Sex in the Southern City? I think not.

The temptation to call this blog 'Sex in the Southern City' was great, but the title had two major drawbacks.
Firstly, it would be pure wishful thinking and every time I logged on, I'd be reminded of that, and consequently at risk of becoming obsessed, depressed or a fantastist. Of course 'Not a lot of Sex in the Southern City' doesn't have much of a ring to it and is a tad fatalistic; not heavy on the 'positive thinking' factor, either.
The other drawback is that, as a title, of course it's more or less been done already - damn! - and with my size of feet, a dainty size 44, comparisons would be odious, Manolo Bs impossible. (I always want to call him Manolo Sputnik - it's so much easier to spell!)

So. Blood, sweat and gazpacho it is. Though the odd tear may creep in and slide down the screen. Unobserved. Here's hoping they're tears of laughter, of emotion. Emotion is good. Do tears of passion exist? This blog is about life in Andalusia! If tears of passion don't officially exist, we shall just have to invent them!

Who am I? Well, I'm The Cool Mum, to my sons' friends, and The Tall Mum Who Speaks Weird to the rest of the kids at their school. To many of the adults in my 'barrio', I'm probably the Guiri (Spanish equivalent of Sassenach or Emmet, it refers to white - or rather, pink - North Europeans or North Americans and conjures up images of sandals with socks, burned-raw-red arms and necks, and freckled faces). I may even be That Foreign Woman with No Husband and Two Boys Who Look Suspiciously Like They Belong To Two Different Fathers to one or two of the more traditional ladies. No worries. Oh, and I'm The Renegade Celt. Which sounds good, conjuring up honey-sweet purple heather, watery grey-blue skies, silent lochs, vibrant gorse and melancholic glens in the midst of this brown, mustard and white cobbled cityscape with its blood-red soul and Al-Andalus ghosts, shimmering under the cloudless bluer than blue.

How did I come to be marooned in this city? I can't say 'Godforesaken' here, as it's anything but that. God is so ever present, at least in his ornate Spanish Catholic manifestation, that even the haberdashers sell jewel-like fabric for dressing Virgins (that's with a capital 'V'). The cathedral is huge and beautiful with its Moorish minaret, the Giralda.........ah, but we'll wax lyrical about the city another time. How I came to be marooned here is a medium to long story. Are you sitting comfortably?

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