Before I moved out to Spain I knew my life would be a little bit different to back in good old Blighty. I decided I was okay with having to include an allowance for sun cream in my budget (lol I do not budget I should budget) and I was very ready to be socially required to have a nap in the middle of the day. One thing I did not anticipate, however, was how much of a fuss my new window would cause me.
Between my bedroom window in my home village, my school dormitory window facing some trees and my university bedroom window also facing some trees, I’ve been quite lucky with the fact I can basically prance about my room doing whatever I please without the fear of someone glancing through and catching me in some bizarre situation. But in a big city like Madrid I have not been quite so lucky.
I live on the 4th floor of an apartment block with my bedroom window facing away from the road. That means my view is the wall of the building behind me, precisely the 4th and 5th floor windows of the rooms that also face away from the road thanks to the square block system. I’m not explaining this very well, am I? (See photo for clarification).
Anyhow, the main thing is that I feel like Taylor Swift in that her music video for You Belong With Me, when she falls in love with the boy in the house next door. I however, do not have a lovely blond haired, blue eyed heartthrob gazing back at me. No, I have a lady, I want to say in her late 50s, who spends all day sitting at the computer by the window. Obviously, whatever it is she is looking at is not that exiting because she spends a good 46-7% of her time staring into my room. I also happen to spend a good 46-7% of my time dancing around my room to whatever song has caught my attention. The amount of times our eyes have met resulting in my immediate halt of boogie is more than I’d like to admit. At first I used to hurriedly look away and keep as much distance from the window as possible whenever I was caught red handed. However, I have learnt that it’s actually a lot more fun to hold my ground and slowly restart to groove, all the while maintaining intense eye contact; I will not be the first to break. I stare that lady down and I give Chandler Bing a run for his money they way my arms flail about.
From my frequent dance offs, as I like to think of them, I’ve experience first-hand how fun life can be when you truly let those inhibitions go and think of an embarrassing situation as an opportunity to make other people (or more likely yourself) laugh. In the words of Earth, Wind and Fire, ‘Boogie on down’ because what real reason do you have not to?
The Mutua Madrid Open is currently on and the fittest and finest tennis players have descended upon the city to try their luck at winning the ATP Tour title. I was lucky enough to get tickets and on Tuesday night made my way over to the Caja Mágica stadium in the hope of catching Andy Murray eating a banana. I may not have seen the Scott munching on the fruit I love to hate (story about that here), but I got the second-best thing: Spanish ball boys. No, Spanish ball men is more accurate. Hombres. None of the cute little boys you see at Wimbledon, these were big, strapping, young lads with muscles bursting out their polo shirts and shorts that perfectly shaped their behinds every time they picked up a tennis ball rolling their way. Highlight of the night FOR SURE. Oh, how I’d love to be working backstage with those chicos.
Funny you should say that Kate, I did actually get somewhat close to that idea; I may or may not have brought my bright pink sun visor out to Spain with me, albeit more for general sun protection (and fashion domination) than for actual usage on the tennis court. Therefore, I felt that this was the closest it would get to a Spanish tennis court and decided to wear it to the match. Paired with a white tee-shirt, I accidently (on purpose) really resembled a player on her way back from a game. My friend had chosen to wear a gorgeous white dress Andy Murray’s mum would have approved of and thus looked like my manager. Quite a pair we were and on more than one occasion we were approach for a photo by some poor mistaken spectator who though we were something a bit more exiting than two little English girls playing dress up around the stadium. I won’t lie, we did not correct them and happily posed multiple times, basking in our new and pleasantly easily found fame.
Although I won’t be around to sign any autographs, there are still a few tickets left for the tournament which you can find here.
Alternatively, if you fancy a boogie or a shimmy, check out my playlist of the week in the side bar.
‘Till next week.