Been Around the World… Came Home a Marriage Referee!

Red Bull light, two penthouses and the Englishwoman with the nails. Life after separation in Spain has taken a turn even my diary wasn’t expecting.

Been around the world and I can’t find my baby… But I have found my bed. And, darling, the bed hasn’t instructed a solicitor. Phew. Finally home.

There really is nowhere like your own bed. Mine welcomed me like a hug that wanted to cuddle me right to the core. No explanations, no negotiations, no “we need to talk”. Just a pillow that understood the assignment. Ven aquí, cariño. Come here, darling. I nearly proposed.

Before anybody contacts the Guinness Book of Records, I haven’t actually been around the world in fewer days than Phileas Fogg. Even he took eighty.

But he wasn’t fitting in Madrid, Valencia, Almería, Sotogrande and phone calls about why his house had stopped functioning. My travels have involved so much paperwork that my handbag now qualifies as commercial premises.

The colourful one has accompanied me to the various venues. At this rate, I should issue him a badge: “Mediador en España.”

Duties include translating, driving, carrying the filing cabinets, keeping the peace and occasionally wondering how he got involved.

Other mothers ask their sons to put a shelf up. Mine needs a working knowledge of Spanish bureaucracy and the suspension of a removal van.

Back Home in Mijas: Red Bull Light and Unreliable Electrics

Meanwhile, back in Mijas, it rained. And my house had a complete meltdown.

Apparently, a drop of rain lands on the roof and the entire property says, “That’s it. I’m taking the day off.” No electricity.

Other houses have trip switches; mine has a nervous disposition. Tranquila, casa. Solo es agua. Calm down, house. It’s only water.

Thankfully, Antonio was in situ. My increasingly resident Antonio, now partial to Red Bull light and custard creams.

I am beginning to suspect I have established a very small British embassy for electricians. Refreshments available. Power supply uncertain.

He arrived to sort out a problem and has stayed long enough to develop biscuit preferences. Soon I’ll be asking whether he wants his post redirected.

Despite my absence, the workmen of Mijas have continued. A general meeting has been called for 12 October— Spain’s national holiday.

Yes, a national holiday. The Englishwoman with the nails and the lovely biscuits has apparently taken precedence.

I would love to believe this demonstrates a passionate commitment to restoring reliable electricity. Personally, I suspect it gets them out from under their wives’ feet for a couple of hours.

“Cariño, tengo una reunión importante.” Darling, I have an important meeting.

“With whom?” “The Englishwoman.” “The one with the nails?” “Yes.” “Bring back biscuits.”

I can picture the minutes already: electricity discussed, rain blamed, custard creams unavailable for further comment.

There has, thankfully, been much better news. My dad is finally home after his stint in hospital.

The virus he contracted affected his lungs and heart, and it was a frightening time for us all. After this year, we were desperately hoping for good news. Knowing Dad was home allowed us all to breathe a little easier.

Life After Separation in Spain: The Truth Behind the Photograph

Now, from one sort of recovery to another. You know that saying, life happens for you rather than to you? I’m beginning to see the point. Although I would still appreciate an itinerary.

Michel Does Spain Solo has brought me into conversations with men and women along the Costa del Sol and beyond who have left long marriages, are thinking about leaving, or are trying to find a way to stay.

Many aren’t contacting me to ask how to save their marriage. They want to know what happens afterwards. The real afterwards.

What happens when that first fling with freedom has finished flirting back?

When the excitement settles, the front door closes and there is nobody to tell about the ridiculous thing that happened in the supermarket?

What do you lose besides a partner? How lonely does it get? And how, exactly, do you start again?

After thirty years on this coast, people know me. They know I will tell them the truth in black and white— even when it would look considerably prettier through a flattering filter.

They want the bits nobody puts next to a sunset and a heart emoji.

So I have written about the reality of separation in Spain: the paperwork, the appointments, the legal fees and the practical questions you never imagined you would need to ask.

You start with “What happens to the house?” Three appointments later, you have a folder, a headache and a strong emotional attachment to whoever offers you a cup of tea.

Some legal bills arrive with such confidence that you wonder whether you’ve accidentally bought the lawyer.

¿Viene usted incluido? Are you included? Because at that price, somebody could at least carry the filing cabinet.

Among those considering leaving who contacted me, many were women.

Some were reacting to a husband’s brief third-party adventure: a little last fling to prove he still had it. Whatever “it” was, it appears to have required a surprising amount of administrative support afterwards.

But infidelity wasn’t the whole story. Many were simply tired of being the permanent massager of Victor Meldrew’s ego.

Decades of soothing, organising, remembering and keeping the peace.

You begin marriage as his wife and gradually discover you are also his diary, social secretary and complaints department. And the complaints department never closes.

The toast is wrong. The traffic is wrong. Somebody has moved his glasses. The glasses are on his head. Naturally, this remains your fault.

Ay, paciencia. Eventually, some women discover their patience has left the building—and hasn’t provided a forwarding address.

Can a Long Marriage Find a Different Way Forward?

Those conversations led me to marriage guidance professionals and to exploring the experiences of Spanish couples too.

Then came invitations from couples who wanted to work things out. They had heard my honest account of separation and wanted to talk about whether their own future could look different.

So I have been travelling, listening, sharing what I have learned and helping people connect with professionals.

Madrid, Valencia, Almería, Sotogrande. Other women have city breaks. I appear to have acquired a travelling marital discussion service.

There is no uniform, although the nails do help people identify me.

Tenemos que hablar. We need to talk. A sentence capable of sending a husband into the garage to inspect something that has been broken since 2009.

Sometimes, after forty years, couples know precisely how to irritate each other and have forgotten how to ask for what they need.

They can predict the next argument word for word, yet neither can remember the last time they asked, “What would make you happier?”

Where there is safety, respect and a willingness on both sides, I think it is worth looking properly at whether things can change.

The arrangement you made forty years ago may need revisiting. The children have grown up, your working lives have changed and your knees now announce your arrival.

Why should the marriage be expected to run on exactly the same terms?

¿Y si lo hacemos de otra manera? What if we do it differently?

You have updated everything else. Even the television has had three software updates while you’ve been arguing.

The cost of splitting up goes far beyond money. There is the stability, the familiarity, the friendship and the shared history.

Someone who understands what you mean when you say, “Remember that place?” No address. No explanation. Just forty years of context and an argument about whether it was a Tuesday.

Starting again can bring wonderful things. It can also leave you exhausted by decisions you never used to think about.

I know. I am currently having a very intimate relationship with a filing system.

One Dinner, Two Penthouses and an Accidental Referee

Then came the dinner invitation. A couple were in the throes of killing each other with words.

They wanted the house sold immediately, the equity released and separate futures.

“I am many things,” I politely explained, “but neither a referee nor a real estate agent.”

A week later, it appears I am both. I should have brought a whistle and a tape measure.

There followed a solid week of intensive arguments, difficult conversations and my opinion, for whatever it was worth.

Lawyers were put in place. A marketing plan got underway. And then love was back in the air.

Honestly. I had barely worked out the seating arrangements.

They are now going to marriage guidance together. Their house has received a reasonable offer, and they are planning to buy two penthouses: one in Marbella and one in Madrid.

Apparently, their compromise requires two terraces and a change of postcode.

Cada pareja es un mundo. Every couple is a world of its own. This particular world has excellent views.

Their plan is to change how they live while working on staying together.

There is plenty still to sort out, but they are making plans as a couple again.

Meanwhile, I am hunting for properties, notaries and removal companies, and helping organise a final dinner at their home for friends who had no idea how close they came to separating.

Because behind closed doors, things can be very different.

The guests see the lovely table. They don’t necessarily hear the conversation once the dishwasher is loaded.

Although, given how much trouble dishwashers seem to cause, perhaps we should all go back to paper plates.

Starting Again at Sixty-Four — With Stronger Boundaries and a Stronger Core

At sixty-four, I am seriously considering a new direction alongside helping with house sales and purchases: meeting couples who want to explore a way forward and connecting them with the right professionals.

I haven’t quite worked out how to describe it to Paco. “Accidental referee with property interests” may need some refinement.

I bring lived experience, a willingness to listen and a fairly dependable inability to pretend everything is lovely when it plainly isn’t.

The specialist advice belongs with the specialists. My contribution usually begins with, “Right. Tell me what’s actually going on.”

I wouldn’t have chosen the circumstances that brought me here.

Yet my experience is opening doors, and some of them lead to penthouses.

There is something rather satisfying about discovering that a painful chapter can still contain the beginnings of useful work.

Teddy and Gracie have made new friends along the way. Different models, but furry and four-legged.

They have managed these relationships without a consultation fee or a disagreement about who said what in 1998.

There is much to be said for a sniff and getting on with it.

The colourful one has been kept busy accompanying me, and my diary now looks as though several different women are sharing it.

Unfortunately, every appointment still requires the same pair of legs.

Which brings me to my mini Frankenstein at the electric gym. Still seeing him. Still willingly allowing this to happen.

I have also acquired four youngsters— anyone under forty qualifies in my book— whose apparent mission is to give me muscles in places where I don’t think muscles should live.

They call it progress. I call it making a noise when I sit down.

Apparently, I need a stronger core. After this year, I feel my core has already demonstrated considerable commitment.

Still, if I’m going to carry paperwork, tour properties and sit between two people conducting a vigorous review of their marriage, a little extra strength may be useful.

I just need to remain capable of getting into the car afterwards.

Honest Conversations About Living Alone After a Breakup

If you want to know more about my experience of living alone after a breakup in Spain, message me.

I am happy to share the questions I wish I had asked, the practical things I have learned and the bits that don’t make it into the smiling social media version.

And if you want to explore whether you can work things out together, that is a conversation I am increasingly having too.

I can offer honesty, experience and help finding the right professionals. The biscuits depend on Antonio.

If you see me visiting penthouses, don’t assume I have won the lottery.

I have simply made quite a lot of good come out of a very bad situation. And I am checking the electrics before anybody buys anything.

Until the next madhouse saga, October’s word is compromise. It seems to work for others. I still have trouble spelling it.

But Dad is home. I am home. My bed wants me.

And the Englishwoman with the nails is preparing to host a national-holiday meeting about a house that objects to rain.

Red Bull light in the fridge. Custard creams at the ready.

Se abre la sesión. The meeting is now open.

Please keep crumbs out of the fuse box. If anyone knows where the biscuits have gone, Antonio is to be questioned immediately.