Quintin Jardine's blog

This is the 18th anniversary of the saddest day of my life. I marked it by stopping for a coffee in Riells, where I sat at a table, the only one free in the cafe, next to a couple around my own age. It took me only a couple seconds to recognise them as Toni and RoseMari, from Blagnac, France, neighbours, and friends, from our very first apartment here in L’Escala.

Uncanny that we should meet today, of all days, to bring back some happy memories.

I’ve made a strange discovery. I’m supposed to be taking a break, but I’ve forgotten how to do  that. I needn’t worry, though; Eileen has several ideas for passing my time.

A few hours ago, just before 9am BST, the Duchess of Cambridge gave birth to her second child, a daughter.

A couple of hours later, an email hit my inbox: it was from Marks & Spencer. The heading was ‘The Royal Baby has arrived!’ and the message read ‘Shop M&S Baby!’ On principle, I don’t think I will.

That was crass, but no more so than Sky News’ coverage in the hour or so before the birth was announced.

It was fronted by Kay Burley, appearing bravely at around 8am on a Saturday without access to the make-up department. With nothing really to say, the old pro improvised by dragging Sky’s hapless royal-watcher around the assembling media circus. They paused beside the Ladbrokes blackboard, and its custodian, who told us in all seriousness that her employer was no longer taking gender bets but that its odds had been 4-9 in favour of the new arrival being a girl. ‘That means you have to put on £9 to get £4 back,’ she explained, providing living proof that most punters are idiots.

Odds on potential names had been chalked on the board, with ‘Alice’ showing as 6-4 favourite.

Seeing this, I remarked to my wife, ‘Maybe the bookies will be right, but if they’re not . . . could it be down to Roy ‘Chubby Brown?’

She looked at me blankly. ‘Work it out,’ I said. (By the way, I’ll have a £ on ‘Diana’, at 14-1 against, being in there somewhere.)

Moving on from the turf accountant, Kay latched on to the veteran photographer Arthur Edwards. Once he had his little step-ladder in place, she asked him when we could expect the new arrival.

He tilted his head and, even as inside the Lindo Wing Wills was giving one last shout of ‘Push!’, he replied, ‘Oh, we’ll still be here tomorrow.’

As any reporter would tell you, that shows you how much photographers know.

The vote for the most surprised man in L’Escala, and maybe all of Spain must go to a tall, bespectacled, skin-headed bloke, pushing his trolley up the aisle in ALDI this morning, when a little blonde woman dumped a dozen eggs and various other items, a whole armful, in there . . . and then looked up.

No, it wasn’t me.

Best wishes from the wife and me, to Ann and Eric on their Golden, and to Frank and Jenny as they approach that number.

People keep saying to me that I should bring back Oz Blackstone. I keep saying to them that he’s dead, but they don’t seem to believe me.

So, on the basis that anything’s possible in my world, let’s have a vote on it. Reply ‘Yes’ to this post if you’d like to hear more from the sociopathic egomaniac. Retweeting or sharing on Facebook would help me get a handle on it also.

Van Morrison and I were born two months and two days apart in the same year. He shares his birthday with my wife.

Van and I are getting on a bit; this was brought home to me this morning when I saw that he has  resorted to the device of all great but ageing male vocalists, by recording a ‘Duets’ album. Of course, I’ve ordered it, but it occurs to me that I’ve missed a trick; I should be bringing out a volume of ‘Duets’ stories, co-written with my favourite authors. Maybe it’s not too late.

I’m currently hanging on the telephone for ‘one of our advisers’ at HMRC, who will be with me ‘as soon as possible’. Fifteen minutes out of my life listening to crap repetitive music while waiting for a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer isn’t my idea of fun.

Outstanding dinner this evening in our favourite Barcelona restaurant.
It’s called ….

Watched the BAFTAs last night. Was there something ironic in Stephen Hawking being given a standing ovation?

A thought for the day. Charity shops are admirable enterprises, until they become the enemy.

North Berwick is one of many towns that used to have a bookshop but doesn’t any more; instead it has more charity shops than I can list here. When they become so prevalent that they have a negative effect on commercial retailers, there is legitimate cause for concern.

I’d like to see their operation licensed, with local councils given the responsibility of deciding when enough is enough.

I have news for Skinner fans.

The publication date of Last Resort, Bob’s twenty-fifth journey of self-discovery, has been brought forward. It will now appear in what publishers these days call ‘first format’, on April 9.

Pablo Milanes — Definitive Collection. You’ve probably never heard of Pablo, unless you listen to Spanish radio, and even there he doesn’t get much air-time. That’s because he’s Cuban, and because his career has more or less coincided with the years of the revolution, of which he is a supporter. But, suppose ‘Yolanda’ is the only song of his you ever hear, it’ll be worth it.