His name is Juan

I woke feeling a little glum today. Winter in the air, I think. Or tired after one of those weeks.

A 7.30 beach walk fixed it for a while.  Chilly, a little thrilling because the murky water hinted at hidden secrets, but wonderful none-the-less.

Glum crept up on me an hour or two later. One of those days when nothing does the trick. Hot milky coffee didn't touch it.

The need for petrol gave me the excuse to go to the supermarket for three things we did need and some 70% dark chocolate that we didn't. It kind of took the edge off for a while.

But then the doorbell rang and the postie delivered me an unexpected package with a foreign postmark. Mystifying.

I mentally scrolled through recent evenings that had involved beer and a computer. Shamefully, I've got form on late-night online purchasing.

The cat radiator bed. My intention was honourable. The cat, however was not amused. She gave me a look that only mothers and cats can, and made it clear that, without a considerable amount of velcro, she wasn't going to sit anywhere near it.

There's now a house-wide super-injunction around mentions of vast Alibaba Express (trust me, don't go there) parcels arriving three months and twenty quid tax after they've been ordered. I'm saying nothing.

Thankfully, what arrived was none of the above. It was a little lacquered box, with a note about cheese. Curled up inside was Juan.

Turns out he was hand-made in Spain by a someone that I've known for more than three quarters of my life.

She was the naughtiest of us all (and we set the bar pretty high). After a lifetime and a half of adventure, she married a man we all thought was a gangster and they got on their motorbikes and headed for Spain.

Twenty-odd years and two beautiful bilingual children later, they're still there. She's got a great job and an orange grove and somehow finds time to crochet Juan and utterly transform my mood.