Shattered

You know when you know you have to be up early to crack on first thing, drive somewhere, go on holiday, or do something significant; do you sleep well? Never. Instead you wake up and look at the clock, repeatedly, thinking it’s at least an hour since you last looked, but find it’s only been 20 minutes or so. And by the time you should be getting up, you’re so shattered, all you want to do is sleep a bit more? *snooze*

Peace before the mayhem

Ok I’ve dragged myself up – I’ve been excited about this for ages, but now that buzz has been replaced by a tired head, and frustration that I can’t just crawl onto the couch with a bowl of porridge and James Martin. C’mon B, sort it out, girl!

I had in fact planned this (obviously, this is me) so knew I’d treat myself to breakfast out this morning. I figured, I’ll spend all morning packing the car, unpacking the car (when that last box won’t go in), taking stuff out of said last box, distributing it between other boxes, repacking car, finding newly-sized boxes no longer fit in positions they were before… And when I (finally) get to the other end, I’ll spend all afternoon lifting boxes up 8 flights of stairs, so will be exhausted by the time I’m done! Hence, 5 minutes of peace and calm is allowed before the mayhem begins (scheduled mayhem that is, this is me).

However, perhaps Costa wasn’t the best place for ‘peace’ or ‘calm’…?

… no, just mayhem

I’m sitting by the window. There are the typical couple of ladies out for a flat white before shopping, a pair of chaps who probably drove their wives into town to shop and are now keeping out of the way for an hour or so, a father and son debating whether son wants white milk or chocolate milk in his cappuccino (son can’t be more than 5), and another chap trying to decide if he wants chocolate sprinkles (must be at least 60. Years, not sprinkles). This is typical of most Costas I’d say; until a birthday party enters.

I kid you not. It’s 9.30am. No they haven’t been out all night either. Must be about 10 of them, and they’re now trying to rearrange the furniture to accommodate their group. This project is led by Gok – a real luvvie, who appears to know precisely what should happen, just as other people are doing it, but still gives “why not try…yes, perfect” type comments, as the rest of the group pull tables together.

This Krypton Factor challenge causes much entertainment to the shopping chauffeurs, who are transfixed, staring at Gok… not sure whether it’s him or the Krypton Factor that intrigues them (they’re getting on a bit, and this is Yorkshire) but their conversation has stopped…

I can’t wait to people watch in London… dammit I’m meant to be packing, it’s 10am already, bugger!

Ttfn Bxx

In the past few days, I’ve really started to notice things about where I live, which I previously either chose to ignore, took for granted, or just didn’t notice.

The Peter & Paul show

Peter Levy and Paul Hudson. Anyone who watches the BBC News coverage will know exactly who I’m talking about and, those who don’t, it’s worth a google (if you’re bored) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qMRt68olU4.

These two used to co-present Look North every week night. Well, in fairness, Peter used to present and Paul was the mere Weatherman, but the banter between them was brilliant. Think of Ant & Dec doing a local tea-time news show… double entendre, subtle piss-taking about ties and shoes, hints of late night antics etc… you get the gist. Well Look North soon got renamed in our house as ‘the Peter & Paul show’ and was the source of much entertainment. Clearly BBC Leeds thought otherwise, as Peter was soon relegated to Radio (nothing to do with ‘that nose’ surely?) and Paul still does the weather, and seems to be something of an icon? Or is that just me?

Tea or dinner?

This brings me to another anomaly… the meal which one generally consumes between finishing work and going to bed… the one where the whole family sits round the table (well, if you live on a farm maybe, otherwise debatable, albeit desirable, right?) What do you call it? Tea? Dinner? Supper? What’s the distinction? If it’s Dinner, then what do you eat around midday? You eat later than midday?!… This is a debate which has been ongoing from the day I joined the Leeds office.

Other similar peculiarities include references to timing, like “Spooks is on 9 while 10”. No it’s not! It’s on from 9 until 10. ‘While’ (in my book) means a static period of time (eg Spooks will be on for a while), not a duration or movement in time. Or am I just being pedantic?

According to the Southerners in the office, this is technically referred to as ‘a Yorkshirism’. Another is saying ‘I were…’ or ‘He were…’ instead of ‘I was…’ or ‘He was…’ – simple grammar or local dialect? God knows, and as Yorkshire is God’s own Country, it’s anyone’s guess.

Tollertopolis – road rage with a Massey Ferguson

If you live in York, and work in Leeds (around 30 miles away), you can leave home and be in the office in 35-40 minutes.

If you want to go shopping at Monks Cross, or the Designer Outlet, you can get in the car and drive there, park for free, grab a coffee on arrival, buzz round the shops and be home within the hour. Or if you want to shop in the city centre, you can take a leisurely walk into town, maybe see a few buskers or a military parade en route, and be home again within the hour.

When we had 6 inches of ‘surprise’ snow a couple of months back, I drove up to my parents to watch my dad playing in a gig, and on the way home I passed the Lord Mayor and his Mrs in their stretch limo, she was leaning out of the window laughing directions at the 3 or 4 chaps who were pushing their tractionless car up the road in the snow… only in Yorkshire!

So when the locals arrive at a mini roundabout in a market town, and actually have to WAIT for more than one vehicle, they can start to get a bit frustrated. Especially when said vehicle is a Massey Ferguson… If there’s one thing I learnt from my brother was that if you’re going to buy a tractor, get a John Deere! Yes seriously, there were horns! It was brilliant!

So for my remaining 9 days in Yorkshire, I’m going to look out for Yorkshirisms… watch this space!

Heyupster, seethe… Bxx

So, having blogged 2 months ago that I’d resigned and left the country, I haven’t blogged on the subject since. Could be a few people putting numbers together and coming up with results worthy of Carol Vorderman; others may be piecing the story together bit-by-bit, others probably don’t give a hoot?! Well *gets out Vorderman-style marker pen* I guess I should explain.

In February, I was offered a new role with Barclays Wealth, working in their Canary Wharf office in London. This posed more than the obvious ‘do I take it’ question… Will this role excite, enthuse, motive and/or stimulate me? Will it help me get to my dream job? Is it worth leaving Xerox, where I’ve spent the past 6 years? Am I ready to relocate? What will I do with my place in York?

At the end of the day, I decide the answers are just excuses not to go for it, and that’s not me. So I accepted the offer, started the clock on my 13-week notice period and suddenly had a heap of things to plan…

So, 8 weeks on and things now feel like they’re starting to happen. In two weeks, I’ll be packing him full of things I probably should be throwing away, and driving Bruno down to London for the final time. Two weeks later, I’ll be handing over a laptop which has somehow managed to avoid flying through a window on numerous occasions, a sim card which never had an accommodating handset (permanent divert to iPhone was far more sensible), various security passes and key fobs (including those I thought I’d lost, have since had replaced, and subsequently discovered the originals in the bottom of a pedestal unit I managed to fill with paperwork six years ago and hardly dared open since – the paperless office, kind of…) and Bruno.

Cue sad music 

Still not quite sure how I’m going to do this. I’m a petrol head. I worked in a garage when I left school. I got more of a kick out of Swarfega than other substances through university, and after graduating, I got a car before a job. So when other girls treat themselves with Leboutins, I treat myself with cars, and am now lucky enough to drive a car which corners like it’s on rails, has enough horses under the bonnet to make it fun, and has various gadgets and gizmos to make the drive an effortless experience. But realistically, having a car like Bruno in London, where he’ll be parked on the drive 90% of the time, is an expensive luxury which I can’t really justify (at least, not until I’ve settled into London life and budgeting anyway!) But giving him up is going to be the hardest part of this whole life-changing move for me (my best friend and my mum, have already started discussing a post-Bruno support network.)

Since the two months it took me to pick and spec him, and the 20 weeks it took for Audi to make and deliver him; complete with all his naughtiness over the past 2 ½ years, Bruno has been my second office (conference calls in traffic jams, global WebEx meetings from motorway laybys etc), my second home (overnight essentials in a box in the boot, emergency Mars bar and water bottle in the glovebox), my entertainment (the SatNav’s usual poshness giving way to broad Yorkshirism when saying ‘Castleford’), my counsel (yes, I talk to him and he often provides useful advice, especially when lost in the Buckinghamshire countryside), and my friend. Yes, yes, I know it’s sad. But this is me; this is what I’m like!

When I had to say goodbye to my TT three years ago, a friend told me it was like ending a relationship – it feels painful and emotional at the time, but you soon get over it and find someone new. That happened when I got Bruno so I’m sure I’ll get over it… and if I don’t, I’ll just get a car again! But if anyone is going to the car auctions near Slough in the next few months, and a Black Edition Quattro comes up, it’ll be a good buy at anything under £16k… 😉

Cue Take that music (X Factor style)

But there’s plenty to look forward to and get excited about. I’m moving to Putney. When I first started looking at locations in London, Putney was a fave. The leafy green feel of South West London, the proximity to the river, and the general feel of Putney have appealed to me, ever since I had a night out there in 2000 for Tori’s hen do. But I was advised against it, as it’s a bit far out, not ideal for commuting to the East End, and doesn’t have the best transport links. So I looked at other places; next to MI5 (hoping Daniel might drop by), Paddington (the ‘please look after this bear’ ethic is tough to shake), Wimbledon (handy for the annual summer Pimms outing), Docklands (another childhood dream of living near Tobacco Dock)… but they all seemed to have a reason to say no.

Then I found this place “Putney – riverfront apartment – massive double room in stunning mansion block” and got excited. The ad said viewings would be held on Sunday, I was in London on Tuesday morning, and places like this get snapped-up pretty quick. So I emailed them and booked to go and see it Monday night. Others had booked to see it Sunday night, so I was expecting a call to say it’d gone. But luckily for me, one of my new flatmates was poorly on the Sunday, so they postponed the viewings until Tuesday. I went to see it Monday night, and by Tuesday morning, the other viewings had been cancelled and I was sending ‘Eeeeeeeek!’ text messages to Alex, Sarah and Wendy. Their responses typically varied – Wendy wanted to be sure I could still afford to go out, Alex was arranging bubbles to celebrate, Sarah was logging onto Google Maps to plot the route from SW15 to SW19… perfect all round!

Look after the tyres

Now this is a weird feeling. I know I have lots to do – sorting / chucking out things I haven’t used in years, boxing up what’s going into storage, packing what’s coming to London, cleaning, painting, changing address, eating up the food in my cupboards (rather than buying more fresh stuff). But I feel like the F1 drivers at the moment; running at 80% so as not to burn out too soon. This time next week, I’ll be in full flow, as I start moving things into storage, but if I pack too soon, I’ll end up with nothing to wear (clothes being in suitcases), nothing to eat with/off (cutlery/crockery being boxed-up) and sitting on the floor surrounded by boxes containing the essentials I generally use to get by. So I’m looking after the tyres and just doing things slowly… BUT IT’S SO FRUSTRATING! I’m a doer, I hate being bored, I need more than enough to keep me occupied, I get a buzz out of falling into bed at night exhausted, being a fly in a jam jar is just my style! So having to sit back, looking at a list of things I could be doing but not yet, is driving me nuts!

It’s a similar thing at work too – I have a list of programmes to be delivered in 2013 which, typically, I’d be cracking on with right now. But there are things I mustn’t do, promises I mustn’t make, because I won’t be here to deliver on them. I’m having to stop myself doing, and start documenting what needs to be done later in the year, for my successor to pick up. I’m generally good at documenting things, but if I have spare time at the weekends or in the evenings, I’d prefer to be doing them – not because I have to, but because I like being busy. So add that to tyre management on packing, I’m mentally like a coiled spring! There’s only one thing for it… book a Grand Prix.

Hasta luego Bxx

Yesterday, a colleague at work asked me “Bloody hell Rebecca, can’t you stay in the UK for more than 5 minutes?” It would appear the answer is “No”, as I now find myself onboard BA flight 2584 to Venice.

Beside me is my best mate, Sarah; who I’ve managed to kidnap from the realms of a husband and three adorable children, left to field for themselves for the next three days.

Due to collect Sarah at 8.15 last night, we started tweeting around 8ish about our packing abilities, with such hash tags as #stillpacking #notusedtocolddestinations #rubbishatpackinglight #havingabootmare and #flipflopsoptional

Drive Louise, drive!

Only an hour late, I pull up outside Sarah’s house, put her luggage in the boot (note: her case is smaller than mine, yet she claims to have brought more?! She’s good at this!) and teach her eldest (my godson) to say “ciao ciao”. Then in true Thelma & Louise fashion, we’re onto the highway and away into the night…

Well, not quite. Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis enjoyed a Wild Turkey straight up, the grand canyon, and Brad Pitt wearing nothing but 501s, a cowboy hat and a hair drier, screaming “take me, break me, make me mad…” We endured a can of red bull, packet of percy pigs, series of lane closures, and a’workforce in road’ wearing high vis jackets and a transit van. Lovely.

We arrive at Gatwick’s Premier Inn around midnight, nail a nightcap of Twinings’ best, before falling into bed in our pjs. It’s rock n roll people, trust me.

Whilst this jetsetter lifestyle is one I’m loving in my mid-thirties, my glands are telling me I need sleep. So as we don’t fly until 12, I’m thinking no alarm required! Sarah’s body clock, on the other hand, is accustomed to the care of her brood, who are usually running her ragged by this time. So we’re up and out by 9am, in a mission to shop… (No, we haven’t got to the airport yet.)

So here’s my bad… (is that right? Trying to be ‘street’ is always risky, especially for me, what I mean is ‘here’s my confession’ but I may have done the whole bad thing very badly?… I’ll get my coat.) So having monitored the weather forecast daily, knowing we’re going to Italy, had an email from my papa telling us it’s wall-to-wall sunshine in Venice this weekend, and tweeted Sarah #dontforgetyourshades, yes you guessed it. I forgot my shades. Audrey Hepburn would be turning in her grave that my Prada classics are still at home. So first stop this morning is shade shopping. But in double quick time, I have two new pairs (one’s never enough) and were heading for the North Terminal.

Leo and Gaga

A cheeky breakfast later, courtesy of Jamie’s Italian, and we’re heading down to the gate. On route, we talk about the distinct lack of holiday-makers; especially missing those wearing shell suits, who’d already have consumed 5 pints, probably of vodka, because they can, because they’re on holiday, off to Magaluf, probably, and who’d undoubted come home, in March, in single-digit temperatures, wearing flip-flops, shorts, a vest top and sunburn. Instead, we’re being followed by two chaps in dark suits, captains hats and stripes on their arms. Now it may be a cliche, and Leonardo di Caprio in Catch me if you can has much to answer for, but there’s something about a pilot in uniform which is just fine. Sarah and I giggle like schoolgirls at whether they could be flying our plane today. We clock one of their badges – BA’s Scott Allen looks awfully young, maybe he’s a cabin attendant? We descend the escalator, Scott and Leo follow. We turn towards gate 104, so do the chaps. Blimey, are they old enough to be in charge?

Whilst we’re pondering whether we’re actually old enough to be their aunts, further entertainment is simmering behind us. A lady travelling alone, we’ll call her Gaga, is on the phone, and desperately trying to convince the person on the other end, that she didn’t hang up on them. After the third time, each repetition growing in volume, I think gates 101-113 are convinced she hadn’t hung up, but she seems determined to tell us, regardless. Mild amusement but of little significance… until we got to the runway. At this point, engines roaring, ready to start our take off run, I suddenly ask myself, why the cabin crew haven’t yet taken their seats for take off? It would appear that Gaga, now seated about five rows in front of us, is still on her phone. But this time, she seems in some distress. The kind BA lady (let’s call her Annie) is telling her that Emergency Services are on their way, and they can handle it. But no; on her feet and trying to retrieve her case from the overhead locker, Gaga wants to get off. (Given that we’re miles from the terminal, and sitting on a runway, I’m not quite sure how she plans to escape?)

Well I’ve no idea what Annie said to Gaga… (all I can think of is the scene on Airplane!, where there’s a queue of passengers waiting to calm an agitated woman, the queue including a Russian with a pistol and a nun with a baseball bat!) …but it worked, as Leo comes over the tannoy with Cabin crew, seats for take off please and our big bird lifts us off into the blue.

So just one day after a bit of a trek in one European capital, I’m doing it all over again, this time in the UK.

At 5.45 this morning I was woken by Michael Hutchence’ dulcet tones of All Around. I can’t remember the last time I was so deeply asleep when my alarm went off – I must’ve been fast asleep as I woke quite abruptly, rather than the usual groan, snooze, dose routine… Nothing quite beats a night in your own bed when you’ve been away, right?

So I’m up, showered, packed and off by 6:22 and England’s roads are empty – 2hrs 29mins later I pull up in North London! Bruno must’ve been on autopilot coming down the M1 into Finchley, there’s even a space waiting for him at his ‘other’ home 🙂

Sssshhhhh…

Knowing my best mate was out checking the consistency of cocktails in Bank last night, I creep in as quietly as possible, carefully position a bunch of April showers in the kitchen, and on my way out I manage to knock the key pot off the side… If that hadn’t woken her my subsequent language (as colourful as her flowers) must’ve done! I pause for a sec, no sound, clearly a good night last night as there’s apparently no waking her! Cool. Right, tube…

Where’s Bond?

Having watched Skyfall on the plane to/from Barcelona, I now find myself in a number of places where the film was set… Luckily this excludes Scotland (not a place I’m keen on) but as I head down the escalator on the underground, I find myself turning round just to check that Danuel Craig isn’t flying down the metalwork on his backside, in hot pursuit of Mr Silva… Nope, this morning the only thing doing this manoeuvre is a copy if the Metro. Ah well, maybe he’s on the tube…

Heading for Waterloo, I board the tube and as I look down the carriage I see Daniel is not actually staring back at me from behind the connecting door of the next carriage. Bugger.

At Waterloo, I grab a quick Costa and hop onto an overground train. I haven’t been on a local train in this country for ages – this could be a novelty! The South West train route follows the south bank, past MI6… now Daniel’s got to be here somewhere…? No joy. Ah well bugger that. I’ll just stay on the train and see where it takes me… Next stop: Twickenham? Ah ok then!

Swing low xx

Mmmm is it Friday already? I woke up this morning feeling a little fuzzy, probably something to do with the 5 glasses of cava I managed to polish off yesterday, before the litre bottle we popped last night… but they do say that a good wine gives no headache the following day, and I’d agree with that. The rest of my body, however, feels otherwise, and I’m not as excited about my forthcoming journey as I usually am. That said, I’m relieved I planned said journey yesterday, otherwise I could easily be found on a station somewhere, looking as lost as Paddington Bear, just short of a marmalade sandwich. 

Planes, trains and almost a trip to Dublin

Staying out close to the circuit has its benefits, but getting from there to the airport then requires some planning.  The one fixed time is my boarding time – 10:50 (yes I checked my boarding card this time!) so I work back from there.  I can get a train to the airport from Barcelona Sants in the city. And I can get a train to Sants from Santa Rosa. With transfer time in between and the somewhat unpredictable reliability of the Spanish trains, I need to allow enough leeway. So I leave the hotel at 7:45am, wander down to Santa Rosa and experience the joy that is the Spanish commute – a chap in a suit, 2 girls wearing trackies and an OAP with a shopping trolley.

AN: why does everyone over here wander round with either a dog or a shopping trolley? I don’t mean a Tesco style trolley, but one like my Nanny used to have, an upright rectangular bag on wheels, with enough room to fit me inside. And it’s not just the women, the guys have them too – one delightful looking chap yesterday was wandering through Mollet wearing baggy pants, trainers, a string vest, flat cap and wheeling a trolley (without a bag on it) – he was about 70-odd. *Bemused*

Anyway, the commuter traffic got no busier, even in Barca itself; we pull into Sants around 8:50am but there’s little sign of anyone other than tourists. I know the economy is in turmoil and unemployment is high over here, but is this it? Or do they start work earlier than this? *Stumped*

I head up the escalator into the main concourse and over to the ticket desks to purchase the next leg of my journey – the Aeroport train. Of the 20 or so tickets kiosks available, numbers 17 and 18 are open – I say open; they’re staffed by Pedro and Manuel, neither of whom look especially awake, but both of whom have lovely long queues of customers just waiting to annoy them by asking for tickets. So I queue up; after about 10 minutes I reach the counter, ask for a single to the airport, and Manuel behind the counter shakes his head and points to the right – so I must buy my ticket from his friend next door? Why? Whatever. I join the queue for Pedro’s kiosk.

You guessed it – when I reach the front of the queue, Pedro also shakes his head (I’m sure they were laughing at this point) and he also points to his right… about 10 metres further down the hall is another row of ticket kiosks, identical in appearance to those of Pedro and Manuel, with just the one kiosk open, staffed by an older, but immaculate looking lady. I count to five, in my head, in Spanish, and keep my cool, then wander down to see Maria, in the desperate hope that she will sell me a ticket to the Aeroport. By this point, my leeway is about used up and I have three minutes before the 9:09 train I’d planned to catch was due to leave. Maria sells me a ticket, simples. “Via si us plau Senora?” She points and says “Platform 9 Miss” in perfect English. At this point, I’m past caring about trying to speak the local lingo; I just thank her and pelt it down to the platform, just as the train pulls in. Spot on.

Next challenge is the airport – there are two terminals (termini?) and they’re miles apart. There is a shuttle bus connecting them, but this time luck is on my side – the train drops us at T2, I wander straight through security, without even setting the beeper off, and I’m airside. Sweet. 

By ‘eck you smell gorgeous love

I’m female, which means I’m genetically unable to walk through duty free without at least smelling one perfume, right? I remember mum asking me to get her some scent or other, that she can’t get in the UK. Right, I know she’ll ask me when I get home, and as she’s giving me a lift back from the airport, I can hardly turn up empty handed, can I? But what was it she was after? Oh Lordy, I’ve no idea! Something musky? But there’s loads of musky ones… This is going to be fun. So I follow logic and look for all the perfumes I know she likes, and manage to find one with a ‘musk’ edition. But hang on, if this isn’t the right one, I’m going to be stuck with it. What does it smell like? I’m already clad in my usual Coco Mademoiselle, so can’t spoil my Chanel. So I wait for a poor unsuspecting chap to walk past and I spray a little onto his jacket – ha ha! Know I shouldn’t but it made no difference, his jacket still smelt of leather.  I’m none the wiser, so I call mum. No answer. I leave voicemail. She calls me back, whispering… “I’m in the toilets at Sainsbury’s!”  Too much information, so I try to keep it short…  Is it the right one? Yes, how much is it? It’s €77. How much is that? It’s €77! No, in real money? That is real money! In Sterling! About £66 I think? OK, I’ll have it please! Done. Purchase made, now down to the gate.

Which flight are we queuing for? Dublin. Ah.

Unfortunately, by this point, with just 10 minutes left before boarding, the information boards are still showing my flight as boarding from area M5, but gate number tbc. So I wander down to M5, where there are 10 gates numbered 50-59. All but one are in darkness, with a queue of Brits standing at gate 52. Without any signs showing flight numbers, I’m assuming this will be my flight then? So I join the queue, conscious that, at some point, I’ll need to check. After a couple of minutes, at the time our flight is meant to be boarding, gate 54 starts showing any signs of life. I ask the couple in front which flight this queue is for, they respond Dublin but I’m preoccupied with realising it’s the musky-smelling chap from Duty Free, who’s now being interrogated by his wife about why his jacket smells of perfume.  #Awkward.  Ladies and Gentleman, Jet2 flight 232 to Leeds Bradford is now boarding from gate 54… I’m outta here!

ttfn xx

Now I’ve been to a circuit when there isn’t a race on, does that make me hardcore? Looking around me at Circuit de Catalunya yesterday, I think maybe it does – either that or I should buy a motorbike and go to a Van Halen concert (then not wear the T-shirt for at least 10 years, so it looks old school).

What did surprise me yesterday, was the number of couples there. Some fell into the category above, but others were about my age (or maybe younger – I’m being optimistic here). On race days you see plenty of couples – she’s bought him an F1 ticket as a gift (many guys’ dream pressy I guess?) or he’s bought ‘them’ a pressy (clearly she was hoping for LeBoutins and is there out of duress) or, like me, one or both just love the atmosphere of a live event. But on test days, when the majority of the day is spent waiting for the odd car to buzz past, without any expectation of overtaking, pit stop strategies, merchandise paraphernalia or EJ in one of ‘those’ shirts… you have to wonder what makes them come?

Hang on, what’s made me come to see this? To be honest, I not really sure! It’s a long way to come for a day of sitting in the freezing (yes it’s flipping cold!) grandstand or wandering around the track, without the usual entertainment I love of people watching. But then Pastor Maldonado flies past in the shiny new FW35 with that familiar roar of a V8 and my question is answered, as a smile appears across my face and I hear myself going ‘neeeeoww’ under my breath (and anyone who claims they stopped doing this as a child is blatantly lying).

A couple of moments later, Jenson nips past too – I catch a photo of him in the silver McLaren and email it to Donna back in the office, knowing she’ll be snowed under with print quotes, watching a countdown timer on her desktop, telling her how many hours until the first race in Melbourne, and the number of weeks until she’s here in Catalunya to experience her first ever pitwalk… Her reply is almost immediate; “Aaaaah so excited!”

Adrian Sutil comes round turn 7, as his back end steps out a little, and he’s followed by Nico Rosberg (Lewis isn’t driving today – he’s apparently busy in his new motorhome cooking me dinner…)

I wander down to the start/finish straight to get a beer, and suddenly there’s noise up the grandstand, the doors in a certain red garage are coming back, and there he is – the small crowd of faithfuls cheer, as Fernando Alonso appears in the F138 and sprints off up the pitlane!

Season starts next month folks – lights out in Albert Park in 3weeks 2days…!

xx

The sun is out, there’s not a cloud in the sky, I’m in Barcelona, and I’m flipping freezing! Its apparently 16 degrees which, if I was in the UK would feel positively tropical, I’m sure. Yet here, I’m wearing a tshirt, cardi, scarf and a blazer, with skinny jeans and high boots, and I’m chilly billy! I blame the drafty bus that brought us up the mountain. So once at the top, it’d be rude not to take refreshment at Miramar, right? Just to sit in the sun out of the breeze and thaw out.

It’s actually 2pm, so I shouldn’t be surprised to see people enjoying a cerveza or vino tinto. But I’m not quite there yet, so I’m helping my thawing efforts by having a Te con leche instead.

Now it feels like I’ve only been up about an hour, but I’m clearly acclimatised to the local way of life. The restauranteurs we passed on route were putting out the chairs & tables, rolling out the token wine keg to sit outside their door, and straightening their menu stands, just that extra inch, as they do, because it makes all the difference, even though the breeze will blow it over in a second… Yep there it goes… Olé!

One scoop or two?

Meanwhile, a group of Brits have just arrived at the bar… They’ve got to be British; who else would show up wrapped in ski jackets, hats, gloves and scarves, contemplating ice cream?! Ah well, they’re in Spain so it’s summer, right? But when Ringo asks (in his most Spanish sounding Scouse accent) for “two 99s por flavour love… *shouts back wife* …Oi Debs, what’s 99 in Spanish?” I choke on my Te con leche and quietly erupt into giggles. Luckily, my strategic chair adjustment makes enough noise on the wooden floor, to cover up any obvious amusement, leaving Ringo & Debs to select their flavours from the rainbow of options… This should be fun…

What’s an Olympic park like 21years after the rings have gone?

Eerie. I was expecting to be blown away by this. Having seen the extent to which the Olympic additions have had a lasting effect on Barceloneta, the harbour and Port Olympic, I thought there’d be more going on up here… Clearly not. It feels like something out of Terminator but on a sunny day. Lots of concrete, an eerie silence, and nowhere near as huge as I thought it’d be.

So after a mere 15 minutes, I’m back on the bus down into town. Disappointed, but in a sad way, hoping that London’s Olympic park won’t feel like this in 20 years’ time.

Cava @ Tapaç24

Every time I go away, I get a Rough Guide – they’re generally good and I like them as a reminder of places I’ve been. I bought one when I came to Barca last year, but then spent most of my time at Circuit de Catalunya, so hardly used it. This time, I’m trying to see more of the city and just having one day at the track (tomorrow).

So, like the city, my guide is split into 17 sections/districts. Each section provides an overview and list of good shops, cafes, bars/restaurants and clubs. And I’m trying to tick off something in each district I visit. Yesterday I did a few but in section 10 (Dreta de l’Eixample or right hand side) there was one I missed. So I hopped off the fun bus a stop early today and have come to find it.

Tapaç24 is a basement tapas bar, run by Carles Abellan, owner of the designer restaurant Comerç24… Ok I’m a rubbish food writer, so I’ll dispense with the cutlery. I’m just glad I came back to find this place. The menu is simple but the food’s so tasty. And I’ve never had a glass of bubbles with a toastie before, but it works really well, as does a hot fresh scotch egg with a meatball instead of egg inside, and a drop of aioli on top – amazing. If anyone reading this comes to Barca, around lunchtime (or any time to be fair), you have to try this place – no frills but clean, lively and simple tapas to die for. http://www.carlesabellan.com/tapac24/

At this point, I’ve eaten enough but have ordered another cava – enjoying the atmosphere too much to leave just yet; if I’m not found by this time tomorrow, first check Lewis Hamilton’s motorhome (a girl can dream?) then try here…

Brindis xx

I’d planned this week as far as: a) having a day at testing and b) having a couple of days in Barcelona. And I’d planned today as far as getting myself into the city. I’m now on the train but have no kind of itinerary once I get there. So I’m thinking Open Top Bus Tour – it’ll give me some bearings as to what’s where and I can then explore more of the areas I like tomorrow.

There are two tour bus routes – the green goes round the east of the city and the orange does the west. That’s one today and one tomorrow then. So I buy a two-day ticket and head east.

Gaudi’s answer to Letchworth?

Despite the somewhat dubious ‘English’ scripting on the bus guide’s audio, I tolerate it as far as Parc Güell, but at this point I have to alight. My degree Dissertation was based on the sustainability of Garden Cities, so the concept of an unfinished Gaudi variation on a hilltop overlooking Barcelona, is something I want to see.

So I nip into a little shop for a tuna & olive flatbread a bottle of aguia, and I’m off up the steps to Parc Güell.

Not what I expected! It reminds me more of Portmerion than Port Sunlight! Lots of steps, landscaped borders, and stunning hilltop cottages; Bournville isnt a chocolate button on this place! The views are stunning and, if it wasn’t for the shoals of tourists (most of whom seem to be French) it’s be a peaceful, tranquil spot.

Wired for sound

Anyway. I hop back on the fun bus, this time surrounded by a group of excitable Americans, who decide that, because they’re separated by the aisle of the bus, it’s necessary to recite the audio commentary across to each other. In true British fashion, I keep quiet and pretend I haven’t noticed, quietly chuckling at the older couple I’m front who are becoming increasingly annoyed at the Kentucky Posse. But after a couple of minutes I clock one the the American girls looking at my headphones, and I can’t let them suffer any longer (the girls, not the old couple in front) and I show the Americans where to get their headphones, how to plug in and find their language, and Bob’s your Aunty’s live-in lover – the Americans are suddenly silenced by education.

Gothic district

Before the fun bus returns to where I found it, I decide to hop off again (narrowly missing the grand opening of a new Prada store… They’re recruiting apparently… ?Could tell them I’ve just resigned…? Perhaps not.) Desperate to avoid La Ramblas, I go exploring through the narrow (but very tall and dark) streets to the east. Luckily the sun’s not yet over the yardarm, otherwise I’d be sitting in of many amazing little bars by now – they’re all about 6 feet wide, 30 feet deep, and have wine selections bigger than La Sagrada Famìlia. Focus Rebecca. If you hit the tinto now, you’ll never find L’estacion let alone the hotel So instead, I seek Te.

Caelum

This is apparently Latin for Heaven and it’s one of the most peculiar yet pretty places that I’ve ever enjoyed an Earl Grey. Hidden away in the narrow streets, this little cafe seats about 20 around 7 little square white tables, and has a decidedly French feel to it. The plethora of cakes, sweets and other beautifully-wrapped delicacies are apparently prepared in convents across Spain. There are cistercian cookies, benedictine preserves and chocolate covered figs soaked in Conyac. The walls are bare brick, giving it a chilly feel, but the candles on the tables and dark wooden floors somehow take the edge off and it feels very cosy. I really want to buy a cake but the impressive display says ‘non self service’ so I’m assuming I have to ask – there’s no menu so does one just attract Señora’s attention and point? Ah hang on, an elderly French couple have wondered up and Señora is explaining what’s what… I earwig… I’m suddenly starving… What is it with this place and cakes?! I’m all over this!

I’ve gone for Pumpkin; I expected it to have the consistency of banoffee but it’s much softer and even the coconut on top works deliciously – I now see why they call this place Heaven!

My plan at this point was to find a nice little cafe *tick*, where I could comfortable watch the world go by *tick*, hadn’t considered pumpkin cake but *tick* that one too, and I’d think about everything I need to plan/do over the next three months #fail… I’m too busy people watching, and the thought of anything remotely sensible / life-changing right now is just far too much effort! Later. For now I’m going to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy my Te e Pastìs

Boxy xx

This morning, here I am in my complacent little bubble – I know where L’estacion Nord is… I have photos on my my phone of the timetables, yes both directions… I’ve even completed User Acceptance Testing on a patisserie en route, so breakfast is planned. I’ve checked my Rough Guide and practiced how to ask for a ticket (of the return variety) to Barcelona Catalunya. I think I’m so good, right?

So I rock up at Mollet Santa Rosa, wander up to the ticket counter, and in my most convincing Catalan accent, I ask for my ticket – just as my train pulls OUT of the station. Excellent. It’s only at this point, I check my watch (for the third time since leaving the hotel) to realise that it’s four minutes behind the clock on the wall in the station. Ah. So maybe synchronising watches on last night’s recce could’ve been a good idea?

At this point, Alonso behind the counter (I choose this name due to my friendly ticket seller having just the one eyebrow) starts speaking to me in English – damn, is it that obvious? Or was my Catalan accent less convincing than I’d hoped? Either way I’m actually quite relieved – I haven’t looked up how to ask what time the next train is, and even if I had, I’d have no idea what he was saying in his response, and there’s no way I’m getting my phrase book out in public! So he simply says ‘next train? 12 and 8 minutes’ and I buy my ticket. In English. Language fail, day one. Poor Rebecca, poor from you. Right, my next communication must be in Catalan – redemption required!