Kings Day PANK Duties

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In Cataluña they celebrate epiphany with Dia de Reyes or Kings Day.  Mrs L invited me to spend my first proper Kings Day with her and the family, which was lovely and now Aunty Anne is en route home after a day spent at Casa L’bonne, full of Mexican food and zero alcohol beer.  I arrived laden with gifts that the Kings left in my house by mistake and a shopping bag full of

Chilaquiles and enmoladas

Chilaquiles and enmoladas

Mexican ingredients for the Mex feast I was going to prepare.  Ours was most certainly an alternative Dia de Reyes!!  As well as spending some quality time with my L’bonettes (two gorgeous girls, five and four), I was set up with some French dude who, before I met him, was described as ‘no hottie, but no munter either’, which as you can imagine, didn’t fill me full of confidence quite honestly.  But, and this really is a deal maker, he makes and sells tables for a living ………  Useful skill to have, furniture making. Worth a punt!

Sunset on my THIRD Dia de Reyes. Where does the time go?

Sunset on my THIRD Dia de Reyes. Where does the time go?

Fast forward six hours and I can safely say I don’t want to date the table maker with a negative outlook on living in St Barts (how is THAT possible), and who stripped off his shirt and flung it unceremoniously on my best friend’s couch (revealing a t-shirt I hasten to add), before leaving for a motorcycle ride with Mr L.  THAT would annoy me if it was my house and my boyfriend, but as a guest in someone’s house, it’s unspeakably rude!

Apart from that, I’ve had a gorgeous day and am going to make plans for the first AP/L’bonette outing in a few weeks. Scary!!

Ikea + 1s

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There are certain things in life that you don’t like to do but that you must do.  IKEA on a Saturday afternoon in ANY country is one of these  things.  When you are a single woman, there are also certain things you must have that are essential to help you do the things that you must do but don’t like to do.  An IKEA+1 is one of these things.  Never attempt a trip on your own, it is a dangerous and ferocious home-assembly wilderness that can psychologically and physically damage you for life.

My friend and I are each other’s IKEA +1s.  I asked her to help me after the first time I went alone and tried to buy a bed and all the connected items in my non-existent second language and then got into a vehicle with an unknown Columbian man who didn’t speak a word of English and happened to be standing outside with a van.  It was only half-way home that it dawned on me that it may have been a foolish move as I could quite easily be driven off route, none the wiser because I had no idea where anything was back then, into the middle of nowhere and clubbed to death with a piece of 49€ pine bed frame.  So on my second trip Miss T came with me to get a replacement bed, as the first one had collapsed into a pile of tinder with some rigorous use, and after we arrived home, proceeded to put it together at 11pm under the influence.  There was nothing in the instructions to say we shouldn’t and I’m sure the neighbours were delighted.

This time we were going to purchase giant wardrobes for her that would, when constructed, lead her to a magical kingdom where a lion was God (or at the very least, get her bedroom organised).  While IKEA had comedy music playing we gave ourselves hernias for pleasure in the quest for self-fulfilment and used our own bodies as accurate tools for measurement.  i.e.  Once large, flat-pack wardrobe carcass is placed horizontally on trolley, lie on said  large, flat-pack wardrobe carcass to ascertain that it WILL indeed fit in your bedroom.  We grunted and groaned as we hauled lumps of wood 10 times bigger than ourselves onto the trolley and dragged it around the store to the admiring glances of numerous pecked and addled men (see below).  And while we stood sweaty and tired, but triumphant in the queue to book home delivery, my friend sang, ‘Independent Women‘ by Destiny’s Child……….

As an aside, IKEA is also a great place to learn incredibly valuable life-lessons, like, for example, how to keep a man (in terested/general/carcerated/some kind of obedient trance-like state.)  And also how to achieve greatness as a woman human.  These are the steps you must follow:

1.  Walk about with an obvious purpose, like you really know what you are doing.  When we all know that IKEA is a secret organisation taking over the World, masquerading as a cheap furniture shop, with codes almost as impossible to crack as the DaVinci one.  (It is REAL!)  If you do this, your addled man (see above) will follow like a puppy.

2.  Ensure you have impeccably manicured nails, a fancy handbag slung over your arm and are wearing tottery heels.  Practical attire for the IKEA warehouse.

3.  Point at things and say, “We need that”, “We want that”, “What do you think about that?”  All of this can be roughly translated back to, “I like it, we are buying it, pick it up now and place it right here on this trolley that I am also pointing at, but will not push closer to you to make things easier and/or help you in any way, shape or form”.

4.   Repeat step 3 repeating “That”, “That”, “THAT!!” while pointing a lot and walking about with purpose for approximately the next four hours, 37 minutes and 13 seconds, dragging addled man along for shits and giggles (and ALL the heavy lifting).

5.  Even if you have TWO trolleys of exceptionally heavy flat pack materials (what DO they make that stuff out of?), don’t help.

6.  Go to till and pay with addled, obedient man’s credit card.

If you follow these few simple steps, you will find the path to true relationship happiness.  I promise.

Dry January – 3 days and counting

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I signed up to Dry January to raise a few bob for Alcohol Concern and to see if I remembered what it was like not to drink. I used to do it voluntarily years ago, but then it got harder and harder as there was the ‘after Christmas’ reunion (wine obligatory), a birthday (cava obligatory), a gig (beer obligatory). Also, after the last big knees up at the birthday of a friend, I really, honestly thought I was going to have a heart attack, as my heart pumped at double strength to try and eradicate the booze from my blood. I was genuinely scared.  And I was also a snog slag that night, my confidence buoyed by wine, cava, beer and cocktails.

I’ve been good so far, having discovered the taste of non-alcoholic beer and am looking for a good wine substitute. I obviously like the taste of alcohol. I don’t have great expectations apart from a humungus miracle change. Better skin, a smaller waistline (my age+cava/beer/wine/chorizo/cheese=an ever-increasing circumference), bigger bank balance – 2″ taller and 5 years younger. I’ve been drinking the green sludge in the picture for a couple of days too, thanks to the advice of my friends in London. The Super Scum contains a cocktail of green stuff, usually found atop ponds and washed up on beaches, but apparently I need it in my life for more energy and a better immune system.

I went for a fabulous lunch yesterday in an Argentinian restaurant, Gaucho’s, with my ex (more about THAT later) and wanted nothing more than to have a giant glass of amazing red to go with my incredible lump of cow.  I didn’t.

I’m going to tango tonight and this will also prove to be a challenge as I like nothing more than a glass or two of cava to fuel my ability and chatter.

damm-lightFree Damm 0,0 is my new best friend.

Hi, I’m Anne Pank

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I’m pretty sure there’s a very good reason I don’t have kids.  Deep down my witchy senses tell me that the Universe had a large hand in saving some poor, unsuspecting little mites the pitying glances of other, more responsible and deserving adults, as mummy left them tethered outside the supermarket where the doggies should be or lost sight of them careering around a busy street while she chatted to girlfriends over a glass of Pinot in a packed, summer, Barcelona terrassa.

I almost decided to have a child once, just a mere two months before I discovered the prospective father was a cheat and worse, a liar (my PET hate).   I’m going to hazard a guess, with the benefit of hindsight though, that my motivation for that decision was a little skewed…… Still love him to bits.  We have a great relationship, life’s too short.

And once again the Universe spared me and more, spared them (the children that is), a life as a product of divorce, before the wedding/birth had even happened, with parents living in different countries.

The only other time I experienced anything remotely resembling maternal stirrings was when I was around 20, sitting on a tall stool round a pattern-cutting table on my fashion and textiles course, listening to the tutor.  My tubes twinged, my gut said ‘BABY’ in a gentle whisper and I experienced an almost atmospheric-strength pull towards motherhood.  For approximately 13 seconds.  Then it was gone and giant Welsh Jeni passed out from the heat in the room, smashed her chin wide open as all her 6ft, 15 stone frame hit the tiles like a felled tree and I quickly forgot all baby urges.

I never felt them again.

Fast forward 22 years.  I live in Barcelona, having moved here in September 2011 with £1000, 50 kilos of shit I didn’t need (approximately 42 kilos of those were shoes), and the ex in tow.  Bless him.  He wanted to help.