I am looking forward to the summer and being brown and bare feet in the sand. Missing you, my "I'm so sorry I can't be there, you have all my thoughts." Seeing you again and all those colours to dance with. Travelling and staying put. Barcelona. Tarragona. Pamplona. (Bully's gonna get ya!) Spain rocks.

We are looking for a new house but before we find one, there is a man downstairs called Mr. Blair who has to get to know ours first... I don't think he's any relation so I'll put the eggs away for now.

For the duration, I am still and still thinking about you and still writing even though it doesn't all appear here.

In tribute to the birthday girl, I finish on a joke...
What did the inflatable teacher say to the inflatable boy when he brought a pin into the inflatable school?
You've let me down, you've let yourself down but worst of all you've let the whole school down...

I'll get my coat. See you in September.

Make, Do and Mend with all your favourite stars.

Celebrity "Guess Who?" rocks my world...

1. Take one game of "Guess Who?" - available in Prestwick airport apparently.
2. Play game until even the hilarious new rules bore you.
3. Of a boring Sunday afternoon, cut out pictures of your favourite celebrities, three of each celebrity (one for the blue board, one for the red board and one for the cards).
4. Cut two of each to size so that they will fit into the flip up cases that previously held "Guess Who?" favourites like Phillippe and Anne (the ultimate).
5. Insert famous faces into slots replacing former "Guess Who?" characters.
6. Take a deck of playing cards and stick the remaining celebrities onto the required number of cards (depending on whether you have travel "Guess Who?" or the full version, which is larger.)
7. Play.
8. Laugh.
9. Shout at people who think Joey from Friends would have a poodle or Avril Lavigne, while on holiday in France, would eat snails instead of a hamburger... no.

Pacheen.

Is a fire growing out of a jar that has just been de-lidded. The jar is melting and the fire is spreading with intesity and purpose. A friendly fire. I like to watch the shapes and colours changing, I like to feel the warmth the fire wraps me in.
I spilt on the fire and doused a bit, I didn't think.

Spilly gilly apologises.

Today it has gone sunny and warm again.

This morning I saw a man cycling to work in leather trousers.

That just can't have been fun.

The inbetween-us is heavy and rich with ingredients. I breathe it in deeply, pulling in the inbetween-us like the first half of a sigh; gradually but with the force I use when I want every little bit. I exhale and the inbetween-us gets richer, swirling and changing its face.
The inbetween-us spreads out into the dark sky, gets thinner and eventually disappears. A new inbetween-us is born thick, rich and sweet-smelling.
The inbetween-us curls and licks up, meanders its way to the crest of my forehead, glazes my eyes over and bear hugs my lungs. I let it out, contributing my small part to the inbetween us.
The inbetween us sits between us. It sags with each breath out. It's delicious and thick, simmering and stirring calmly.
Pieces are taken from the inbetween-us. I shape bits in my hands just before the inbetween-us is washed empty by the air around it and disappears completely. Even now (when was the last inbetween-us?!) those pieces spin around me. Like the planets they are infinite, eternal and full of stories.

Why don't babies lose their voices?

I have the answer "because of the kind of noise" from a first year nursing student at Teeside but that's not enough for me. If I made any kind of noise for hours on end I would surely be a little hoarse. (A little horse).

If anyone is interested in conducting a little experiment, build yourself a soundproof room and let me know the results.

In other news, why did nobody ever tell me that graphic design was reeeally HAARRRD?! I want to go back downstairs and read the paper all day. No, not really...
I have discovered though that while it might be enthusiastic and impressive to say that you are going to design a whole thing by yourself, in practice it is actually quite challenging. Who'd have thunk that graphic design with no training, no research, no REAL computer skills, not much artistic talent and (apparently) no imagination would be difficult?! Not I.

The words get inside me and trickle down to my heart after they've seen my brain. They drip slowly but with an inconsistent rythmn so that sometimes all I get is that melodic tap, tap, tap. The sound I love of raindrops and a steady wind against my window at night, ushering me off to sleep. Other times it is a downpour of the drops I want to catch and inflate, it's lightening and a thinderclap in perfect unison. These ones floor me for a secondwhile my heart regains a normal beat. These ones have a hundred other words written on them that everyone reads differently.
My bones are still soppy from that last film, that last book and now I have another soaking me through.

(Bounding back into the room she comes... A little out of breath, a little red faced, but smiling from ear to ear to see them all again. She takes giant steps and gives an enormous, wayyy over-emphasised wave. Finally she sits cross legged on a wheely, office chair and talks to the audience)

GILLY: I like the studio, it's going well. Today I have been taking photos of our ads around the place. New ones, down in the metro stop near my office. I have been speaking more Spanish than ever and this is a goooood thing, considering I need to. A lot.
Today was Sant Jordi so I had to fight to my desk in David Attenborough style, machety-ing through bright red roses left for me by admirers far and wide... ...
On St George's day the Catalans (is it just the Catalans?) celebrate a kind of far more classy and tasteful Valentine's day. He's their patron Saint, so the boys give the girls roses and the girls give the boys books. So this morning, all up and down every street there appeared stalls draped in Catalan flags and selling old and new books and roses wrapped in coloured paper and flags and just generally looking pretty. I haven't been down to the Ramblas yet but have been told it's totally packed.

(Without saying goodbye, she pulls her chair back to get momentum and kicks off, launching the wheely chair off into the distance...)

Talk to Studio boss about moving upstairs to the studio - check

Talk to Accounts boss about leaving to move upstairs - check

Casually drop it into conversation with Marta and revel in her reaction - check

Write and send email informing people not to write to my work address to much anymore - check

Finish all tasks asigned to me before I go - ummmm... check?

Tidy desk - check (eerie)

Leave trout in hidden place in office to stink up the place - hahahahaha

(And she floats out of the office, to return in ten days, but not to this little glass box and not to calculators, plastic files, ring binders, excel, powerpoint and brain melt.)

Should I be annoyed that I'm not on the list? No, I suppose not.
Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls - the most humble of humbles, the lowest of the low, the trainee account director. (goferus put-uponipus) The trainee never asks for the recognition she deserves for the work that she does, primarily because ninety per cent of the time she doesn't actually do any. But this time she did and now she feels unappreciated. Boo hiss.

"¿Recordáis este jingle de la fiesta de Navidad? Pues fue premonitorio. Hemos ganado el concurso de las “*”, dejando en la cuenta a * y a *. Enhorabuena al equipo: Alvar, Laura, Ana, Maite, Maria, Eva, Roger, Monica y Marta. (ahem... ahem... aHEM...)"

*Brand/company names have been excluded to protect my sorry ass.

It is raining and I can't wait to get out into it, for the rain to be on the back of my neck and the wind to be messing up my very messy hair. The sky is that white/grey that hides a million different colours and promises lightening later.

Amanda lifeboats is coming back today which is good but Daniel has found a flat already so now I don't have anybody to play Playstation with which is bad.

Seeing old friends and not needing to explain your absence from their lives is one of my favourite things. Tapas is another of those favourite things.

There are only 33 Spanish Words Which start with a "W". All of them are derived from other languages, the Worst of Which are " water polo, m. (sport.) - water polo", "wattaje, m. - wattage" and "whiski, m. - whiskey".

The whizzing water-worm weaves a wicked web of water-vapour waves westwards past walloping whales, waltzing over whispering white horses and whipping past wandering, wafting whitebait below. Widening like wildfire the water-vapour waves whelm all wildlife warping the well-known world into a woozy, whistling whirlpool full of wasted wishes.

The start of this post seems like so long ago in my mind. Words make me happy.

Incidentally, this makes me happy too.

Alright, I know I've mentioned the related search bar before, but this time it's serious. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, it's the ad that Blogger puts on your page so that you can have the webspace (I think). Anyway, you'll notice that it says "Related Searches:" and that the searches it comes up with change as I post more things. It looks at the things I am writing about and puts clever little links to Google about what it thinks are the most topical... topics.

By the time you read this post, I am sure that the related searches will have changed. But as I look at it the phrase that it has come up with to sum up my writing is "Backstreet Boys fanfiction".

If you don't know what fanfiction is, ask Paddy. I'll be sulking in the corner over here....

...hrrrmph... backstreet's back COME ON!?

Oh, here's another one that hasn't been realised yet.

Become good (or even mediocre) at Mathematics.

I just got asked to figure out the percentage of something and then realised I had absolutely no idea how to do it. I knew it was something to do with dividing by a hundred or multiplying by the percentage but couldn't figure out how to get the right combinations of buttons to press.

I feel little and dumb.

Does anyone want me to compare leadership styles of Pinochet and Castro?

Or want me to recite Spanish verbs?

Or want me to give a brief biography of Gloria Estefan?

No?

Just the percentage, you say?

--------------------------------------------------- leg it --------------

Peanut butter crisis over, thankyou all for worrying...

Childhood dreams realised -

Go and see Arrested Development live in concert.
Shake the hand of Speech from Arrested Development.
Be old enough to have pudding before meal.

Childhood dreams still to realise -

Become most important and hilarious person in world (nearly there)
Walk on hands.
Go to Oscars.
Become pirate.
Become medieval character in the vein of Robin Hood's Merry Men.
Work at Disney World.
Build and live in entirely edible house.
Become dolphin.
Procure personal candy floss machine.
Sit on a cloud.

I don't think I'm going to be able to get my head to think about writing today. I've been overwhelmed by this enormous, angsty feeling. I don't know what I can say, it's very serious.

It's just come on, just now. It snapped into my brain and now I can't shake it. And the biggest problem is, is that being here in Spain, there's nothing I can do to rectify it, I just have to wait until it passes.

Is there somewhere I can go to get help? A counsellor or a therapist? A doctor?! Maybe they can take out the part of my brain which makes me feel this way. One thing's for certain, I don't know if I'm going to be able to ride this storm out. The need is burning in my head and scorching my brain and I can't handle it very much longer...



==iF aNyOnE kNoWs WhErE i CaN bUy PeAnUt BuTtEr In ThIs BaRbArIc ToWn... PLEASE rElIeVe My MySeRy==

Enio says that if, when I am writing about work, I only write about Marta, invisibilism and boredom then I am crazy. He means that I shouldn't focus on the negative. In his words, "we are lucky guys". He says I should write about everyone who makes me smile at work and he is right, of course.

Enio is my friend with the broken jeans, hair all over the place and the good heart, or so he says anyway. To me, he is a breath of fresh air in an increasingly smoggy city. On Saturday, the protests were still happening. At 10pm on the dot the people of Barcelona leant out of their windows or stood out on their balconies and made as much noise as they could with pots and pans and whistles and voices. When Enio came round, we went out on the moto, driving down to the centre of town and every time we stopped at traffic lights everybody blew their horns and made a racket in protest against terror. It made me feel local and pretty cool. When we were at the bar, we had deep conversation in Spanish and English (okok callate, nen... yo sé que estas leyendo...), mostly English, I confess... But it was good and so nice to talk properly again, when you feel like you're spiralling out of control as each thought inflates, grows branches and runs riot around your brain.

Lú is the only Brazilian person I know. Her stories make life sound wonderful and full of people and colour. I should have exploited the fact that she was in Barcelona while she was, and spent as much time with her as I could. As it is, she is back in Sao Paolo and I have big dreams of visiting one day. At her leaving party she was resplendently drunken. The night was all about her and she had been trying to breathe in the most of Barcelona before she left. For this reason, she hadn't slept in about four days.

Katherine big sistered me while she was here at the agency. She is another Brit and knows totally what it's like to feel ineloquent or stupid when you know, deep down, that you're not.

Martina has travelled everywhere, it seems. She has learned Spanish so quickly it scares me. I'm terrified of her when she is stressed and we fight sometimes but it is just that she knows what urgency really is and I still have no idea. I am incredibly jealous of her because she has quit her high-powered marketing job and is going travelling and seeing friends in Sydney (probably the only place she hasn't been yet) in June.

There are a lot more people who make me smile as well as these ones. But in indignant response to Enio's accusal that I am negative, I have noted the biggest smiles.

So, work's not bad at all.

Barcelona answers the terrorists






This was an incredible, breath-taking evening. The Passeig de Gràcia is one of the biggest streets in Barcelona, it was mobbed, there was no space to move anywhere. Between seven and eight o'clock, there were very few voices to be heard among the one and a half million people on the street. The protest took two different forms. The first was a clap, either in a rythm of three after three after three repeated or just randomly. This clap started at the front of the group, hundreds of metres away from me. It came up like a wave washing over the heads of everyone in front of us, rolling up and giving us a chance to hop on and ride it. "Here it comes again..." and as it arrived and passed over us going way way back we joined in, clapping and making a noise that symbolised the unity and resolution perfectly.
The other form of protest was with both palms raised and forward. Vulnerable, but neither scared nor defeated. It was a symbol that we have clean hands, we will never dirty our hands by involving ourselves in acts of terror, taking innocent lives.

Our government would not have been able to take part in this protest.

After eight o'clock came the noise. The shouting and chanting and sitting down in the middle of the street urging people, pleading with them to oust the government on Sunday. Various political leaders who attended the protest were taunted, called murderers and forced to leave by the people, who are still totally confused and indescribably sad. It stayed this way for hours.

Here are some more links with some photos on them -

albertobastos

Manifestación 11-M

Especial 11-M

...And the unquestionable Steve Bell

*Photos used with the courtesy (but not permission) of El Pais*
(I don't really know what the deal is with putting photos from newspapers on to blogs. Can I get in trouble? Tell me and I'll take them off if I can.)

I am wading through today.

If you shut your eyes and surround yourself with other things then it does go away for a little bit. But then when you open them again and uncross your arms, its half-closed, scorching, bloodshot eyes are staring at you again and its claws are going for your heart.

Today there are manifestations around the country. The people in my building went out onto the street in protest and reflection for five minutes and then got back to work. This thing is happening all over the city, I would imagine.
At lunch time, I'll go to the centre of town and soak up the mood. More reflection, more remembrance.
And tonight that mood will flip over and turn to anger when the people of Barcelona take to the streets against terrorists.

This murder is happening too frequently now. It is a shock that numbs your brain until the next one and the next one and the next one hundred. Eventually they will figure out who was responsible and they will add the name to a list that is ancient and excessively tangental.

Get back to work, get back to lessons, get back to laughing. But don't try to get back to Wednesday. Thursday stays with us, full of regret, riot and eventual resolution.

Don't forget.

In a blink, it becomes the kind of day that you want to paste over and start again so watch out. If you could rub out the morning and re-write it with everyone getting from A to B safely, on time and preferably with a donut and/or coffee.

The news is on in one of the meeting rooms downstairs and people are filtering about and through the mood. Mostly it is normal. But I don't have anything else to say today.

Remember me?

Sorry for being absent [minded] for so long, I've gone part-time at work which means that now I only have to sit in front of the screen for half the day.

I can only begin to express how lovely this has been so far. Mostly, I doss about the place - practice my diablo, go to the park/beach, play playstation, watch DVDs, wander about in the sunshine. Suzie says I've re-found myself. Not that I had lost myself, but I became a different gilly for a little while. Stressed, tired and irritable but learning a lot. So while weird worky gilly still exists, she has to co-exist now with old, dosser, student gilly. They will (hopefully) live happily ever after... at least for the next two and a half months.

Last night we had two revelations regarding my future. The first will make my millions, the second is what I will spend those millions on.
1. Musical backpacks (entirely copywritten/writed/righted/wrote). A regular rookie (?!) with built in speaker and CD player, harking back to the days of the ghetto blaster on the shoulder but far less manual labour. Groove along the streets attracting the longing and jealous (they're longing and jealous, not laughing and sneering) eyes of passers by.
The dance moves you come up with while walking are quite incredible.
2. My cruiseship with dog track, casino, disco-funk club and dog track (did I say that already?) My giant fur coat, tree trunk cuban cigar, Pat Butcher hair and solid gold shoes with tiny wheels on the bottom which make it look like I float effortlessley from dog track to dog track to dog track.

That's my dream, baby. Ain't no one gonna stop me. Fuckin' G...

I didn't mean to post so much today, but this is a pretty funny article, if you have time to read it...

'I'd like to buy 100 hamsters, please'