At one point, the plan for this week was to fly down to Madrid for the premiere of Pedro Almodovar’s new film Los Abrazos Rotos. A friend of a friend has connections, and said that she would be able to get her hands on a couple of tickets for us, at which point the idea of flights, accommodation and the ridiculous state of the pound against the euro became totally irrelevant. I can’t say I wasn’t gutted when it all fell through, but at least my bank balance has remained healthy, and I’ve booked myself a week down your end in April instead. The big disappointment is that I’ll have to wait a bit more to see the film, though I might sneak in a quick weekend visit to Barcelona at some point soon, since Significant Other is going to be down there working. Otherwise, I’ll have to wait until August when it opens here.

Almodovar, in fact, has played quite a part in this week. On Saturday night, we returned to Sadlers Wells for another evening of entertainment – this time courtesy of flamenco singer Estrella Morente, whose voice I was introduced in Volver (she sings the title song, which Penelope Cruz mimes to during the party scene as, unknown to her, the ‘ghost’ of her mother watches – how can you not love Almodovar!). Roseberry Avenue was taken over by the Spanish for the night, as shouts of “Ole” and “Guapa” interrupted Morente’s magnificent performance. I spent the rest of the night clapping my hands and stomping my feet – although SO is sure that that has more to do with the icing on the cake of massive cupcakes we had at a children’s birthday party earlier on the afternoon.

Talk about sugar rush!! I’m sure all the mothers at that party must have had a hard time trying to put their kids to bed that night!

There’s also been friends in town visiting this week – very, very old friends who have been in my life since forever. One – who I go back to secondary school with – was staying at the flat, while the other – the person I first shared a flat with when I first moved here more than 20 years – was in a hotel so there was lots of running around and catching up. It all fell nicely into place on Sunday, when a whole group of us who date back to the early days had lunch in Shoreditch House on what turned out to be the perfect London Sunday. We woke up to the most glorious weather – a blue spotless sky and a temperature that didn’t require the wearing of about five layers, which instantly had the whole town out in the streets with smiles on our faces. There was one point when – after lunch – we went up to sit among the beautiful people by the pool – when it really felt like it was summer. It was only when the sun started to set that reality sank in, and things started to get chilly. Luckily, in Shoreditch House, there’s always a solution, and before you know it, blankets were being handed out, so we could still drink our mojitos al fresco, and pretend we’re further south. Though I suspect, there must have been a few new cases of bronchitis this week. There’s nothing like a warm, sunny day ending in a chilly evening to guarantee a week of sick leave.

Source: Weekender, March 21, 2009