It was this image that I diabolically attempted to recreate in my bedroom. I might have looked terrible in retrospect, but God still loved me.

Staggering in Heels

No, nothing to do with the number of Bacardi Breezers our teenage selves sunk over the course of the night, but everything to do with not quite getting the height on our footwear. Maybe it’s unfair to say that we all had teething problems with our high heels, but many of us did. So much so as it goes, I remember thinking how my friends – coatless, ankled up with strappy, clunky shoes – resembled a clutch of piglets trotting from the Pub-We-Never-Got-ID’d-In towards the Club-We-Needed-To-Keep-Our-Fingers-Crossed-To-Get-In-To. With knees slightly bent at the crook and a gale of snorts and shrill chatter, it’s no wonder clubs like the one we would end up at were referred to as ‘meat markets’.

Mobile Bricks

I wasn’t a spoilt youngster by any means, but when I acquired my first mobile telephone, I surpassed dozens of my peers on the supposedly ‘cool’ scale. Thing is, my phone was a pain in the arse to carry around – that cradle charger… Only one other girl in my year at school had a mobile telephone and she and I weren’t really friends. However, the mutual acquisition of modern communications forged us in unity, especially via the texting medium. Other than that, I have no recollection of what her real life voice ever sounded like.

Musical Anomalies

In my youth, I drank in the Britpop thing and more or less, kept myself in keeping with the whole mod resurgence/indie thing. Yet, wave a Friday night out on the town in my face and I suspended all sense of dignity in favour of the likes of Lou Bega. Marimba rhythms made for some good swaying as well. Maybe it’s because I’m open-minded (I’ll keep telling myself that at least) that my musical discern went out of the window once my party shoes were strapped to my feet. However, as I inferred before, for a skinny runtish disaster with a bright orange monk’s fringe to get into a club without falling foul of an ID-ing parade was enough reason to abandon and celebrate.

Learning to Drive

My friends’ assorted marriages and babies these days hark very much back to the emotions, conversations, trials and tribulations of the learning to drive phase of life at 17. There were tears, there were break ups, there were arguments and tantrums, there was celebration and there were new relationships forged. All of which were with metal boxes on four rubber wheels (namely our parents’ cars for the most part). Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, I learnt to drive in two weeks. After week three behind the wheel, I passed my test first time. This has no bearing on how good a driver I am, because as it goes, nowadays I’m not. However, getting my driver’s licence garnered me a massive amount of unwarranted popularity. At least, that’s how I interpreted it. Turned out I – and my mum’s car – wasn’t much more than a taxi for my friends. Well, of course.

Lou Bega’s musical masterpiece ‘Mambo Number Five’

The boyfriend look a la Waltons...

This autumn, I find myself in the throes of an identity crisis. Besides feeling really disconcerted, I’m having bitter pangs of fraudulence writing for the likes of Running In Heels where celebrating Euro-femmes is what it’s all about. But before you roll your eyes, be assured that I’m not imploring pity or roping you into 700 words of megalomania. Basically, I think I’ve turned into a boy.

Life in Andalucia has been earthy. Seven months spent digging up soil, growing melons and carrots, rescuing goats from the perils of wire fencing and plodding about dusty, mountainous terrain commands little in the way of glamour. There wasn’t much call for pretty dresses or spangly accessories, not just because of the hardcore countryside thing but primarily because trying to wear shit hot gear made me stick out like a jester in a library. The last time I wore heels was February, save for a wedding in August, but even then it was clear I was losing my four-inch touch: ask my friend who leapt out of my way on the dance floor. Talk to the bruises I wore on my kneecaps for one whole month afterwards.

My daily wardrobe didn’t look too distant from that belonging to cast members of The Waltons – I’m talking John Boy here, not Mary Ellen. So much so, I took to wearing my boyfriend’s clothes for the reason that they made me feel I was doing something outré. But this wasn’t really a fashion statement, and hasn’t ‘The Boyfriend Look’ been off trend for ages anyway?

You see, I wasn’t entirely aware of my gradual metamorphoses into Stig of The Campo. I thought I was doing tickety boo, rocking raggy plaid and untidy cut offs, wearing holes in my high tops and snapping my flip-flops. But it was in September when a male friend came to stay (he’s gay, btw) that the penis… er, I mean penny… dropped. His exact words were, “Wow, darling! I’m loving the tractor boy look!” No, he didn’t deploy irony; yes, he was serious. His remark smarted, but moreover, scared me. He found me attractive in a way no man of his persuasion should ever find a girl.

But I got round that potential wrongness by wearing lipstick and a crappy dress for the remainder of his sojourn to make my point. But believe me; hosing down patios and gathering logs doesn’t really work in lipstick and a dress.

Now, Andalucía is the past. Last month, my boyfriend and I moved six hours eastward to the Alicante peninsula of Javea. Javea is a world away from the sleepy depths of the previous countryside. It’s cosmopolitan, it’s diverse, it’s open-minded and full of life. With all this inevitably comes style. With a massive crater where my once spangly wardrobe was, I’ve gone from being that jester in a library to a hillbilly librarian at fashion week. It’s kind of mortifying.

My sympathetic (not to mention uber chic) housemate hasn’t been averse to lending me the odd outfit for the times when jeans with genuine wear and tear slashes – not shop bought distress – in them and offensively sloganed t-shirts just won’t do. One would think this would ameliorate my complete loss of girliedom and to a degree it does. Yet I can’t help feeling like Just William after he’s been dressed up by his older sisters. This is the oddest thing: where once I was game on for swapping and wearing items of friends’ clothing, I now find myself hideously self-conscious and uncomfortable looking. It’s as if I’d been born yesterday.

The other day, I had what I can only describe as a tantrum getting dressed as I grizzled resentfully at my wardrobe. Bar the aforementioned crappy dress, I crowed on about how I hadn’t bought anything new to wear for almost a year. Naturally, my boyfriend remarked that I was lucky to have clothes at all, which to an undeniable end is absolutely true: some people in this world don’t. Yet what was unnerving me the most was that nothing in my wardrobe reflected who I am, or at least, who I want to ‘state’ I am. This is it, right? That curious psychology behind clothes and what we choose to wear, and how they send out messages to other people as to the kind of people we are and whether said people are going to get along with you. They might wear what appears to us as red blankets, but I bet you one hundred bucks that the Masai Mara are well picky about their clothes.

I explained this to my boyfriend who, unlike me, has benefitted from the odd Saturday afternoon shopping in vintage shops back in the UK. As he lay on the bed looking like a rock star, and as I stood over him looking like a dwarfish roadie, he seemed to accept my point.

So-called style queen Carrie Bradshaw

The next week, while boyfriend was back in the UK, he emailed me. In his email, he was regaling me on my super-woman abilities to live without nice clothes. He called me ‘incredible’ and told me I put other women to shame with my capacity to be ‘graceful’ in cut offs, with my way of looking ‘sexy even in holey t-shirts’. Then he said, “I just don’t understand why you don’t order online, though.”

The ordering online thing bugs me because I hate buying things without having touched them first. Twice I’ve fallen foul all ill fits: the only two times I’ve ever shopped for clothes on the internet. But I’m whingeing…

As recompense for my peculiarly lost grip on feminity, I’ve re-watched all six seasons of Sex and The City, plus both movies (hmmm). Leaning on SATC as an antidote in this way, it turns out, has been a mistake. I can’t quite fathom whether I’m disgusted by the show, but I don’t remember it being as vulgar as it seems to me now. I’ve actually gone to bed each night feeling ashamed of being female. Perhaps it’s something to do with my inner boy and unkempt nails and hair, but to say I’ve been totally flabbergasted by the self-absorption of those characters would be an understatement.

I’m not going to rant about setting examples because we’ll be here forever. But, like, wow. Also, I’m no longer sold on how ‘amazing’ Carrie looks in all that clobber. In fact, that did make me feel a bit better: take away the Manolos and other assorted labels and she and I look equally as thrown together as each other. But the ‘tood? Good grief. I’m definitely on the boys’ side on this one. Now, where did I leave my overalls?

Andalucia. Not a skinny latte in sight...

It might be a generalisation on my part, but I guess it’s not all that common for twenty-somethings to elect to move into the middle of nowhere if they’re moving out of their native country. I only say this because I’ve been hearing it a lot lately from my friends.

I’m not sure what they’re implying, but something tells me the majority weren’t holding their breath on me sticking around here long. Or at least, once I realised that the semi-desert of Andalucía is a world away from the alternative hustle and bustle of Brighton, I’d be back quicker than you could say ‘soya latte’.

Well, I haven’t and I’m not going to. Sure, it’s very different – I’ve been over this already – and yes, there are quirks and kinks aplenty. But I thought I was managing pretty well. I’ve coped with my first scorpion (that was a bit disappointing actually), I’ve looked the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life square on in the eye and I’ve dealt with gecko shit all over my bedclothes. And I’ve even cracked the driving thing. But it turns out that’s not that kind of thing that makes me question living out in the Spanish sticks. It’s me.

My boyfriend’s away – again – on work. He’s been gone two weeks. Now, this is crap insofar as him not being here goes, but, you know? I’m cool with being on my own. I’m down with surviving without him. I’m no orthodox feminist or anything, but I do believe that pushing the boundaries of one’s comfort zone is a good thing. After all, it’s character building. If the character in question belongs in a sitcom.

Picture the scene, if you will. A beautiful bright Sunday morning and I was up early. The sun was warm and there was no-one around (well, as fucking usual here in the campo) and I had no jobs to do, no promises to keep, so I got down to feeling groovy. I made myself a cuppa, grabbed an old National Geographic, stuck the stereo on full and took myself off for a spot of morning sunbathing on the patio. Naturally, I’m only in my knickers, keeping it even and all, safe in the knowledge no one will see me.

Yeah, well. I’d drained my teacup and was immersed in an article on Malaria when I realised someone was standing over me saying, ‘Buenas dias!’ The farmer, his son, a guy from a tree nursery and a German woman had come to ask if they could stand on the patio to case the land prior to some serious tree planting. Now, this would usually be no problem. But it was just me, my naked lung warts and four mainland European people. But I ask you: 10am on a Sunday morning?! Come on, Spain. We know you’re a law unto yourself with regards to time keeping, but what they hey?

Turned out I was the most embarrassed in this little caught-me-red-boobied sitch. But whatever, we all get caught short so this on its own was no biggie. But maybe it was because I’m a bit shy when it comes to declaring my assets that when I drove to the post shed later than afternoon (no; the postman won’t deliver mail to our house because we’re too far off the beaten track) I found myself a little flustered. Actually, what I did was completely underestimate how much space I needed to swing my car around, so I ended up crashing in to the wall of the post shed. It wasn’t bad or anything, more like a jolty bump but I needed to back the car out of it all. Yet, could I jam the gearstick in reverse?

Ten minutes later, I’m still there, my language getting riper by the second and my patience disappearing. Then I’m aware of a jeep parked up behind me. As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw that the driver of the jeep was watching my every move (or lack of). At first, I found this a bit rapey. But then the guy got out of his car and walked over to me in mine, and asked me what the problem was. He was proper old school Andaluce and basically, I didn’t understand anything he was saying to me, so he opened my car door, ordered me out, jumped in the driver’s seat and you know what? He got it first time. Thanks for that. That wasn’t embarrassing at all. No. No ‘crazy English girl’, female driver stereotype talk for him as he burned off into the dust for a beer with his buddies.

Oh, yeah. So you want a beer do you? Well, don’t ask me to order. While the World Cup was on, I thought I’d integrate a little. Taking myself off to the ‘local’ bar to watch one of the Brazil games, I prepared myself for a few stares – which I got in spades – but I was cool with this. Some tapas and a couple of half pints later and I’d be one of the gang.

Beer is to be ordered at your own risk

I ordered two halves over the course of the evening. If you speak any Spanish, you’ll probably know that a word for a small beer is ‘caña’. The thing is, because I’m going with the whole learn the insults first and work your way down thing, I got confused with the equivalent in Spanish for that really powerful word in English beginning with ‘c’ which refers to female genitalia. In Spanish, it’s ‘coño’. Go figure. Let’s just say, thankfully I wasn’t taken literally but it took me a while to twig why the bartender giggled so much when he asked if I wanted a frothy head.

It’s been hot, of course it has. Okay, without wanting to sound really borjwar, we have a swimming pool. Like many of you will sympathise, 44 degree heat at the start of July with August still to roll round gives you an idea of what kind of skin melting environ we’re in when the sun’s out. So, falling into a body of water is all one can think of doing when the sweats are worse than Klondike Bill’s and a girl runs the risk of blocked pores on her back and chest.

I should have learnt that toplessness isn’t something I’m that good at, so when I duck dived into the water and scraped – by accident – one of my nipples on the bottom of the pool, I shouldn’t have been that surprised that I grazed it. This is totally possible. I’d skinned my left nipple. Watch your bullets if you’re going swimming buffed up.

It got worse; not the grazed nipple as such, but that very evening as I sat at my computer engrossed in whatever I was doing, I realised too late that I’d been idly nibbling one of my bare shoulders. Now, I’m not sure why or how I was doing this, but I think my sub-conscious tongue was somewhat amazed by how salty my skin was. I’d actually given myself a lovebite the size of a big strawberry. Explain that and a grazed nipple away to your boyfriend when he comes back from three weeks work away.

And then there was the rat which I found drowned in the pool. Urgh. Just urgh. Oh, and the snake which had wrapped itself around the courgette plant. Our internet connection’s behaving like a Jack-in-the-box. The digibox has blown too. And the water heater’s broken. And there’s a massive wasps nest over the front door.

Although there’s little my boyfriend can do when it comes to me grazing my own nipples and stuff, I’ve come to understand that as much as I’d like to refute needing a chap around to help and protect me, I’m rubbish on my own. Well, at least; I seem to scream a lot to myself. My kitchen looks like Waynetta Slob’s and even the dogs are scratching their balls and burping. It’s a slippery slope when it comes to letting the side down, girls, and I’m only at the self-inflicted stage. Watch this space I suppose. Unless of course between now and next month I get eaten by a hare or something. Don’t get me started on the hares…

Welcome to the roads of Andalucia!

Last month, I waxed delirious about how moving to a new country was bringing out aspects of my personality and latent capability that I was overall unaware of. Shamefully, most of my new found abilities reminded me of my mum: I’m still oscillating between being okay with this and wanting to run away from myself, preferably into some thick olive grove where not even the hares will know of my whereabouts.

But before I make off into the wilderness and turn into Caliban, let me share with you a few things that have unsettled me about moving away from the UK…

Baby, you can’t drive my car

One of my achievements in life thus far was learning to drive in the two weeks following my 17^th birthday and passing my test first time. Some would call this dubious. I prefer the ‘over-achiever’ label, personally. Anyhow, I can drive, albeit not brilliantly (I never got the crack with motorways – *shudder*). Fast forward to the mountainous, hairpin roads of Andalucía and watch me fail miserably. And you can forget the autovias altogether.

You know that bit in the Matrix where they plug Neo in to a cable and download various skills into his brain? Yeah? Well, reverse that and erase completely: that seems to be what’s happened to me and driving. This is not good, given that my fella has gone back to the UK for three weeks’ work and I find myself steeped in the Spanish countryside with a nearly empty pantry and an almost empty bottle of shampoo.

Love in a warm climate…

So, it’s no secret that Mediterranean people are really good at the love thing. I had no idea exactly how good – or at least, before your mind starts windmilling, how unabashed with words – they are until my first fiesta experience a couple of weekends ago. My first encounter of the day was with an enthusiastic chap called Luciano. With my limited grasp of Spanish and Luciano’s non-existent English, he and I appeared to be communicating rather well. He hugged me, held my hands, cupped my face and even brought me a lettuce he’d grown himself (that’s not a euphemism) but I had no idea that all this friendliness, which I accepted like the graceful Brit I am in a country where personal space isn’t paid any mind to, was actually him wooing me to run away to the cuevos de campo with him. My English friend (who speaks fluent Spanish) came to my oblivious rescue, relaying exactly what he’d just said to me. It would have all been very charming, had his wife not been standing right next to him the whole way through our ‘dialogue’.

Next was Miguel, a bohemian looking fellow who it later turned out had had an entire bottle of Jack Daniels to himself by 3pm. Miguel didn’t cotton onto the fact that I was English and cornered me on my way back from the loo (which, I might add, was nothing more than a small fir tree which I crouched behind, out of the way of onlookers). I got the gist of what he was telling me: apparently, from the moment he’d seen me earlier in the afternoon, he knew true love. Isn’t that sweet? Once again, I was flattered, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether itwas true love he was feeling, or nothing more than the warm fuzzy effect of the bourbon. Miguel’s brother stepped in to steer him away from the easy English girl. As I gingerly stepped away from the fraternal scene, Miguel vomited over his brother.

Then there was Pepe. Pepe was a whole different kettle of fish, not least because he was easily 40 years older than both Luciano and Miguel. Pepe was a toothless, jolly man; round, comfortable looking and very keen to talk to us English folk. Pepe wasn’t local, but always attended that particular fiesta with friends. He offered me jamon, explaining that I “needed more meat on my bones.” Whatever his motives were for fattening me up, I had to turn him down explaining the impossible to a 60-something Spaniard: I am vegetarian. I don’t know what Pepe thought I’d said to him, but, bringing his hands up to my face, his eyes twinkling, he seemed to want to kiss my cheeks. But he had no intention of kissing my cheeks: he went straight for my mouth, into which he inserted his tongue.

We left pretty soon after that.

Approach with extreme caution if you're veggie...

What a doughnut!

One of the exciting things about staying in other countries, of course, is the cuisine. I love Spanish food, although, as I’ve already explained, I’m vegetarian. Being veggie in Spain isn’t as impossible as a lot of people would aver, but there again, one has to keep ones wits about them. Imagine my horror, then, when I let my wits fail me when I tucked into what looked like a humungous, sugar saturated doughnut. That sticky stuff coating it? Nah, it wasn’t sugar: it was pig fat.

Okay, so I’m bound to get caught out – I can deal with that. It wasn’t really my unwitting consumption of animal fat that alarmed me. It’s what it did to my innards. Without going into too much detail, the car journey later on that day was almost intolerable for my poor boyfriend. Note to anyone who’s overcome by flatulence in a car around Granada: hot springs and their sulphuric odour are the perfect scapegoat.

It’s a dog’s life

The slew of feral dogs around these parts is often remarked upon by the British community. Brits love dogs, don’t they? I’m no exception. In fact, we’ve inherited two reformed campo dogs, which came with the house we live in. This is all very jolly and more than enough canine action to deal with. My boyfriend gave me the inevitable feral dog talk, explaining that, as lovely as they look and as tempting as it is to take them in if they turn up at the house, it’s best for everyone to leave them be. Sure, I told him; I’m cool with that. But what he didn’tmention in his lecture was any old stray, lost dog.

Yes, we’ve acquired a third dog. Technically speaking, he doesn’t count as a feral no-no: for starters, he was dumped at the vet’s, with two enormous lacerations across his back (they were going to put him down if someone didn’t take him!) and secondly, he’s not a campo dog but a breed who’s clearly been house trained. I’ve taken him under my wing while his wounds heal, and will liaise with the vet about funding his rightful owners. I promise you, I will.

Detox vs Retox…

Like many people who face a life changing move, I had high designs for myself. One such intention was to quit smoking and cut down on the amount of alcohol I drank. To all intents, I’ve never been a heavy boozer, but two glasses of wine each night is a habit I’ve been keen to douse. The smoking thing, too, really needs addressing, even though I’m not anything like a heavy smoker.

Yeah, I know: trying to knock both of these things on the head in Spain was never going to be easy. But I rationed that because we were moving to the countryside, where I’d be outdoors mainly, doing wholesome, earth-loving things, reducing my toxicity wasn’t going to be too much of a problem. But even away from the smoky bars of the cities where the vino tinto flows freely, cutting down on both these things has been impossible. In fact, both have escalated. Well, when you can buy 30g pouches of tobacco for 2.30, and good rioja never costs more the 3.50 Euros, what fag smoking, red wine loving Brit wouldn’t feel like a bit of a pig in shit?

Sartorial mercy…

I have nothing to wear!

I actually don’t: we flew out to our new place armed only with a suitcase each. Choosing what clothes to take for what in effect is a long-term relocation was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube with my teeth. I’ve managed okay with what I have, but quite reasonably, my boyfriend and I assured ourselves that we could buy more clothes once we’d settled in. There’s nothing like a bit of false hope to get arses moving and bags packed…

Yes, she went on to become a style icon

I don’t know what it’s like in other provinces around Europe, but where we are sure as shit fails with an A+ when it comes to procuring clothes that a) don’t look like MK One rejects; b) aren’t either mauve / lime green / burnt orange / made of towelling; c) aren’t ruined by a glut of needless diamante; and d) well… Just don’t resemble what bad dreams are made of.

Fact is, I don’t want to look like Cheryl Cole in the early days, but I haven’t got it together yet to venture up north to either Madrid or Barcelona where I know I can find stuff I really do want to wear. More than anything, there’s nothing more disappointing than taking oneself off to the nearest town to buy clothes and coming back violently empty-handed. Sob.

But apart from these tantrum catalysts, all is well in the campo. Thankfully, I’m so remotely placed on this earth at the moment that it doesn’t matter that I look like a badly dressed, filthy haired, doughnut eating dog woman. As long as I don’t have to snog toothless Pepe again, I can cope fine with the initial, erm, teething problems…

In Spain, silly! Not suburban Surbiton...

Since making our move to Spain, I’ve excelled all expectations I had of myself. On learning of me and my boyfriend’s plans to move to the Andalucian countryside, our friends have made countless allusions to Tom and Barbara but obviously without the Surbiton bit. Even though we did our best to fly the self-sufficiency flag back home in the UK, living where we do in Spain was always going to be more accommodating of such ambitions.

However, we’ve shopped only at the local Mercadona so far. Not exactly self-sufficient – far from it in fact – but we haven’t quite grasped the weekly market in the nearby village yet. This is mainly because we’re not sure what day it is anymore – not necessarily a bad thing. Yet what we’ve achieved so far in getting stuck into the land is surprising.

Behind our house is a small olive grove. Actually, all you can bloody see for miles where we live are olive groves. And mountains, but olive groves mainly. Basically, we have about ten olive trees in the back garden, one of which is as old as the hills. We arrived just at the point where the fruit it was bearing rivalled the contents of a man’s testicles in terms of sperm count, plus, the olives were ripe for harvesting. I’ve ‘processed’ them (as far as you can process anything in your own kitchen) and there they are, on my kitchen shelf steeping in oil with garlic and rosemary, good for eatin’.

I also learned how to use a pickaxe last week. Set on the idea that we will grow vegetables outdoors, my boyfriend and I dug up a plot of land to facilitate a vegetable patch. Seriously, man: I had no idea I was so good with a pickaxe. My boyfriend reckons I was a convict in a mid-American penitentiary in the 1930s in a previous life, the way I was axin’ out them pesky rocks. A quarter of a metre into the ground, and we’re just waiting for a delivery of top soil to get things going. In the meantime though, we’ve salvaged an old truck tyre we found on the side of a track when we went for a walk and have planted broad beans, carrots and marigolds in it. I’ve got garlic in the ground and wild asparagus popping up underneath the trees. Oh, yeah; and we’ve got our ubiquitous chillies, peppers and tomatoes on the go too. Casa Plum is, like, totally Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall already.

Growing stuff in the garden and stripping sawn-off olive tree branches to use as fencing, amongst other wholesome and resourceful things as such, is all well and good. But the thing that’s struck me most is how incredibly grown up I feel, and I don’t just mean in an ‘I can tie my own shoe laces, mum’ kind of way. I mean that I had no idea I was as grown up as I am. Moving to the sticks in a country where wide open space is as abundant as tea brewing in the UK, and renting a farmhouse with more rooms than I’m thus far used to having at my disposal is great, but to many, might sound like hell. So, I’m not a city girl: fact. That’s another thing I’ve confirmed to myself since being here.

The grown up malarkey is really quite a novel feeling, a little like having an ISA and actually paying into it. Not that I ever cracked the ISA thing, but I think you get my drift. Although I’ve been living in my own houses for many years now, part of me still couldn’t shake that student feeling off, but now… Whatever shred of student I had dwelling deep inside me clearly took a plane elsewhere the morning we left Brighton. I remind me of my mum a bit: I’m capable of doing things like using a washing line instead of a radiator, scrubbing stone floors and treating damp on the walls. It’s nuts!

The difference between me and my mum, though, is that she’s not especially grown up for a sixty-something and she can use a chainsaw where I daren’t. But I have it on record she never mastered a pickaxe. Maybe my mum was a tree surgeon in a past life..?

Anyway, mum and my evolution into her aside, I’ve decided that I will not live in towns or cities ever again (but don’t quote me on that: I’m just rolling with my country high…). I can’t; it makes me crap. Other things I’ve realised about myself are:

Forget the Mulberry Alexa, this is the accessory du jour, ladies!

●        I’m not afraid of mice.

●         My childhood fascination with ticks on dogs has vanished and been replaced with visceral disgust.

●        I don’t like blanched asparagus or gherkins.

●        I’m flippin’ brilliant at making coffee.

●         I’m more afraid of ghosts than I thought I was.

●        I love wearing high tops all the time and not high heels. At least for the time being…

●        I’m shit at speaking other languages, even though my capacity for the English language is good.

●        I don’t like Sangria as much as I remember (from last year. To me, this is a shame).

●        I am physically stronger than I realised.

I was talking to one of my best friends the other night about this sort of thing: suddenly realising you’re not exactly the person you had yourself believe you were. My friend herself has pretty much reinvented herself entirely – or at least, acknowledged and embraced the person she actually is. Not six years ago, she was a drug taking, chain smoking, booze guzzling, spindle-lock wearing hippie. She was punky too, or to cite her, “edgy”. She’s never been shy and was massively gobby when we were younger. Like, really gobby. She would move from pillar to post, quit jobs no sooner as she started them, avoid authority, have sex (lots of sex, not necessarily within a long-term relationship), play gigs and sing and just wanna be free. Actually, she was just like I think Janis Joplin was, without the heroin bit.

In the last two years the following transformations have occurred with her: she’s got normal, regular hair; she’s held down the same job and earns a proper salary; she actually loves her job; she actually goes into work on bank holidays and weekends to voluntarily; she wears feminine clothes; she says she loves her routine; got married; is trying for a baby; quit smoking with very little fuss; doesn’t like drugs anymore; drinks moderately; and is the epitome of diplomacy and tact. Believe me – it’s like Janis Joplin turned into Zadie Smith.

Ram Dass said that “We’re all so busy being who we think we are.” Too true. Where I always knew I’m a country girl at heart, I don’t think I realised to quite what extent. Thankfully, Andalucia’s my oyster – try and stop me. Maybe it doesn’t take a big life change to work out who you think you are and who you actually turn out to be: maybe it just takes noticing that it might be a good thing to appraise every now and then?

PS: Speaking of country girls, the other night I twigged that I’ve mentioned Dolly Parton in three consecutive articles lately. Mentioning her here technically makes that four. I beg of you: please don’t read too much into this. Thanks and howdy.

You'll find sunscreen is more effective...

Earlier in the week, I was compiling a list of tracks from the ’90s for the benefit of the radio show in Brighton I co-host. Naturally, it included the likes of Blur, Oasis, Pulp, Suede and The Stone Roses, amongst many others. One such track was Baz Luhrmann’s Sunscreen record, from 1998.

Like many people, this ‘song’ has always had a profound effect on me. Based on the – now really quite famous – essay, Advice, Like Youth, Is Probably Wasted On The Young, by Mary Schmich, which she wrote for the Chicago Tribune in 1997, Luhrmann’s version featuring Lee Perry as the voice of wisdom, has that wonderfully nostalgic hum to it. Indeed, one of the lines reads, “Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth.” Schmich also writes, “I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt.”

Well, I indulged her, along with millions of people. And because I’m over 26, I’m going to take her advice and try it myself. Buckle up, people: prepare to be advised…

Boys and Girls of the class of 2010:

●        Wear a smile. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, a smile would be it. The benefits of smiling don’t need to be proved by scientists because it’s obvious that it’s a good thing to do. Smiling at people is free and nice, and makes the world a better place. I know this for absolute fact, although the rest of my advice has no firmer basis than my own arbitrary wanderings through life.

●        Your weight does not define who you are. Anyone who infers otherwise isn’t living in reality. Stop trying to lose weight, if that’s what you’re doing, and start listening to your body. Really do: it knows what you do or don’t need. And don’t judge its voice either.

●        Remember that no matter how big a problem seems at the time, there will come a point in the future where your problem will be the past. And in turn, might even be the fundaments of good advice on your part.

●        Be kind to your skin. Remove your make up at night time. Exfoliate and moisturise.

●        If there is one piece of advice you should take, make it’s Einstein’s: “Always apply a higher intelligence to a problem.” Especially if the problem has pissed you off. A record will never end if the needle’s stuck in the same groove, plus, you’ll eventually go mad listening to it.

●        Remember and congratulate other people’s birthday’s, even if they forget yours.

●        Have plants in your house. They’re just as alive as you are and they will show you how much they appreciate your love.

●        Take B vitamins for the five days before and during your period.

●        Don’t be duped into buying financial products.

●        Buy a water filter. Don’t spend fortunes on the bottled stuff.

●        Travel as much as you can as far as you can, but don’t be sanctimonious about your experiences. Being well-travelled does not make you the bigger person. Use your broadened perspective wisely.

●        Never judge anyone, particularly the person sitting opposite you on the tube. You have no idea what they might have been through in life.

●        Live in the present moment, but don’t be hedonistic.

●        Be responsible for yourself. Blame is a low card to deal.

●        Switch off and stop using your computer and hour before you go to bed. Don’t hunch over laptops. Take a ten minute break from the screen every half hour. All this unless you want a bad night’s sleep, the beginnings of a dicky upper back and premature myopia.

●        Don’t buy cheap shoes. The cost of replacing them over and over will end up more expensive than if you splashed out a little in the first place. Wear flats to walk to and from work.

●        Make stuff, with the one exception being trouble.

●        Be grateful for everything you do have, and stop obsessing over the things that you don’t. In all instances, there will always be someone who wishes they were more like you and have what you have. And don’t feel dejected if someone else seems to be getting ahead quicker than you are: your time will come.

●        Don’t start smoking. You’ll regret it.

●        Cook. Even if you secretly relish the claim that you’re useless in the kitchen, perfect one signature dish at least.

●        Feed the birds. But not the seagulls.

●        Acquaint yourself with the works of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, however much you decide you don’t like their stuff.

●        Watch Sex In The City but don’t try and be like the fab four: it is escapism, not a true reflection on how life really is.

●        Being single is not a failure.

●        Laugh.

●        Give up trying to be rich or famous or both. What will be will be. Just follow your truth.

●        Watch the news and read papers but never take anything you read as gospel – this included – unless it truly resonates with you. Same goes for anything anyone tells you. Inform yourself always.

But trust me on the smiling.

Hijacked by Clinton Cards

So, it’s February already. Nothing happens in February and everyone’s generally had it up to their hairline with the winter, so it’s a good thing it’s a short month. But I know what you’re thinking; Valentines Day. I’m well aware the only thing that happens in February is Valentines Day. But how many flippin’ articles have you read lately that hinge pathetically on this afterthought of an event?

Okay, that’s a bit harsh – did you guess already that I pay eff all heed to Valentines Day?- and I know the roots of VD (what an ironic acronym) find themselves, I think, wrapped  up in Christianity and/or Roman whatever it is. That’s fine. But it’s like Christmas and Easter; hijacked by Clinton Cards and Coca Cola.

I get that it’s light relief in otherwise bleak times, yeah, I know. And it’s easy for me to lambaste it all because next month, me and my boyfriend are moving to Spain. South Spain, where it’s as hot as August in the UK by June. Hasta la vista, British winters; adios mizzly rain; hola the good life. Well; kind of.

This has all come round rather unexpectedly – we weren’t planning on moving to the continent at all – but to cut a relatively long story short, our Iberian relocation presented itself as one of those opportunities that a gal like me couldn’t conceive passing up. It’s not for work purposes (well, not exactly) nor is it for reasons of health/sanity /wanderlust etc. It’s just an option and one I know we’d regret not taking.

Our new pile is remote; very remote. Our house, built at the turn of the last century, has been completely modernised, but the best bit is that we’ve been given carte blanche to turn the property off grid. That means we will be resurrecting the two wells already on site by boring down a further 100 or so feet to hit the fallen water table; erected a wind turbine; and taking advantage of the sun by fitting solar panels. We’ll be growing vegetables proper (i.e. not a sorry little patch of nutrition-less soil in our British back garden), embarking on apiary (that’s beekeeping. Yep, you read right), keeping hens and maybe even getting ourselves a goat. We’ve never done anything like this before, but this is what this bumpkin was made for. Just call me Barbara.

I’m not naïve to the fact that this is going to be a hefty exercise in trial and error, nor will it be A Year In Provence. Mind you, it will make for interesting reportage: “Having milked the goat and harvested her capsicums, the bumpkin doffs her cut off denim shorts in favour of some magical get up (probably from Mango or Zara…) to hit the tiles in Madrid.” Let’s just see how it all pans out, eh..?

Should you drop a line to someone from the past?

Okay, so it’s going out on a limb a bit. I don’t even speak Spanish that well (thank heaven for boyfriends that do). But when stuff like this turns up for the taking, you gotta dive in head first, baby. Like love; as much as I’m reluctant to harp on about Valentine’s Day, it’s an apposite occasion to have lingering in the wings ready for show in a few weeks’ time. Whether or not you’re attached, how many V-Days have you spent in the past secretly hoping that a flame of yore has taken the initiative to send you a card? Or, when your text message tone tinkles on 14^th February, don’t tell me you don’t get a fritter of butterflies in your tummy: maybe – just maybe – it’s that guy from whenever letting you know that he’s been thinking about you? And perhaps it’s the other way around? Should you drop such and such from then (and let’s face it; that was a good night) a little message via Facebook?

I’ve done it loads, before I was permanently attached. There have been old flames of mine where the flame in question was nothing more than the strike of a match, least of all a bush fire (if you know what I mean). But with retrospect, I would wonder whether there could and should have been something more. Some I’ve regretted viscerally; some I’m pleased are ancient history. But the thing is, they were all opportunities of a kind, some of which, I simply didn’t see and some of which, I was plain too afraid to follow up.

With no intention of being smug – because no one likes smug – I’m happy I didn’t act on those romantic opportunities that passed me by; my ignorance led me to the lovely fella I’m with now. But even then, he was an opportunity I did see and act on. So, I guess what I’m saying is keep your eyes peeled and don’t be afraid: not just in love and romance, but for everything in life. Opportunities have massive cojones and they liked to be grabbed.