Have you ever drunk panther’s milk? It is delicious. Last Wednesday after the pub quiz at Travel Bar in Barcelona (where, as usual, we were ROBBED of our rightful victory by cheaters on their smartphones..and our wrong answers. Mostly the cheaters though) I drank a litre of panther’s milk, and was up until four in the morning. This is the prelude to explain my absence of late.

Apologies for the digital silence. Of course I imagine thousands of avid readers and enthusiastic fans of my blog, all having sleepless nights at my absence, and chewing at the bit (or foaming at the ear, or eyes perhaps) to read more? (In reality of course, my blog readers probably consist of me, on the occasion even I read them over for typos)

In order to explain my silence (to myself 😉 here is a description of a rather busy day I had last week, which could reflect my crazy and packed life at the minute.

The problem with drinking a litre of panther’s milk, is that it is very sugary. This means that whatever hour one might have stumbled to one’s bed, one will wake up early.

So I woke up at seven am, full of sugar from the milk of the panther, and decided to go for a run. I am currently living in a garage at the bottom of the pier at Villa Olympica-ideal for running by the beach. It also meant that when, in my sweat soaked insanity after a 20km run, I thought it would be a good idea to strip off and jump into the sea (failing to notice the unusal ratio of packed beach to EMPTY sea) didn’t have too far to hobble home on block of ice feet.

I was home by 9, about two hours before I usually wake up. Unsure what to do with myself, I did some yoga then decided just to go to work. I was out on the rickshaw by the ungodly hour of 10.30 am. The extra hours on the bike were somewhat negated by being hit by a wall of fatigue, and pedalling around like a stoned zombie, blinking blearily at tourists while hawking my wares.

I did have some very interesting rides though. One was with a group of three Jewish brothers, who were lost wandering around the main Cathedral trying to find the remnants of an ancient synagogue. I scooped them up into my rickshaw, and we fired off trying to find the ruins.

They were enamour

ed by my guitar and thrust their smartphones at me, so I could play the chords while they sung old Jewish hymns. So after a pleasant hour being serenaded in a Capella Hebrew in the sun in a plaza in Barcelona (and getting paid for the pleasure!) I carried on working. I then realized with some panic, that my radio show (in Poblenou on the far east side of Barcelona) was about to start, and I didn’t have time to get the rickshaw back to the garage (in Poblesec, on the far west side of the city).

Studio! Luckily I remembered that the old warehouse where I used to live was conveniently situated between the two far flung barrios, and even better, had a massive garage where I could leave the rickshaw for a couple of hours while I did my show!

Got to the studio then remembered to my horror that in order to open the enormous garage door, I needed a very tiny key, the copy of which only one of the twenty inhabitants had. Did I even remember her name or room? I got one of my old housemates to let me in (through the frustratingly tiny hobbit door, I glared at it for being so small and left my folorn rickshaw (which was now looking like a small bus. As I felt time galloping on to the when I was meant to be on air, the door got ever smaller as the rickshaw got ever bigger. A big metal bloody baby.

Oh also my phone had died so had no idea what time it was but had that anxious feeling at the pit of my stomach that it probably wasn’t hours until the radio show. If even minutes.

I ran through the studio to the room of the current studio house manager.

“Marinamariallamaria! [got to be one of them was my logic] I need the little key to open the big door my rickshaw is downstairs and I am really late for my radio show do you have the key???”

“Who are you?” She was looking at me in shock and confusion.

Explanations, key handing and rickshaw being safely tucked away, I sped off to studio. A bit late.

The show went well. The highlight was when, mid set I was poking around in my bumbag for a phone charger when I discovered a stash of mini chocolates from when I went for a coffee with my mariachi passengers, who gave me all theirs (“not kosher”). Yum! So carried on waffling on about recent experience having acupuncture (nearly peed on his face, story for another blog) while stuffing my mouth full of chocolate.

Radio over, I went back to pick up my rickshaw. Was on my way back to the garage to drop it off when I got a message from my housemate to see if I wanted to go to the cinema that night. Why not? I agreed, then realised that I had a bike, and it would be annoying if I cycled and he walked. Rollerblades!

I quickly went back to the studio where I used to live and picked up my old rollerblades. Now we’d both have wheels, perfect. Then went and found James, left him with the rollerblades and my computer bag (for radio) and went to drop off rickshaw.

On way to garage (and bear in mind readers, if you have made it this far, that I am on three hours sleep, ran 20km in the morning, and spent day pedalling around in sun, apart from two hours on radio where I manically drivelled on with some chocolate nuggets for energy). Just before the garage, there is a pretty steep hill leading right up to door. At this point the rickshaw failed me (long story, my fault) and I had to get out and push and pull it up what swiftly transformed from a slight hill into the highest mountain of Europe. Everest eat your craggy heart out, you are a small pimple in the face of the earth compared to Mount Garage in Poblesec.

Eventually I sweated the bike into the garage, grabbed the bike and cycled back to James. Quickly changed into rollerblades, stuffed other shoes, computer and jumpers into handbag and we raced to the cinema.

Watched GOLD. Brilliant, so exciting and full of twists can’t recommend it highly enough. About gold miners, half set in Indonesia and the States, greedy Wall Street types, and with some brilliant acting by Matthew McConaghy. (I can’t remember when he transformed from this sleazy gigolo type, rolling out cheesy pick-up lines between a cigarette, in a southern drawl, normally sprayed in bright orange fake tan and wearing sprayed-on jeans, the colour of his cowboy shirt matching the car over which he would invariably be draped over….to a serious and pretty effing amazing actor).

The movie was SO good in fact, that it was all I could think about and talk about on way home. I was so enthusiastic I almost felt lightened by the movie….hang on. HANDBAG. Laptop. Phone. Keys.

I ran out of the flat, onto the bike, realised halfway to the cinema that had forgotten bike lock key, so just cycled straight through the automatic opening glass doors of the shopping complex, into the lift and down to the basement level. And I cycled right into the cinema complex where a very amused security guard handed me my handbag. Lol.

Long. Ass. Day