…….But with MaryPaz shoes, Carrie’s let herself go and gained two stone, no pop-up gallery openings and ‘Mr Vanilla‘ not ‘Mr Big’. Although I have dropped my bag (condoms an’ all), in public and worn a tiara, that’s probably where the similarity ends…. 

Every so often, the mist clears from my eyes, and I see something afresh.  After my brief trip to Copenhagen, and having lived for four days, like a somewhat ‘normal’ adult (see Ten Commandments of Adult Life ); that being with another actual living, breathing human, in a shared space – I felt kind of weird.  And also that that human being, was the last person I loved and shared love air with, weirder.  But Spring has sprung and the days are warmer and lighter, and the sun puts a different perspective on everything.  I kind of woke up from my post mini-holiday blues as I was dragging my sorry arse out for the first foray into anything resembling exercise, in the best part of 18 months….. and realised I am capable of love: but only after I had first envisaged myself, lithely bounding towards Parc de la Ciutadella, in manner of gazelle, arriving at my destination, pounding along the paths in the park, bouncing around laughing children and charging up the steps behind the fountain, to arrive at the top like a triumphant Rocky.

The PANK triumphs

I arrived at the top of the steps like Rocky alright; after he’d gone the distance with Ivan Drago (and without the Star Spangled Banner and a baying crowd of admirers).  What actually happened was that I lurched the less than two kilometres to my destination, ‘power walking’ the bit of the route where I thought my lungs might actually explode, and dragged myself up the final push to the top.  I did manage to bolt up there huffing and puffing, (so anyone who might be lurking at the top, at eleven a of the m, would be super impressed with my arrival).  And it worked, they were. Result!

Having exhausted myself thoroughly, I decided to saunter back home, picking up a coffee en route and enjoying the sunshine. Nodding smugly to my fellow gym bunnies getting beasted in the boot camp at the park exit, in a ‘keep up the good work’ way, I felt elated for the first time in months. I sang to the chaps in the cafe, Africa by Toto, a better power ballad cannot be imagined for a Saturday morning coffee shop singalong, and appreciated the streets and hidden squares like I’d forgotten to do for a long time.

My heart swelled with real bona fide love,  and I found myself shouting (silently inside my head, of course) – I BLOODY LOVE YOU BARCELONA! ❤️ – and fighting back the tears of joy and emotion.  It would be nice to feel the same sensation for a human being person, but in the absence of that, this city loves you back like no other I’ve lived in, and I’ve never felt akin to anywhere else, quite like I do here.

Rocky would sh*t to reach the top of THESE steps.

So thank you Barcelona, for welcoming me with open arms and an open heart, for taking me to your Mediterranean bosom and not batting an eyelid at my eccentricities.  For the highs and the occasional lows, you are like an actual lover in that respect (only without sexy times). Thank you for filling me full of love and reminding me how lovely that feels, and just…. Well, just being bloody incredible.

Life is good, (apparently after you go for a twenty minute, less than two kilometre run on a Saturday morning).

Same time next week? Hell yeah!

Note: Endorphin highs are REAL, people.