I laid the loaf of sourdough bread down on the floor, alongside my faux fur and handbag. “Jeez, it’s hot in here” I said to my Goldie Hawn Lookalike (GHL) of a neighbour. A glass of Walter’s Royal Riesling Sekt Brut in hand I spied the canapés on offer. Geraldine – the generous owner of Raoul’s and solely responsible for starting off this annual Christmas event in the ‘hood noted it. “It’s okay, every year our glasses get mixed up with The Winery’s next door, but eventually they find their way to the right home.”
I was glad about that, because even as I sampled the Riesling from David’s wine gaff, I had one eye on Raouls’ Prosecco – both pink and white on offer.
The chat started to flow, a local beautician joined us as we talked botox, Trump and blind dates in no particular order. Niblets of chorizo and beds of bruschetta laiden with mozzarella, pesto and dried tomatoes stimulated the taste buds, and before I knew where I was I found myself one glass of rosé bubbly down.
“Let’s go next door!” GHL cried. It seemed a good idea, as we were down to our last sophisticated sausage roll and the hostess of the evening had bade us ‘goodnight’.
“I’ve got a piece to publish tonight and Christmas cards to write, I can’t stay out much longer..!”
“Just one!” she replied.
I woke surrounded by Tiger print. Red and pink Tiger print. Had it all been a dream? A glance at the receipt and an inspection of photos on my phone said otherwise.
I tweeted H: ’Unfortunately it’s sold, so I can’t get it for you.’
From Toulouse to Gaillic: Graffiti decorated station buildings, small maintenance boxes and animal sheds strewn in the fields we slowly pass, stamped with the mark of ‘I was here’ in street art language.
Just in the door, my Skype rang. It was Fifi from Ibiza. “Everyone’s gone home” she said, “The whole family. The temperature’s dropped and the campsite’s finally calming down.”
“It’s gives you a break, that’s the most important thing” Kamila told me as she explained the Jean d’Estrées Vitamin C Facial. “And, that’s what we’re about too, we like people to come here – men, women, couples, groups of friends, basically everyone can be together and get everything done. We’re like a one stop shop for relaxation through treatments.”
What do the Olympics and Pokemon have in common? Well, not much really except that they’re both topical and highly competitive. So, when my suggestion to join my ‘nephew’ and his Mum at the Olympic park to hunt Pokemon was met by a youthful ‘Yeah okay’ that was enough encouragement.
J came running towards me: “You need a name! Have you got one yet?”
I’ve long been fascinated by graffiti and street art – from days of New York living where the subways trains rattled past spray-painted with a thousand colours. By whom, I used to wonder, and when and how? The mystery of incognito people decorating vehicles and walls in the dead of night or when no one was looking intrigued me.
I picked up my means of transport. It was hot, a damned hot Ibiza day, but I was on a mission to discover all there was to discover on the 
Conversations with Strangers 