Red Bull Light and Five Chips: The Year That Nearly Broke Me

Starting over after 60 wasn’t on my wish list for life in Spain. But in a year that nearly broke me, friendship, faith and five homemade chips helped me find my appetite for the future.

2026 started in the Year of the Snake and galloped into the Year of the Horse. Unfortunately, nobody supplied reins. Or a saddle. Or the handsome Spaniard who, in my opinion, should come as standard with this level of emotional equestrian activity.

Instead, I have spent most of the year clinging to the mane, shouting “¡Madre mía!” while life shouts back, “Hold my sangría. Watch this.”

The worst year in more than six decades. If it could go wrong, it has. If it could hurt, it did. And just when I thought there couldn’t possibly be another thing, another thing arrived. No appointment. No warning. Usually carrying paperwork.

Even my Red Bull Light has looked at me as if to say, “Michel, I provide energy. This is above my pay grade.”

Then there was the weather. The longest, wettest, most treacherous winter I can remember in Spain. I came here for the Mediterranean lifestyle. At one point, I appeared to be living inside a badly maintained aquarium. The garden needed a lifeguard. The dogs needed wellies. I needed somebody to explain why I was paying Spanish bills for British weather.

Then summer arrived, took one look at us and turned the oven up. Hotter than the devil’s kitchen during the Sunday lunch service. You opened the car door and received a complimentary facial. You touched the seat belt and acquired a brand. Putting on mascara felt optimistic when your entire face was considering relocation.

And the traffic. ¡Por favor! You didn’t drive along the coast. You joined a stationary community with occasional forward movement. By the next roundabout, you could have made friends, fallen in love and discovered his wife. I have seen relationships move faster than the A-7. Admittedly, some of those have been mine.

But beyond the weather, the traffic and the daily theatre of getting through it all, there were things this year that stopped the laughter.

An 87-year-old woman, Maricarmen Abascal, evicted from the Madrid home where she had lived for 71 years. Seventy-one years. Su casa. Su hogar. A lifetime inside four walls. Then a day when she could no longer stay.

A village I had visited in my teens, then again in my thirties and forties, devastated by fire. Places I remembered full of life suddenly filled with loss. Loved ones gone. Homes no longer habitable.

Then the shooting of plastic surgeon Alexander Aslani at his Marbella clinic. Behind every headline, somebody’s world ending while the rest of the world carries on making coffee.

Those things stay with you.

Why Does Kindness Need a Selection Box?

And then somebody announces, with the enthusiasm of a woman who has already colour-coded her wrapping paper: “Christmas is just around the corner!”

Is it? Well, tell it to sit down. I haven’t finished processing February.

First, Spain goes to the polls on 29 November. Then we are apparently straight into goodwill to all mankind, compulsory merriment and buying enough food to sustain a modest province. The supermarkets are already preparing to remind us that we love our families through the medium of chocolate.

Why do we need tinsel before we telephone someone who might be lonely? Why does “Come over, there’s room for one more” suddenly become easier when there is a tree blocking the television? We have 365 days. Surely we can be generous on a Wednesday without obtaining permission from a man in a red suit.

In my darkest moments this year, my solace has been God. Faith. A higher power. The belief that something greater than me could see a way forward when I couldn’t see beyond the next hour.

Some prayers have been thoughtful. Others have been: “Please help me. And if there is a lesson in this, could you send the bullet points? I am exhausted.”

I believe He understands.

What Life in Spain Teaches Us About the Table

And I have begun to understand something our adopted country has been demonstrating for years. Life happens around the table.

“Ven, siéntate. Come algo.” Come. Sit down. Have something to eat. In Spain, that is practically an emergency response system.

You arrive looking troubled and someone produces bread. Before you have explained the problem, there are olives. By the time you reach the complicated part, someone’s aunt has decided you need another helping and someone’s uncle has an opinion. Possibly about the government. Possibly about your problem. At this volume, it is difficult to establish which.

But you are there. You are included. Nobody has left you sitting alone with your thoughts and a miserable biscuit.

And lunch is an occasion. An actual occasion. The sort of occasion for which a British person allows forty-five minutes and a Spanish family allows the remainder of daylight. “Just a quick lunch.” Of course, cariño. Bring a phone charger.

There are children, grandparents, friends, neighbours and someone whose relationship to the family remains unclear but who appears to have authority over the barbecue. Everybody talks at once. Everybody has something to add. Somebody says they aren’t hungry, then eats enough to require planning permission.

And the table somehow makes room. Another chair. Another plate. Move along a bit. Nobody stands at the door saying, “Unfortunately, you weren’t included in the original seating plan.”

The cutlery doesn’t match. The chairs don’t match. Half the opinions don’t match. It works beautifully.

And the people they have lost are still spoken about. “Your mother used to make this.” “Your father would have laughed.” “Do you remember when…?”

And suddenly, through a story, they are back among the conversation. Loved. Remembered. Still belonging. There is something profoundly comforting about that.

The Michel Special: One Egg, Five Chips and Friendship

And then there is the Michel Special. One egg. Homemade chips.

But I need to explain that meal, because my friends created it for me when eating was the last thing on my mind. Not for an afternoon. For days. For the week. Nothing tempted me.

I felt broken. There were mornings when I couldn’t bear the thought of facing another day, let alone deciding what to have for lunch.

My friends kept turning up. With soup. With homemade cake. With Sunday lunches they insisted I eat at my desk, surrounded by papers I could read three times and still not make sense of.

And, thankfully, very little patience for “I’m not hungry.”

Then came one egg and five homemade chips. Five. Even in my darkest hour, apparently, we were counting. The next time, six. Then ten. At this point, my recovery had its own potato-based performance indicators.

But slowly, something else returned to the table. Conversation. Laughter. An appetite for a little more than the food.

Those friends sat with me while I found my way back, one mouthful at a time. No grand speeches. No demand that I pull myself together. Just another plate, another visit, another reason to stay at the table.

And that became my special meal. The meal that reminds me I can carry on. I can build again. There is still a future with my name on it.

In the past month, every milestone towards that future has come with the promise of an egg and homemade chips. Some people celebrate progress with champagne. I have friends standing by with a potato peeler.

Honestly, keep your tasting menu. Mine comes with people who loved me when I had forgotten how to look after myself.

Because we need to laugh. Good grief, we need to laugh. The sort of laughter that makes you put your glass down because your hand has become unreliable. The sort that ruins your mascara for a much better reason. The sort where somebody says, “Stop, I can’t breathe,” which, at our age, does require a brief visual assessment before continuing.

Starting Over After 60: I’m Getting on That Ferry

This year has forced me to look for goodness. Some days, I have had to look very hard. “Right, Michel. What are we grateful for?”

My home. My friends. My son. My furry family. A kind message. A new opportunity. Another morning. And on particularly difficult days, the fact that I have managed to locate my glasses without accusing the entire household of moving them. Small victories count.

I am learning to give the good things more of my attention. The bad has had quite enough airtime. Frankly, it has been behaving like a guest who arrived for the weekend and started receiving post.

I cannot undo what has happened. But I can decide who comes to dinner. I can make the phone call. I can say yes to an adventure. I can get dressed, put on my face and see what the day has for me.

Sometimes courage looks magnificent. Sometimes it looks like an English woman with nails, carrying a Red Bull Light and muttering, “Right. Let’s bloody well get on with it.” Both count.

I won’t give up. I won’t give in. I may sit down. I may cry. I may briefly examine the practicalities of running away somewhere with room service. But I will get up again.

And I am trying to retire the word “try”. Yes, I can hear the irony. Bear with me.

“I’ll try to arrange lunch.” “I’ll try to book that trip.” “I’ll try to start again.” I know myself. “Try” can become a lovely comfortable waiting room where my plans sit reading old magazines until they die.

So I want action. A date. A booking. A telephone call. If I say I am going on an adventure, I want to be on the adventure, preferably with someone taking a photograph from a flattering angle.

My Pomeranians understand all this perfectly. Teddy and Gracie are Spanish Pomeranians. Their priorities are company, food, affection and conducting a thorough investigation into anything I am eating. They live in the moment. Especially if the moment contains chicken.

They do not reserve their enthusiasm for Christmas. If I return from the bathroom, there is a welcome. If I return from the shops, there is a state reception. If I return carrying something edible, I am the most important woman in Europe.

They have never said, “We’ll have a lovely day on 25 December. Until then, let’s worry about things we cannot control.”

They want today to be lovely. Preferably now. Preferably on my lap. Preferably with whatever is on my plate. There is wisdom in that. Also a significant amount of white fur, but mainly wisdom.

Gratitude Belongs at the Table Every Day

So tonight, it will be a feast for more than three. The special meal. The people who understand what it means. Another milestone in the future I am building. And considerably more than five chips. We have progressed. Do keep up.

Tonight, we celebrate. We laugh. We look forward to what tomorrow might bring. There will probably be several conversations happening simultaneously, because we live in Spain and I believe in integration.

There may be tears. But I am hoping most of them will come from laughing so hard that somebody has to put their fork down.

And around that table, I will know how much I have to be grateful for. My friends, who fed me when I couldn’t find the will to feed myself. My family. All of them.

My son, back on his own journey, facing the work of rebuilding his future. I know that rebuilding takes courage, and I am grateful to see him taking those steps.

My furry family, who have supervised every stage of my recovery and would like it recorded that they, too, are available for chips. My sanity. Hard-won and occasionally tested by a printer, but still here.

My belief in myself. My knowledge. Everything I have learned and everything I still have to give. My homeland. My adopted Spain. The people and places that remind me I belong. So much goodness. So many reasons to say, “Gracias.”

It really is an attitude of gratitude. And with it comes a little peace. When I am truly giving thanks, the anger, the fear and the brokenness loosen their grip. Gratitude gives me somewhere gentler to sit for a while. Preferably with my friends. Preferably near the chips.

We will remember the people we miss. Speak their names. Hold close those who cannot be with us, because love does not stop at the edge of the table.

And we will enjoy being here. No one needs to arrive sparkling. Honestly, if you have survived this year and managed to find the house, you have done enough. Come as you are.

We do not need one day in December to do this. We need it every day. The kindness. The company. The laughter. The small, stubborn decision to find something worth celebrating.

Tomorrow comes. Things change. This too shall pass.

And I know in my soul that this phoenix will rise again. Possibly with slightly singed hair, exceptionally good nails and a Red Bull Light. But she will rise.

La vida es para vivir. So pull up a chair, cariño. Tonight, we are celebrating the future. And to the friends who started with one egg and five chips: look what you helped me find my appetite for. Life.