Street life - by Theo

Madrid, being a big city, naturally has street life in all shapes, sizes and styles, from buskers and beggars to hookers and hawkers. Some areas are particularly known for a certain type of street worker - Plaza Mayor for its human statues, the area around Opera for Chinese ladies selling fans, a street near Gran Via metro for its working girls and so on. Even our local high street, Jose del Hierro has its share of street life.

Firstly, there are the lottery sellers. One of the main lottery companies in Spain is Once, a charity set up to provide blind people with employment. Thanks to the Spanish love of the lottery, it is now a huge company and has expanded its remit to employing anyone with a disability. As a result, not only do we have a kiosk for a blind female lottery seller, but there are also two other regular sellers on our street - a woman in a wheelchair who hangs around the supermarket and a chap with a very dodgy knee (it bends inwards) who stations himself outside the Caja Madrid and always has a smile for Rosie.

They aren't the only people selling things on Jose del Hierro, though I suspect they are the only ones doing so legally. Two sisters station themselves outside the bakery every day with their buckets of flowers, while an older couple (who I assume are gypsies) are across the way selling knock-off make-up, clothes and occasionally extremely cheap melons. Nobody seems to mind, even though there are several clothes shops and fruiterias on the street that they are presumably undercutting.

Finally, there are the beggars. These come and go, but the most regular, rain or shine, 7 days a week, is the African guy. He's probably in his mid-twenties, I remember first seeing him when we came to view the flat prior to moving in, so he's been around at least 2 years, maybe more. He stations himself outside the supermarket, ostensibly selling La Farola (the streetlight), the Spanish equivalent of The Big Issue, though I've never seen anyone buy a copy, let alone read one, from him or any other "seller" around Madrid. Neither does he make any effort to sell one. Rather, he greets people and makes himself useful, holding a dog lead or some shopping bags while the owner shops, and accepting the odd piece of change people (including ourselves) give him. The boredom factor must be huge, despite all the people that pass the time of day with him, and I'm sure when he made the risky and dangerous crossing to Spain this wasn't what he envisaged doing. Yet judging by his perseverance and the preponderance of other Africans doing the same thing at supermarkets all over Madrid, it must be living, and a better one than they could hope for 'back home'. I can't help but think it's a terrible waste of humanity and yet further evidence that western immigration policies based on restricting both numbers and permission to work is failing and wrong-headed.

The Mortal Enemies of Naptime by Kate

How many miles (kilometres, sorry - we are on the continent, after all) have Theo and I walked in the name of Rosie's precious daytime sleep? We've certainly got to know the roads around our barrio very well and have also pushed a snoozing Rosie across the very heart of Madrid, passing such landmarks as Sol, Plaza Mayor, the Ventas Bullring and the Retiro Park. As long as we're properly attired for the weather, don't need to empty our bladders and Rosie co-operates by actually nodding off reasonably quickly, then it's an enjoyable way to get a bit of fresh(ish) air and exercise.

But it's hardly what you would describe as a relaxing stroll. Nope. The savvy pushchair navigator has to be constantly alert to all the circling hazards that can kill a nap without a second thought. They are many and various and include:

1) Stopping the pushchair. Getting the timing right at pedestrian crossings is a tricky business and Theo and I have both been observed running full tilt to catch the green man, walking v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y to avoid stopping at the red, or doing figure-eights or back-and-forths on the braille pavements to keep that essential forward motion going at all times.

2) The changing weather. Manic re-positioning of the parasol to avoid sun rays hitting Rosie's reposing eyes; enveloping the buggy in the rain cover (or indeed removing it); hastily improvising wind-breaks with bits of string and bulldog clips... all of this without stopping (see point 1).


3) Sudden sharp noises. During the deeper part of her sleep cycle, Rosie can sleep through pretty much anything. But when she's moving from one cycle to the next, typically at the half-hour mark or thereabouts, any number of sonic interruptions can effectively assassinate the remaining nap. These include:
*dogs barking
*toddlers throwing tantrums
*vehicles tooting (junctions are dangerous - Spaniards tend to be very impatient with cars that don't move forward the instant the light turns green, or preferably, a second or two earlier)
*air-brakes (buses are the worst culprits)
*emergency sirens
*roadworks
*chatting Spaniards (they tend to talk VERY loudly)
*chatting Africans (they tend to talk EVEN MORE loudly)
*mopeds and motorbikes
*baby-loving passers-by ("Que cosita!!" They shout at our sleeping daughter, ignoring our pleading expressions as Rosie's eyelids start to flicker alarmingly)
*buskers (I'm a music lover, but I could cheerfully kick a hole through any accordion threatening my baby's sleep. It usually is an accordion.)

Any of the above can send us skedaddling down side-roads, sprinting across parks, executing 180 degree hand-brake turns with the buggy - or any means necessary to avoid Rosie being woken prematurely.

Which is why an hour and a half of successful sleep from Rosie while out and about tends to feel like a mission as we set out and imparts a glow of satisfaction when we return with the snooze quota fulfilled. But it's no wonder that after the initial stampede to use the loo, we buggy-navigators need to sink gratefully onto the sofa with a calming cup of tea. Those walks are almost always fraught with incident from the most innocent-seeming sources. Strolling has never felt so adventurous.

The Big Four Oh... By Kate

So, I've hit forty. Actually, I would like to think I got there in a more decorous fashion, but it probably wouldn't be true. I could say I have started my fifth decade, but that's a bit scary, so I won't.

What a good job I have a thoughtful, loving husband who appointed himself in charge of celebrating the end of decade number four in such a way that I would at times forget the age aspect of the whole affair. The very fact that he is eleven years my junior is helpful in itself - I can now spend one year and one month bragging about having a husband in his twenties while I'm in my forties. I fully intend to do so at every opportunity.

Anyway, back to the birthday weekend. I wasn't very good at suggesting special fortieth-type birthday presents (a hair-brush and a new baby-carrier were the best I could come up with) so Theo decided his main present would consist of persuading my sister to transplant herself temporarily from the far west of Cornwall, her husband and four children and come and stay. What a winner! I would have been knocked sideways if it had been a surprise, but the fact that I discovered the plan ahead of time meant I could enjoy my birthday present even more by luxuriating in some pleasurable anticipation too.

So Bex duly arrived on the Friday evening and I stayed up beyond my customary nine o'clock bed-time (made necessary by my beloved multiple-waking baby daughter) to greet her and clink glasses of Cava.

The next morning I had a surprise extra birthday present from Rosie in the form of a lie-in until 08.00. Seeing as her customary getting up time is between 06.00 and 07.00, it was a princely gift. OK, she still woke up a few times along the way, but I wasn't about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.
More of the Cava was duly consumed in the form of Buck's Fizz with freshly squeezed orange and after a birthday present opening session (thank you cards now being written to the kind donors...) the four of us set off to the small town of Chinchon, about 50km outside Madrid.
There we met up with our friends Bianca, Stephane and Ollie; Kirsty, Juanmi and Emily Grace and Anne. After a stroll around the picturesque streets of Chinchon (famous for its anise spirit, garlic, local wine and buns in the shapes of breasts and testicles...) we settled down on the terraza of a restaurant in the Plaza Mayor and enjoyed a long and leisurely - and rather tasty - lunch. Even the babies were inclined to remain mellow, either napping in their prams, grinning and allowing themselves to be passed around for cuddles or a bit of high jinx in the town's bull-ring.The next day we took Bex on a fast-paced Sunday tour of Madrid, including a second breakfast of churros; the rastro; Picasso's Guernica; cafe-con-leche in Plaza Mayor and finally lunch at a vegetarian restauran in La Latina, along with our pals Jon, David and Nataly.Not surprisingly, we were all exhausted when we got back. Bex was delivered to the airport by Theo (and then had to put up with a delayed flight and an overnight drive home...I can only appreciate her logistical sacrifices to make the journey...) and I collapsed into bed, feeling every second of my forty-plus years.They say it's when life begins. In that case, I'm going to need more energy. But my forties have been pretty good so far, let's hope they carry on this way.

Boys and their toys

As part of the Carnival celebrations here in Madrid, Plaza Mayor played host to Frenchman Dominique Boivin and his toys. Well, one of them - a mid-sized hydraulic digger. Set to rather loud classical music this piece of modern farce... sorry... modern dance was entertaining if rather limited - as Kate pointed out there were only so many photos you could take of a middle-aged man riding around in a digger's bucket. We applauded, but 20 minutes definitely covered all the possible means of suspending yourself from a JCB arm while it whirls around.


We weren't quite sure whether Transport Exceptionnals (as the piece was called) was an elegy for Spain's moribund construction industry, a lament for a lost childhood fascination for all things mechanical or merely an emphatic riposte of penis-envy. Either way we both agreed that more sequins were required.