The word ‘dandy’ is a very rare bird these days. Which makes it all the more strange I came across it twice today. The first time was in a description of a 50s author whose ‘habitual get-up harked back to the sleek sartorial style of an 1890s dandy’. And the second was in a rather bizarre article on UK identity cards in today’s El Mundo. The writer of this apparently thinks ‘los dandis’ still stalk the streets of the UK, in the shape of gentlemen who wear bowler hats and carry furled umbrellas and a copy of the Times. This is not the first time I’ve come across commentaries on life in the UK written by people who’ve clearly never been there but I guess Spaniards are equally tired of reading about their [Andalucian] stereotype as well.

Well, maybe nothing much will happen for some time but at least a dialogue appears to have begun on the issue of prostitution in Spain. El Mundo today followed up the recent El Pais article and gave us a potted history of the trade here, emphasising once again the very high level of tolerance of something that was once an important source of state revenue. True, the article concluded it was a huge problem without obvious solutions but there has to be a first step and this might just have been it. Though I wouldn’t hold your breath.

My daughter and I signed her flat purchase and mortgage documents this morning. This took place in a dedicated ‘Signing Office’ [with 20 tables] next to the relevant bank and was a very Spanish affair. Everything was wonderfully informal, friendly and pleasant but immensely consumptive of time, paper and people. Counting the two young ladies who dealt with all the photocopying, there were 10 of us involved in the process. And, including the obligatory post-signing coffee, chat and well-wishing, the whole thing took well over 2 hours, ignoring travel. True as it is, I imagine it would be hard to find a Spaniard who would believe it’s all done by mail in the UK, albeit via the agency of lawyers. But perhaps things will change when Tony Blair’s finally brought in his identity cards, allowing people to demand that you prove you are who you say you are, in person

A wonderful moment on the metro this morning. Having forgotten to grab hold of a bar when we set off, I fell forward when the train suddenly jerked. The young lady next to me grabbed me by the wrist to stop me falling even more heavily of top of my daughter and then smiled beautifully when I thanked her. No wonder I love Madrid. Especially as no one has yet walked right in front of me as if I weren’t there.