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Somebody makes a pseudo-stupid joke at my son Quique in the street —something I’ll never understand. Pablo looks at me with his best “what the hell just happened, did you get it?” and our telepathy fails for a moment, and I have to make do with expressing my thoughts with words, and in front of

I’m a bit of a Hobbit. I like to see things grow, little by little. I like routines (and escaping them: but I find them comfy). I like it when I run out of something and I buy exactly the same one again, I get the impression that I was right the first one. My

On Tuesday my Interpreting students at University brought to class, as practice material, an interview with the star of Breaking Bad. The text contained the question: What would you do if you had a year to live? It was funny, at the time, to think that it’s just one year since Benita, my German mom, left