City life

I do not consider my handwriting to be overly expansive, but the cursive sweep of my letters is more than my new fountain pen can cope with. This gave me an excellent excuse (not that I need one) to return to the shop in Barcelona to complain.

I was seduced by the name and the rather glamorous appearance of the pen and bought it without trying it first: a cardinal sin with fountain pens. And I paid the price. And I had lost the receipt. And I wasn’t absolutely certain where the shop was.

The streets off the Ramblas in Barcelona are a warren of winding, narrow passageways which branch in different directions and seem to have no coherence to their arrangement. They are filled with interesting little shops but, having found one, unless you take careful details, you will only find it again by mistake.

I had to remember where the ostensible target of my wandering was supposed to be and then try and work backwards and forwards about how I got there and got away again to try and locate on which section of my epic city crawls I had noticed the pen shop.

Much more by luck than judgement I went to it directly which has more to do with an innate guidance system than GPS!

Uncharacteristically the shop posed no problem about accepting my reservations about the pen’s quality and they offered to send it to the manufacturer. This usually means that I will not see the thing for the next six months.

My real reason for shifting my aching hip to Barcelona was to enjoy my newfound access to the gallery utilizing the extra escalator. Even with this and using ramps for access you still have to cope with 27 steps.

Another excellent meal in the reflective restaurant and on my exit from the gallery the discovery of another hidden escalator which will complete the descent without steps.

Then rain.

And the news from The School That Sacked Me continues to be extraordinary. All grist to the wheel!

Roll merrily on!