The Not So Secret Diary of a British Girl in Barcelona

Updated: Aug 16, 2021

We'll get into the photoshoots, parties, my glamorous mob of unruly friends and all the juicy stuff soon. First let me tell you a little story about how a geeky girl from the Lincolnshire Wolds ended up living on the door step of the Sagrada Familia (not literally).


I'm going to fit my life story into a five minute read for both your sanity and also the sake of my future book deal, let's dig in.


I was always a maximalist although not, historically quite so skilled at channelling my style. One of my first memories is slashing my head open while doing, what I imagine was a spectacular performance of morris dancing in the living room. My first thought on finding we were heading to the hospital was to race to my accessories collection and add every one of my saved badges from birthday cards and several of my Nanna's (pronounced non-nar by the way) necklaces for this elite social occasion.


My sister and I were never going to turn out to be normal arriving into the family that we did. Mum was the kind of Mum who would take us out of school quite a bit because she could (and did) teach us more magical lessons in nature and on beaches, and often in the South of France than we'd learn cooped up in a classroom. She could also beat any man at squash and probably at a 100m sprint too. Dad, or BBC Mike as he's now known, was a journalist, his TV and radio appearances were both a badge of honour and the bane of our teenage lives. We were brought up to know how to party, have good table manners and an excellent taste in music, everything else was inconsequential.


I went to a tiny little school in a tiny little village in the middle of nowhere, the type where the teachers still wore capes (I'm not sure that's the official term), on special occasions and our school anthem was in latin. I loved every minute of it.


Growing up I toyed with dreams of being a human rights lawyer, a dancer, an archeologist and a princess and all of them, with the exception, perhaps, of archeologist, seemed to be happening in London so off I went, officially to university but with secret dreams of a Fame school type scenario playing out.


I arrived in London as a teetotal wannabe dance super star slash philosophy student and soon met, Lara, a beautiful Portugese lunatic, who quickly talked me out of that lifestyle. On our first night out together we won a dance battle at a salsa club and, in the process ten shots. In the name of securing the friendship I downed them and later puked in my pink kettle in halls.


Through my twenties I fulfilled my dream as working as a professional dancer, got signed to a model agency, eventually finished my degree (after 8 years) and temporarily forgot about being an archeologist.


I picked up an immaculate friend family along the way, who I'll tell you all about in good time, along with the parties, adventures and questionable boyfriends that come hand in hand with Mayfair in the roaring noughties.


I eventually upped sticks and headed to the concrete jungle where dreams are made for a quick but wonderfully opulent stint before heading back to Lincolnshire. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't a plethora of work for a fashion model in The Wolds, and so, the hands of fate popped a camera into my hands, and that was the end of my search for a vocation.


It wasn't, however, the end of my search for my homeland, that sounds quite dramatic, I'm fully aware but I knew, in my heart, my people were in Ibiza. And so, one gloomy afternoon in April, I sent Girl Alex (as she is now known) a series of lengthy voice notes philosophising about how I couldn't expect the universe to miraculously transport me to the Island while I sit about eating a sandwich. By the end of the chat I had bought 6 dresses from Rat & Boa and booked a one way flight.


A lot happened over the next few weeks, but most notably, I told the universe I definitely didn't want to date any more French men,ever. We all know that's not how the universe works and voila. French Alex appeared. We'll save the details of how we met for another time and for now, just say that the rest is history.


He lived in Barcelona and we spent the summer jetting between the two places. We lived in hotels and serviced apartments. After three lock downs and months apart we finally found our little piece of paradise in the heart of a city that swept me up and made me a part of it.


I can't wait to share all the details and the stories and the gossip with you guys, for now I hope this gives you a little insight into how a girl from a small town, ended up living next to Gaudi with a crazy French man.


See you tomorrow my darlings.


Ciao Bye for now!







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