A night on the tiles - ahem!

Hattie shows exactly what a flower box should be used for!












Okay . . . back to the lighter stuff!

There are many firsts to overcome when you move abroad - first home, first day at work, first security guard following you round the supermarket (how was I to know you’re supposed to check your backpacks in at the entrance?). However, this had to be the biggest - first date.

No, I haven’t ditched the husband in favour of some Latin lovely; it was a date with a new friend called Laura, who knows my old Spanish tutor. We’d met celebrating his birthday and a couple of weeks later, she phoned out of the blue to ask if I’d like to go for a drink. After I’d arranged to meet her in the city centre the following Friday, I jumped around like a teenager. My first Spanish friend.

Sitting in the bar that night with our friend Paul, a fellow Geordie ex-pat, I realised how important this date was. Apparently, the Spanish aren’t prone to handing out invites for drinks willy-nilly.

“In ten years,” said Paul, with a trace of huffiness in his voice, “I’ve never been invited out by a Spaniard.”

He looked even more offended when Santi, the bar owner, pointed out that that was probably because all his Spanish friends knew he would be in the La Terraza every night. But Paul had a point. Talking to the Brits we’d met, I realised what a privilege being asked out was. The Spanish are incredibly sociable; they’re just not that great at actually inviting people out. Friendships, especially among women, seemed to have been born many, many years ago - and certainly not with guiris. The pressure was mounting.

Come the Friday, I was a nervous wreck. We’d arranged to meet in the Plaza Mayor, next to the statue of Felipe II. And that’s when I realised everyone arranged to meet there. For ten minutes I furiously bopped up and down trying to see around the waves of people that came, met their friends, and left. No sign of Laura. Then came the text message: Running late. See you in 30 minutes.

I phoned Ged. “Typical Spanish,” he replied, then hung up so he could watch PasaPalabra.

For the next 20 minutes I waited at the statue, watching the pitying stares from those came and went and thought I’d been stood up. Eventually I saw Laura, looking every inch the perfect Spanish woman in her long, flowing skirt and long, flowing hair. I preened my recently shorn locks (who can be bothered with all that styling every morning?) and smoothed down my jeans. After a typical Spanish greeting - kissing both cheeks (“Don’t forget,” said Ged, “left cheek first, otherwise you smash noses.”) - we wandered out of the square and I prepared myself for an authentic Spanish night out. What delights would I discover? What new bars would I be taken to, far from the madding crowd of tourists? The excitement was killing me.

After about half an hour, it wasn’t the excitement killing me but my feet. We had done nothing but walk. At first I thought that perhaps we were going to look in some fashion shops, still open late on a Friday night, but no, we were just walking.

“Aren’t we going for a drink?” I asked.

Laura looked surprised: “Well, yes, but first we paseo. You want to go for a drink now?” Her tone sounded like I should be in the Betty Ford clinic. I shook my head and explained that in Britain, a drink meant a drink, not a five-mile hike up and down the Gran Via. “No, here in Spain we paseo and talk. Then we’ll go for a drink. I know a nice shop that sells fruit juices, mixed fruit juices with yoghurt - how do you call them in English?”

“Smoothies,” I replied.

Laura smiled: “Sí, eh-smoothies," she replied, with her Spanish version of the "s" sound. "They are very nice.”

By this time I felt like a complete fish out of water - and a dry fish at that.

But after we’d walked and then chatted in a crowded smoothie bar, I started to feel better. The fresh air was much nicer than any crowded bar, and Laura was wonderful company, helping me with my Spanish as I helped her with her English. But, I found myself thinking, she’d be no good in Newcastle on a Friday night, not drinking smoothies all night.

The hours flew by and soon it was time for me to get my last Metro home. Laura’s jaw hit the ground. “Go?” she spluttered. “OK . . . but I am not going yet. My friends are meeting in a bar in La Latina. I’m going to meet with them. Are you sure you do not want to come with us?”

I looked at my watch. It was 1am - and they were just going to the bar now? I’d been out for four hours and was exhausted. Laura looked as fresh as when we’d met. I shook my head and made my apologies. She just grinned and kissed me goodbye: “You English. No eh-stamina.”

What was that about Newcastle on a Friday night? As I left, I found myself wondering if it wasn’t so much that the Spanish were not forthcoming with their invitations as that we just didn’t have the eh-stamina to keep up.