living the high life - by Theo

Go to any city in Spain and high-rise, high-density living abounds. Our current apartment block is quite small, having only five floors - our first flat in Madrid (in Mendez Alvaro) was on floor 6 of 9. Naturally, therefore, the Spanish have evolved several unique adaptations for this.

The first concerns furniture removal. As many, if not most, of the stairwells and lifts of Madrid's older buildings are too narrow to accommodate large items of furniture, those who don't want to get a flat-pack from IKEA have to employ a specialist removals company. These guys raise up the wardrobe or double bed on a massive lift that resembles a fireman's ladder outside the building and in through the windows. Whenever I see one I always wish I had my camera on me.

Not everyone uses ladders though. Often when a job is too small to really need scaffolding you see workmen abseiling down the sides of buildings rather than trying to prop up a ladder in among all the washing lines festooning the walls.

Meanwhile, indoors, the residents of these high-rises make adaptions and alterations just like their ground-floor living neighbours. Having no garden in which to build a conservatory hasn't stopped them - they just build one (of sorts) by covering over the ubiquitous terrazas. A range of styles is available, as can be seen from our bedroom window. Our flat used to have two terrazas, but the back one has been converted into a kind of utility room/storage space, while the front one has been covered over to add an extra 6m2 or so to our living room. Which is a bit of a shame as it would have been nice to have had a little terrace of our own to sit out on during hot summer evenings - oh well, I guess we'll just have to go to a bar. Que pena!

Won one, lost one By Kate

We got lucky first time with Rosie. She was the result of one of the four in five pregnancies that ends with a baby. Second time round that luck took a holiday.

Instead of expecting a brother or sister for Rosie early in October as we had thought, we discovered from our first scan that we weren't expecting a baby at all. Our embryo had stopped developing at just over eight weeks and no heartbeat could be detected. A missed or "silent" miscarriage. The radiologist's mouth tightened into a line of regret. "Es un aborto," she said, "Lo siento."

We were stung by disappointment and slightly stunned, but took the bad news calmly. "Ah well," I said to Theo as I climbed off the scanning table, "That's that, then." It would explain why I had been experiencing so few pregnancy symptoms, especially during the last fortnight or so. Everything had come to a full stop.

When we got home, the tears came. Although I was already counting my blessings (better to lose a pregnancy early on; I know I can carry a healthy baby; I know I can get pregnant fairly easily; maybe a slightly bigger gap between children would be better; at least this takes the pressure off our return to the UK etc. etc....) it was still a sad loss and some grief was inevitable. Theo comforted me, as best he could. For him, the initial disappointment had rapidly changed into concern for my well-being. Cuddling Rosie helped me too.

But now we had to turn to the practicalities of the situation. Our radiologist had told me to go to hospital either today or tomorrow...but was vague about the details. A bit of research online told me most of what I needed to know and a friend who'd been through the same thing a few years before told me the rest. I would need a medical procedure called ERPC (Evacuation of the Remaining Products of Conception), once known as D&C (Dilation and Curettage). A straightforward operation performed under general anaesthetic. Bearing that in mind, we elected to go the following morning in the hope that I would be home that same evening.

Accordingly, we arrived at Urgencias Maternidad, Hospital La Paz at nine o'clock the next morning. Theo had taken the day off work so he could look after Rosie and support me as much as possible. We signed in and I was taken off to be scanned again. The staff were kind and friendly (a couple of the younger medics even attempting some reasonable English) and although none of them offered sympathy, they put me at my ease.

I had done the right thing by not eating any breakfast, although the news that I had had a few mouthfuls of water was greeted with some consternation. Eventually they judged I hadn't had enough for it to be a big problem. I was told to remove my clothes and jewelery, then put in a wheelchair and taken to a small ward for two on the fourth floor. It all felt strangely familiar as the room was identical to the one I had stayed in for five days after having Rosie. Except this one couldn't come close to the view we had had on the eleventh floor and the circumstances couldn't be more depressingly different.

Theo and Rosie came to give me a hug and bid me a temporary farewell, then I was joined by an older woman who was given the other bed as she waited to have a bladder operation. I smiled politely and did my best to keep up with her Spanish, using my own imperfect command of the language to explain why I was at La Paz. She nodded sympathetically and told me (I think) that she had also had a miscarriage. But she now had three healthy adult sons to her name, so not to worry. Although she suspected the miscarried baby would have turned out to be a girl and that made her feel sad. I nodded sympathetically in my turn.

A couple of nurses came in, gave me some forms to sign, then popped a couple of pessaries inside me to "soften things up" for the coming procedure. I was then left to relax in my bed and read.

An hour and a half later, it was time to go. My bed, with me in it, was wheeled down to the operating theatre. Outside it, I was asked the same succession of questions by five different people (No, I hadn't eaten since last night, Yes I'd drunk a little water this morning, but not much etc. etc.) Bafflingly, one junior anaesthetist asked me in broken English about the importance of the decision I had made. Confused, I replied, "Es un gestation interrumpido. Es un aborto. Este operacion es necesario, no?" He agreed it was. I think he had been under the impression that I was aborting a live fetus, for some reason.

The operation itself went without a hitch. The most painful part was having two needles inserted into the back of my left hand for the various drips, but the rest was plain sailing. The medical team helped me onto the operating table, stuck my legs in stirrups, tested my blood pressure, sluiced my nether regions with shockingly cold antiseptic then inserted a nozzle in my mouth...and I promptly passed out.

The next moment (probably about twenty minutes or so later) I came round trying to push this strange foreign object out of my mouth with my tongue. When I opened my eyes and saw various medics gazing down at me I remembered where I was. I felt amazingly refreshed and realized this was probably the first time I had slept really deeply since I had had Rosie, more than thirteen months earlier.

"What luxury," I said in Spanish, "Can I have some of that stuff to help me sleep at night?" They smiled and I was wheeled back to the ward, still attached to the drips, and was left to snooze off the effects of the anaesthetic for the next couple of hours.

Rosie and Theo returned to find me well-rested and reaching the exciting climax of my novel. It was then a matter of hanging around until a doctor could be persuaded to check me over and discharge me. Eventually one bustled in after Theo used the simple expedient of waving Rosie meaningfully at the nurse receptionist and saying the baby would need to go home for supper and bed very soon.

I was told I could breastfeed Rosie that evening provided I expressed the first lot of milk to get rid of any lingering anaesthesia. Then I was given an information sheet telling me what to expect over the next few weeks and what symptoms to look out for in the event of an infection. After that I was free to change back into my clothes and go. Which I did.

It was the next day that we discovered I hadn't only left the remains of an embryo behind me at Hospital La Paz. Unfortunately my wedding ring had slipped from the plastic folder where I had thought it would be safe and was most probably well buried among the hospital refuse by now.

I am very hopeful that a new wedding ring and a new pregnancy will both be forthcoming before too long. After all, you've got to try and be philosophical about these things sometimes.

Los Reyes Magicos - by Theo

The streets of Madrid today are largely empty except for queues at the bakeries and the sweet, perfumed smell of Roscon de los Reyes, the sweet, cream-filled, circular cake with candied fruit that is the traditional fare on January the 6th.

It's a national holiday in Spain and, for many youngsters, the most exciting day of the year. For, on January 6th, Los Reyes Magicos, the magic Kings, the Three Wise men, come, bearing gifts for well behaved youngsters and coal for naughty tykes. (Some bakeries even stock sweet coal, a black, honeycomb-like sweet!) For while kids here do know about Santa Claus, he's barely made a dent; none of my students get gifts from him. Here, it's all about Los Reyes, the only grumble being that as they arrive at the very end of Christmas there's little time for the children to enjoy their presents before school starts again (tomorrow). It's a family day, though last night there may well have been a trip out to watch one of the many Calbagatas (processions), either a local one in the barrio, or the huge, municipal parade down the Paseo de Castellano. We went last year, but it started a bit late for Rosie and I doubt she'd have got much from it.


However, the 3 Kings did come to Rosie and, seeing as it's a Spanish tradition, they brought her Spanish books. An inflatable book to play with in the bath, and a beautiful pop-up book called 'Rosita juega al escondite' ('Little Rosie plays hide and seek'). What's slightly disappointing is that both are translations, though the second one is excellently translated, as they've even managed to keep the rhyme and meter intact; if there are any locally produced children's books we have yet to find them.

a surfeit of grapes - by Theo

Early in the 20th Century, around 1910 I think, there was a surfeit of grapes in Spain. Stuck with what to do with them, the grape-growers struck upon a plan - let's invent a tradition. They managed to convince the Spanish public that it would bring them good luck if they ate one grape for each chime of the clock at midnight on New Year's Eve. This proved popular and so this cunning marketing ploy became tradition.

With this in mind I went out to buy fruit. I didn't like the look of the white grapes on sale - a bit brown - so I got red ones. They came in bunches of twelve - genetic engineering or painstaking packing? Who knows. Anyway, upon my return Kate was taken aback by the size of the grapes, stating she'd never be able to fit them all in, so I was dispatched out again to buy some small ones, which I duly did. However, when our New Year's Eve guests, David and Nataly, arrived, we discovered we were way behind the curve on the grape front. They have bought canned grapes, twelve to a can, each one peeled and de-seeded. The Spanish elevate corner-cutting to an art form! So we found ourselves with a surfeit of grapes.In the end, after a rather long and large meal, I wasn't quite sure if any of us would fit them in! Rosie, not wanting to be left out, duly woke moments before the countdown began on Spanish Radio, so Kate had to forego her grape swallowing, sadly. The three of us however managed it, David and Nataly using the canned ones while I manned up and went for the big red ones. Kate returned in time for Prosecco and David and Nataly's initiation into Robert Burns ("Auld Lang Syne"). The fireworks went off in the street and 2011 arrived with a bang among friends, food and family. Perfect.

The Pain in Spain falls mainly... - by Theo

...in my mouth.

It's been quite some time since I last went to the dentist. I don't trust the drill-happy buggers; the last one I had in Clifton (the Mall) talked me into having my wisdom teeth removed (expensive, painful, unnecessary) and filled my mouth with so much silver paste you wouldn't think there was enough tooth left to actually support a cavity. However, over the past few weeks one of my molars has developed a bit of an ache so, after the obligatory prevaricating and procrastinating (I was an arts student after all) I finally booked myself an appointment at a nearby health centre.

Typically my tooth then broke and stopped hurting. However, I felt I shouldn't see this as good news, so still went along to my appointment having learnt the Spanish words for 'filling' (empaste) and 'cavity' (carie). After a cursory glance the cheerful dentist said, "Yep, there's a cavity. So do you want me to pull it out for you?" When I replied in the negative, she explained that if I wanted a filling I'd have to go private as I couldn't get anything other than an extraction on the Health Service. I should expect to pay between 30 and 50 euros for a filling.

The dentist across the road from us quoted me €90, which I shied away from rapidly (it didn't hurt that much!) but I eventually found one nearby that would do it for €50. Still the top end of the scale I'd been quoted, but definitely better than the first place I went to.

Now, I'm not so sure. They immediately decided I needed a tooth reconstruction, which would be an extra €65; they are damned good at getting money out of you these dentists. Twenty minutes later, after lots of painful drilling despite the injection, I was done and €115 poorer. Still at least my tooth was fixed.

Later that night, while brushing my teeth, the pain from my newly fixed tooth nearly made my eyes water. The dull throb has been transformed into a searing pain when combined with a cold liquid. Great.

Water on the bridge - by Theo

Spain seems to have no end of "Puentes", or 'bridge' weekends, where a holiday during the week means that people invariably take the workday off to extend their weekend. Last weekend was a particularly long one with Constitution Day (Dec 6th) falling on the Monday and the Day of the Immaculate Conception falling on the Thursday (Dec 8th), hence meaning some people effectively got a 5 day weekend! Not me - I had to work the Saturday and Tuesday - but I'm not really complaining. It was, however, an extremely wet weekend, the rain bucketing it down, and hence we spent most of it indoors.

On Sunday we entertained our Senegalese friends, Prince and Ibrahima. Rosie has met the brothers several times before, though of course she has no memory, but after a bit of staring she quickly relaxed and had a great time with them, as you can see!



We first met them in our Spanish class, and although we communicate now in Spanish it's embarrassing how much better they are than us considering we've been learning for the same amount of time. They also speak about 4 other languages, although not English. Ibrahima plays football for 1st division youth team (Las Rosas), so we're hoping to go and watch when he plays Real Madrid - should be something!

The following day, Monday, we headed out to San Sebastian de los Reyes, to Belen and Cesar's, where we were joined by David and Nataly (David, as ever managing to stay out of the photos.)

Belen cooked us a delicious veggie paella and Rosie had a fab time attempting to eat their rug, Cesar's pointy Moroccan slippers and Nataly's hair. She seemed particularly enamored with Nataly, permitting herself to be cuddled, which she almost never does with us.

I elected to do the afternoon buggy nap, but miraculously the rain clouds stayed over the town, while I walked Rosie around the park laid out on the outskirts - very strange and fortuitous!

Tuesday night, after a relatively quiet set of classes - many students were away - it was our staff party - bowling and drinking. To do full justice to both my colleagues and the evening will require another blog, but suffice to say I stumbled home at 4.30am rather worse for wear. Kate, lovely, gorgeous, sensitive woman she is, let me lie in until 11.30am, though I still woke tired, hungover and really, really pleased I'd invited friends for both lunch and tea!! What a good idea of mine! Hence I found myself pretty quickly in kitchen cooking lunch when I really wanted to be lying in bed feeling sorry for myself.

In the end though it was a lovely lunch, with Jon and his new girlfriend Sophie, who seems charming and mercifully happy to speak English - I was in no state to attempt Spanish! They even brought pudding. I did the afternoon nap with Rosie which went some way to helping to clear my head, and then I got back to have tea with our photographer friend Anne (who had been invited to lunch but had declined on dietary grounds) to round off our very sociable, if very damp puente.

Aranjuez - by Theo

A hour south of Madrid, surrounded by arid plains, lies the royal retreat of Aranjuez. It was here, among the fields of asparagus and strawberries on the banks of the river Tajo, that the Bourbon monarchs built their Spring residence in imitation of Versailles. So, while it wasn't the season to taste the produce Aranjuez is famous for, we decided to use the visit of my parents as a reason to take the car for a run and get out of the city for a day.After coffee and croissants on a cafe terraza (much to the surprise of the waitress "pero, que frio, no?") we strolled first in the beautiful and huge Jardines del Principe, the trees looking gorgeous in their autumn colours, admiring fountains and follies while Rosie snoozed in the pram. We chanced the menu in El Rana Verde (the green frog) where we managed to find enough veggie options for Kate and I. My parents weren't up for trying the house specialty - frog's legs - sticking with the relatively safe option of steak.Much fun was had during desert by offering Rosie, who had chowed down her puree and yoghurt, a slice of lemon. She masticated away enthusiastically, before pulling a priceless face, then going back for more. Learning takes a while.

More parks followed to walk off lunch, this time in the Jardin de la Isla, an artificial island behind the Royal palace, created by building a weir on the Tajo and diverting a channel. Rosie got a ride in the sling to enjoy a better view of the galleries, aviaries and fountains. A beautiful walk on what had become a warm and sunny autumn day.

Time was getting on and Rosie needed her next nap (in the car this time), so we never actually made it inside the palace. A good excuse for a second visit, then.

Lost in Translation - by Theo

Yesterday was the Dia de Hispanidad, which does lose a little something in translation, and a national holiday here in Spain and elsewhere in the Spanish speaking world - given the events of today I wonder whether there will soon be another national holiday in Chile. But that's another story....

Kate and I had a lazy day off, made extra lazy by the fact that Kate had arranged (as an extra birthday present) for our Canadian friend Miriam to take Rosie out for a walk for a couple of hours in the afternoon so we could, for once, enjoy a siesta un-interrupted. Bliss! The laziness continued into the evening and, after dinner in front of an episode of the Wire, we were contemplating bed at around 9pm when the phone rang.

It was my friend and former student Juan. Juan works as a lawyer at a multinational financial firm. He speaks perfect French and excellent English but he is not a translator. However, at the last minute, despite it being a holiday, his firm had dumped a 10 page legal document on him and asked him to translate it into English by the next morning. He was at a loss and wanted my help. Seeing as his English is better than my Spanish I was doubtful about how much help I could be, but as he sounded so desperate I said he could come round - provided he bring some beer.

In the end I quite enjoyed it. Juan had done most of the work, I just needed to check it over. The original Spanish document was dull enough, but was also surprisingly easy to understand as it was very formal and lacked the idioms and colloquialisms that are often confusing in everyday language. In addition many of the Spanish financial terms were exactly the same as the English - take a wild guess what "liquidacion" or "deducion" mean - which of course were easier for me (working Spanish to English) than Juan, who was less confident about the English vocabulary.

Anyway we got it done. Mind you, if you hear of any legal or financial scandals in Spain involving mistranslations, then you'll know who to blame!!

San Sebastian - by Theo

We'd driven past it several times, it had been enthusiastically recommended to us in English, French and Spanish, it's halfway between Madrid and Kate's Mum's, so it seemed a very sensible idea to stop off in the Basque port and seaside resort of San Sebastian on our way home.
We'd been hoping that the sea-breezes coming off the Atlantic might have helped keep the temperatures down, but it was a sweltering 34 degrees as we pulled into town just after 2pm. We were staying in Hotel Plaza Zaragoza, one street back from the Playa de la Concha and just a few blocks from the Cathedral. After I eventually found a parking with enough head room to take Deliah's 2.06metres we headed off on a little stroll, our first stop being the Cathedral where the late afternoon sun was projecting beautiful array of colours onto the walls.

We headed out, through the Area Romantica to the edge of the Port. The beach was rammed - it was high season after all and the high tide wasn't helping matters. Enterprising teenagers had pitched their towels along a jetty (ignoring the clearly marked "no bathing" signs) and were diving in. The city is based around a bay, with two massive headlands guarding the entrances, the western one topped by a Hotel, the eastern an impressively large statue of Jesus, while the island of Santa Clara sits in the mouth of the bay. As a result it's pretty sheltered and a natural harbour.
The old town is situated below the eastern headland and a brief walk around it's narrow if regular streets followed, before we returned to the beach for a swim (me) and paddle (Kate). The water was perfect - a far cry from the freezing Cornish coast! We'll be back I feel.

The Rainbow World Cup - by Theo

The atmosphere was tense and electric, not a seat free in the house, the hosts buzzing with anticipation even though their national team hadn't made it to the final - nah, not talking about in South Africa, the Rainbow Nation, though I'm sure all of the above is true, but the Rainbow household, here in St. Hilary, Cornwall, where we watched the 2010 Football World Cup final.

Spain versus Holland - funnily enough nearly everyone was rooting for the former! Not only do we live in Spain, but Becky (Kate's sister) had drawn Spain in a sweep-stake some friends of hers had organised, and Becky's brother-in-law Sam Rainbow (who was watching with us) also has a house in Spain, where he and his family lived for a while. The fact that Sam's wife, Neema, was the sole Dutch supporter speaks volumes as to why they no longer live there!!

Despite the tension and excitement as Spain attempted to pass their way around some brutal tackles, Becky and Dan's four kids had all joined Rosie in bed by half-time, only to be woken up again by the resounding cheer that rang out when Iniesta finally broke the dead lock deep in extra time. By that stage any vestiges of sympathy I might have had for the Dutch at losing their third World Cup final had long since evaporated!

Viva España!

Santander, Swimming and Semi-finals

Leaving Madrid at the relatively early hour of 9am it didn't take long to work out the air-conditioning in our Delica wasn't working properly. As the temperature rose to the thirties as we climbed up the Somosierra to the North of Madrid the car was similarly roasting, despite the 20 degrees the temperature gauge said it was. From then on it was windows down all the way on the 5 hour trip to the capital of Cantabria, Santander.Aside from our venture to the Basque country back in 2008, we'd hardly been to Spain's North coast, so we'd decided to stay there the night before our ferry to get a little taste. We'd booked into a Hotel just outside the city in Penacastillo, a village high up on a rather cragy hill overlooking the port. I'd been keen to hit one of the village beaches to the North but arriving at 2.30pm the relative cool (after Madrid) of the North was definitely only relative, and we didn't have any portable shade or suncream - in fact I'd got sunburned on the journey up - so we decided just to chill out at the Hotel, which had a pool.

So Rosie finally got her first swim in the Hotel spa pool. She wasn't exactly keen, making a bit of a face when the water rose up to her chest, but she had a good kick and clearly wasn't completely against the idea! Later we watched Spain beat Germany in the semi-final on a silent TV in our bedroom, then listened as the fireworks and car-horns erupted round the city in celebration.
Parking was free at the ferry port the next day, so after checking in we had time to wander round the city a bit and get a sense of the place. We'd noticed the day before the fact that construction was continuing all around in a country where generally speaking the property bubble has burst, and this sense of affluence was reinforced by the very posh shops and services on offer in the central district just off the sea front. The street meanwhile had their own distinctive style, rather narrower than Madrid or Barcelona's, the verticals lined with wood and covered balconies. We bought some fruit and pastries for breakfast from an old covered market, then headed back to the boat for our 18 hour voyage to Plymouth.

Not quite... - by Theo

Ok, so I thought I'd sorted out getting the Spanish unemployment benefit (see previous post) on Friday, but no. Of course not. In Spain it's never that simple.

I got a call from the INEM office yesterday to inform me that they couldn't pay me my benefit because our bank, Lloyds Spain, wasn't in the system. Huh? I phoned the bank and, after checking, they called me back to say yes, it's true, for some reason they aren't in the system to receive payments from the INEM office. Bizarre! I received my paternity benefit money there no problem, but that's another department.

Anyway, so I ran across the road, set up an account at Caja Madrid - blissfully straightforward - then headed back to the INEM office and did a sly bit of queue jumping and, as they say here, ya esta. So far there have been no further phonecalls, so fingers crossed that's sorted now.

on the dole - by Theo

My teaching contract expired on June 30th, although my last day of teaching was the 24th, and unlike last year I have made a large enough contribution to Spanish social security (360 days) to be eligible to claim unemployment benefit, or paro.

I wasn't keen at first, it seemed slightly wrong claiming for what is basically a summer holiday. However, I've got mouths to feed these days and, while I've been offered a new contract from October plus work in September, I've got nothing on paper. Plus it's really worth doing - within certain maximums and minimums you get 70% of your previous base salary! So Friday morning, clutching virtually every official piece of paper I had, I headed off to our local INEM office on Virgen del Puig.

I went early, at 9am. The queue snaked down the street. People had books and packed breakfasts. Hmmmmm. At 9.55am I finally got to the front of the queue.... to the ticket machine. I explained what I wanted to do, the lady had a quick glance at my papers to check I was eligible, then gave me a ticket. B395. I looked at the screen. They were on B325. I looked at the ticket - it gave a tiempo orientiva of 12.45pm. Right. Funnily enough I went home!

12.30pm I got back to the office. They were only on B375. Hmmmm. Tiempo orientiva was right! 1.40pm I finally got seen, he had a look through the mountain of papers I had and then decided - of course - that I was missing something I'd never heard of - una baja en la demanda - but luckily I'd just have to go next door for it. I was a bit worried - the office was closing at 2pm - would I get back in before they shut? Was I going to have to come back on Monday?

Anyway, next door I was the only person waiting. I took my number and I paced around, death-staring all the functionarios doing nothing and studiously ignoring me. Somebody else came in, took a number (different letter) and was seen immediately. Time was ticking down. Finally, my number flashed up above the desk of somebody who had been doing sod all for the past 10 minutes and I was seen. 3 questions, sorted... except... take a number again, go to another desk, go to reception, get a print out and run back to the other office moments before the security guard turned the door to exit only. Phew.

I caught the eye of the guy who had been dealing with my application - he was of course with another applicant - and I took a seat. It was 2.30pm when I finally got out the office. Phew!

May Day In Madrid By Kate

As a new parent, going out for a jaunt with the baby can be a tentative affair. On the one hand, you desperately want to show off your pride and joy to the (hopefully) admiring public and it's great to escape the confines of home, pleasant though they are. On the other, it can be a tad scary because of the impossibility of predicting how the offspring will respond to the outing. Last week I had to abort one journey to an English playgroup with Rosie when she decided she really wasn't happy and made no bones about expressing her displeasure in the loudest possible terms.

At the time I blamed it on the baby being overheated in the sling, or maybe she didn't like this particular one (different from the usual sling we use) or perhaps it was the type of carry she objected to. It wasn't hunger - a feed (rather uncomfortably executed on the Metro) only temporarily stemmed the flow of her objections and being taken out of the sling was also a fleeting panacea. On reflection I now believe it was simple tiredness. Observations have taught me that Rosie needs a lot of naps and if she hasn't had sufficient, she tends to throw a wobbly. Often she naps in the sling, but recently she's also needed the application of a pacifier to get her properly in the mood for sleep and that was the one piece of baby soothing armory I didn't have with me on that occasion.

This time Theo and I took no chances. Rosie was snoozing in the pram when we decided it was time to go so we left her in it, but packed a sling as well. In fact, Rosie snoozed off and on for the entire journey on a packed bus to the Retiro Park where we had arranged to meet a friend and do some book-crossing. We opted to get off a few stops short of the park when we realised one of the city's main streets was in the throes of a May Day demonstration. We contemplated joining it as a show of solidarity for the Spanish unemployed, then thought better of it. Maybe another day.

When we found our rendezvous in the park, Rosie remained happy in her pram while we laid out the books we were "releasing" into the unknown and perused the other offerings to see if there were any we fancied "capturing". Theo picked up a book of Spanish poetry and a Spanish translation of an HP Lovecraft story. Being less highbrow, I lassoed a crime thriller and an Inspector Morse. Typically, both had been released by my pal Florrie, so I could have just taken them directly from her, but where's the fun in that?!
After the book-crossing excitement, Rosie woke up so I put her in the sling where she seemed content to doze while we wandered around the gorgeous Retiro rose garden, a riot of hot pinks, reds and yellows as the dozens of flower varieties made the most of the Spring sunshine.

After we all (including Rosie) enjoyed an al fresco drink at one of the park's terrace cafes, Theo and I opted to draw the family outing to a close, said our goodbyes to Florrie and wended our way back home again. A simple trip, perhaps, but at this stage of early parenthood, it still feels like a bit of an achievement. Next weekend we're off to WOMAD in Caceres - wish us luck...

The Madrileno Baby Massage Choral Society By Kate

Massage is supposed to be relaxing, restorative, healing and at times, positively invigorating. In general, a pleasant and uplifting experience.

Perhaps someone should have told the fourteen or so babies in a room in Cuidad Lineal that. Gentle music was playing in the background while assorted parents armed with J&J baby oil earnestly followed the instructions from Maite the Matrona on how to give their offspring an enjoyable, sensuous experience and aid their sleep, digestion and co-ordination.Only a few minutes of the session had passed when the first baby decided they had had enough and began to vocalise their displeasure. Then the next chimed in, then the next. Pretty soon, all but three of the infants were red faced and crying in perfect disharmony - Rosie, I'm pleased to say, was still calm at this stage. Gradually the clamour began to die down as various mothers applied a breast, bottle or pacifier to their babies' howling mouths. Calm was restored and after some time, the various parents tentatively put down their little ones and started again with the J&J.
For a short while, all was tranquil again. Then Maite instructed us to turn our babies onto their tummies to start on some back massage. That was too much for most of the tiny participants and the crying chorus began to reach a new crescendo, this time with Rosie adding her own distinct sound to the dischord. Breasts (including mine), bottles and dummies were once more brought into play and we had a new diminuendo. We tried a little more massage with Rosie, but it was clear her tolerance for being rubbed with oil, however gently, had reached its limit. We took her home.

But two weeks later, we went back for more. This time Rosie, after a little initial protesting as she got used to the situation, seemed more willing to submit to the massaging. This also seemed true of most of the others, as the infant crying chorus was a little more muted than on our previous visit and mainly featured a few soloists rather than the great mass of baby wailing. And even with a bit of annoyance on Rosie's part, she noticeably sleeps well after a baby massage session. Whether this is because she's worn out with all the howling or because the massage eased her body tension is a moot point.

The First Twelve Weeks... By Kate

Twelve weeks just shot by in a blur, where did they go? Rosie, it appears, swallows time along with her milk - in copious quantities.They do say that after three months, things start to get easier - or at least, the frazzled new parents start to feel their way out of the early fog of baby-centred bewilderment. The scrunched up little red-faced newborn is filling out and - all being well - smiling, cooing and gurgling in a most beguiling way. Rosie is certainly doing all that. But she's also starting to assert her personality too.

Where once I could instantly calm any fussing or crying with the simple application of breast (mine, preferably) into mouth (hers, generally), that's no longer the failsafe option. Which fills me with no little dread at the prospect of taking her on a plane to the UK next month (okay, as a phobic when it comes to flying, I'm already dreading it anyway). I've resolved to make sure we sit beside someone Spanish rather than someone British - they are usually much more tolerant about infants. But two hours of solid crying would test anyone's endurance and now her early newborn muted-digital-mashup-which-passed-for-crying has evolved into the kind of lusty yelling that proves her lungs and voicebox are both in excellent working order - well, it's not just the person sitting next to us I'm concerned about.

Anyway, back to the positive stuff. A vague bedtime/overnight routine has emerged, meaning she generally sleeps from around 1930 until 0930 with approximately four wake-ups for feeds in between (variation can still be within an hour and a half or so). Even better, Rosie's early sleep-decimating wind eruptions have now subsided, meaning both she and I get a better dose of shut-eye between hunger pangs.In other news, her feeding continues to improve, although it's a frustratingly two-steps-forward-one-step-back process, with all the fun of cracked nipples to prove it (lanolin cream, thou art my saviour) - with any luck, she'll get the hang of it by the time we start to wean her onto solids.

Nappies - well, I won't go into great detail about their contents, but let's just say where we used to have something deposited from her lower intestine at every change, we now go from one extreme to the other. Along with that is the fun of the dambuster (a major pee-leak - usually happens overnight for Mummy's extra entertainment during the 0300 nappy - and everything else - change) or the poosplosion. Vomageddon, on the other hand, has become a pleasingly rare ocurrence since a few veritable eruptions in the early weeks. Oh, the happy days of being showered by your offspring's bodily excretions - it gives parenting that truly authentic (for want of a better word) feeling.

The best stuff, though, is Rosie's alertness. She has truly entered the age of distraction and wants to look at everything. Watching her gazing around in wonder at the amazing visual qualities of our flat is a continual delight. Best of all are the face-splitting gummy smiles she bestows on us when we greet her in the morning or change her nappy. Now, that's what really makes parenting feel special.

Cute baby - now tell me about your breasts... By Kate

Open appreciation of the tiny cuteness of our little daughter from total strangers - who even stop you in the street to marvel at her - is something we're rapidly getting used to here. It's very touching. And at times a tad embarrassing. The only time I've ever seen Theo experiencing acute discomfort at being the centre of attention was when we were in the supermarket with Rosie cuddled up to her daddy's chest in the sling. Suddenly he was surrounded by rapturous women and children all fascinated by Rosie's sleeping face peeking out at them. Momentarily, we were a phenomenon.

There are also certain questions that I am now well primed to answer. After the cries of "Que chicatita!" etc. this is how it goes:
1. How old is she?
2. What is her name?
3. Are you breast feeding?

Numbers 1. and 2. are probably fairly universal and I would expect to be asked the same thing by people I had only just met in the UK. Number 3, probably not. But here it seems to be a perfectly legit follow up to the first two. On our way back from a medical appointment the other day, Theo (with Rosie in the sling) and myself found ourselves flanked on the metro by (in his case) an old gentleman and (in my case) and genial middle-aged black woman. Both asked the breast feeding question and both then launched into a lively examination of the subject, including their own experiences relating to it and questions about how we were doing.

In fact breast feeding seems to have become the number one parenting issue when it comes to babies nowadays. This is the current trend - back in the seventies it was all about potty training. Not surprising really, seeing that in the last thirty years bottle feeding had virtually become the norm until a determined campaign that "breast is best" raised awareness of the eminent suitability of mother's milk to give an infant the best start in life. Well, I agree that it's the best thing, but there's no doubt, the zealousness of the campaign can lead to unbearable pressure on new mothers, especially those who don't find breast-feeding easy, for any one of a number of reasons.

My own experiences of breastfeeding have given me first hand realisation of how emotionally draining and exhausting it can be. I noted the ease by which my sister breastfed all four of her children and while I didn't assume breastfeeding would be problem-free for me, I didn't actually prepare myself for that possibility. So when my baby wasn't interested in taking my milk direct from me I was distraught. It felt like a personal rejection. Exhausted and hormonal, I cried my eyes out when my repeated efforts to put Rosie to the breast (without the intermediary of silicone nipple shields) were in vain.

In the end, that cheapest and most convenient of infant feeding modes proved to be anything but for us. We spent hundreds of euros on equipment, including bottles, steriliser, pumps and lactation aids. My initial feeding regime involved patient attempts to coax Rosie onto the breast (which would take more than an hour and a half sometimes) in order to get some milk from me, plus supplementation from bottles and (later) a tube feeder, then another half hour or so spent expressing to keep up my supply and to provide breast milk for the top-ups. This was part of a 24-hour two-and-a-half hourly feeding regime - so very little time for me to do anything in between. Thankfully, Theo took care of everything else we needed, so I could devote myself 100 per cent to feeding Rosie.

Well, after a few weeks of this, I am pleased to report that it worked. One by one, the various pieces of equipment have been stashed away and now Rosie breastfeeds as if she had never done anything else. I am relieved and pleased that we have got to this point, but I wonder how I would manage if I had this situation with a second child, for example. The luxury of a "babymoon" - taking to bed with the baby and doing almost nothing except feed - would no longer be possible, for example. No wonder so many women give up and start giving their babies bottles of formula. It's definitely the easier option. If I have ever passed judgement on mothers giving their babies bottles of formula, then I publically apologise. Breastfeeding - if you are unlucky - can be fraught with complications and that's the last thing you need when recovering from giving birth and doing your level best to nurture your newborn. But I am chuffed that I can answer "yes" when people in Spain I have never met before ask me the question.

How To Make Friends In Madrid By Kate

It's easy - just wear a baby.
Spaniards are generally baby fans anyway, but combine that with a novel mode of infant transport (a wrap sling, in this case) and you've got a winning way with every passing stranger. It doesn't just work on Spaniards too - the Chinese shopkeepers were similarly captivated by the sight of Rosie nestling in the lilac sling as I enjoyed a stroll along Calle Jose del Hierro and a little light shopping.
Today the weather relented long enough for my vague plan to actually put some proper clothes on and get out of the flat for half an hour, to harden into resolve. So Rosie was duly wrapped up in her too-big clothes, topped off with a perfectly-fitting hat (thanks Anne - she bought us an outfit suitable for a premature baby - the only items of clothing that don't comically hang off little Rosie's minute frame at the moment), swaddled her in a fleece blanket and popped her in the sling.

We drew curious stares from passers by as soon as we hit the street. A young girl we encountered in the pharmacy was fascinated and almost dragged her mother up the street to get a better look at this curious little bundle tied to my chest.
The Chinese woman in the gift shop cried out in delight as soon as we walked in and admired the sleeping Rosie with gratifying enthusiasm. Next, she had pointed us out to another customer, a dad with his little boy - the latter utterly fascinated, as the little girl had been. They came over to chat and gaze at Rosie, who continued to snooze peacefully, unperturbed by all the commotion.
Next, Rosie and I were stopped at the pelican crossing by an elderly man's curiosity about the lilac-clad bundle sticking out of my duffle coat. Before I had even said a word he asked me where I came from - baby-wearing marking me out immediately as a foreigner. I told him England and he nodded approvingly.
"Good country", he said. I wondered what countries wouldn't have got his seal of approval.
The next place where Rosie became the centre of attention was the supermarket checkout. The two female customers ahead of me visibly melted when they caught sight of her snuggled against me, as did the checkout lady. While they cooed over her ("Que bonita!"), Rosie slept on, completely oblivious.
As a first solo outing with my daughter, it was pretty successful. So much so, I'm now planning a more ambitious project. To take her across town on the metro to visit a friend. In the purple sling, of course.

Motherhood so far By Kate

I've never been the maternal type - despite adoring my various nieces and nephews, I always fitted the "glamorous auntie" persona better than the nurture-intensive alternatives. I only ever had a few mildly broody moments and nothing approaching babyhunger. It was getting together with Theo that turned me on to the idea of creating a family, hence why I left it until the eve of my fortieth year to test out my own fertility. Before that, I'd resigned myself to remaining childless and while that was a source of some regret, the regret was fairly small.

So I'm as surprised as anyone at how I've taken to the whole business of being a mum. I'm not saying I'm especially good at it or anything like that, but it feels very right, somehow. I hear of so many first-time mums describing their shock at the change in their life and the guilt and anxiety that comes with it, but I haven't felt anything like that. I feel incredibly privileged to have the care of this little person and I'm enjoying sharing my life with her. Having a husband who is incredibly affectionate and supportive definitely helps and although yes, the broken nights are tiring, it all feels very worthwhile, somehow. I'm sure there will be times when I will feel like tearing my hair out or running away, but one month in, I'm loving it.

Just popping out to weigh the baby... -by Theo

Can you do this in England? Will Boots weigh your baby for you?

One thing that bemused me at the hospital was one of the nurses telling us to take Rosie down to a pharmacist and weigh her. "Can we do that?" I wondered. "And why a pharmacist? Why not a fruit and veg shop? They've got scales!"

Yes we can is the answer - one of a the three local pharmacists within 2 minutes of our house (there's loads in Spain, all independent) has baby scales that are free to use. According to our pharmacist friend Ana (below with her boyfriend Jon) this is really common in Spain. Who knew?Anyway, we've been a few times and it's all good news. Rosie weighed 2.52kg (up from a low of 2.1kg) on Friday. Must be the drastic feeding measures we've been taking....