The bitter bitch is back. In the cold, dark, depressing home country of hers with only 13 new freckles to remind her of the Spanish sun she only 24 hours ago was enjoying. We're already a week into the new year and I haven't even wished you a good one! So, to each and everyone of you- may it be a happy one!
That's one week down and a mere 51 more to go. What a year last year was: full of heartbreak, financial worries, professional angst...I suppose this year can only be better, eh? Not going to make any promises I know my feeble will power can't keep though. I was planning on keeping a dry January but that flew out the window on the first day as we found ourselves having lunch at one of our favourite restaurants after a stroll in the sun...
The New Year celebrations went well, though terribly glamorous and elegant they were not. This time though, through no fault of mine...!
The man who built The Man's Spanish villa still lives there, in the self-contained flat in the third floor of the compound, looking after the premises when we're not there. Though his wiry, 70-something frame isn't much of a security unless we're being burgled by an army of stuffed toys. He's also supposed to keep things running (taking care of the maintenance such as cleaning the pool)- hence the nickname Pool boy. He doesn't really do that though as he seems too busy entertaining. He's a bit of an aging lothario, trawling the net for South American 30-something supermodels.
He brought his latest conquest over for New Years Eve dinner. Lovely enough girl. And seemed to genuinely appreciate the spread I'd been slaving in the kitchen all day for. The dinner was a veritable culinary around the world cruise: I made duck gyozas, coconut prawns with mango-chili dip, carpaccio, caprese salad with home made foccaccia, köfte with tzatziki and pomegranate seed tabbouleh and serrano-wrapped panga with grilled asparagus. By the time we got to the piece de resistance (the gyozas, hand crimped by yours truly) she seemed... well, overwhelmed by it all. OK, to put it bluntly, she'd passed out face down on her plate.
So as the clock hit midnight and the rest of the Spain was swigging Champagne, consuming those grapes, feeling joyous and marvelling the fireworks I was stuck in the loo, holding her hair while she was being sick.
I don't think we'll be hearing from her again...!
So, things can only get better from here, right?
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