Last month, for reasons that remain somewhat unclear to me, I relocated from London to Spain. Valencia, specifically.
Yesterday, I returned from Anguilla via boat to Sint Maarten, (delayed) flight to Paris, meaning i missed my connection from Charles de Gaulle to Heathrow, but managed to get on the next one, made it to Gatwick and whiled away a few hours in the business lounge, then got one of the last flights back to my newly adopted city.
I arrived late at night and took a cab home. The streets were eerily deserted. Yet all lit up by the illuminations for the festival of Fallas that compete with Regent St at Christmas.
It was like Saigon back in the day. I imagine.
Today, I learnt that no one is allowed out for at least 15 days, though likely to be a month or two, everyone here is saying. I am more or less under house arrest. Thanks to bureaucracy here (too boring a story), I have no broadband at home. A run of unpaid invoices means I have no access to money. I have no TV, no computer and no life.
I am writing this on my iPhone with no idea whether it shall work.
If you are awaiting copy from me, please be assured that I am doing everything within my power to get broadband so I can deliver.
This is not ideal for my equilibrium and mental state.
Thank you for reading.