Out celebrating the new job last night. We tried out the tapas bar, as a contender for New Favourite Restaurant; and five good dishes, bread, and a bottle of sangre de toro for about £30 makes it a strong candidate. Tapas, obviously, shares many characteristics with sushi, in that it features lots of little dishes instead of one big one. Crucially, though, none of them tasted of seaweed, and the absence of a conveyor belt made us more inclined to linger.
Towards the end of the albondigas, my brain decided it was time for its four-yearly migraine. It chose the outline of the map of Spain from the window behind Pete’s head, and etched it on to the retina of my right eye, where it glowed like a wasp trapped in a fluorescent light bulb.
The lights gradually slid into a central position, preventing me from looking at anything directly. I bravely continued to converse with Pete, regarding him from the corner of my eye. If I hadn’t told him what was happening, he would probably have thought this was nothing unusual.
Eventually, Spain morphed into Portugal, and then slipped into the Atlantic Ocean. Once the lights are gone, the headache starts, and I want only to lie down in darkness; so we went to play the quiz machine in the pub. Please don’t assume that Pete made me do this against my will; I was keen to try distraction as a headache cure, but we lost £3 on the hangman, and my head still hurt. I had to be taken home and put to bed by 8.30, and today my head is full of cotton wool.