That was the week that was

Well, it only seems like about half an hour ago that we tidied away the last of the Christmas wrapping paper and polished off any remaining vestiges of that bottomless pan of turkey soup but - would you believe it? - it's Holy Week once again. For anyone living in Malaga city centre, as I did for 25 years, the Easter celebrations can be a bit of an, erm, intense experience, so I thought I'd offer a survival guide for any newcomers to the scene.

First of all, at this time of year, mornings are your best friend. Even if you're a habitually late riser, make the effort to spring from your bed bright and early and to scurry about town crossing chores off lists like a man/woman possessed. Then leg it back home to batten down the hatches before the first eager spectators begin to settle on streets like the birds in Hitchcock's film of the same name.

Secondly, every evening of the week you'll be faced with the same stark choice: to plonk on a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and binge-watch your favourite series, or to venture out into the throng and to revel in one of the most spectacular celebrations to be seen anywhere in Europe. I used to pop out a couple of times as a rule, consistently forgetting that it was the popping back in again that would present the real problems. Mostly it's just a question of not being able to get through/across a particular street, but the ancient tradition of sitting in a bar sipping on a beer and waiting it out is compensation enough for that particular inconvenience. No, much more problematic can be trying to breach the guard of the die-hard aficionados who like to stand on your doorstep and refuse to let you into the main entrance of your building because... well, actually, they never seem to give a concrete reason.

"But you must let me pass, madam - I live here!"

"Ah, yes, but it's Holy Week"

"Eh?"

Sadly, I would often have to resort to a gossamer-light shoulder barge, a deft swivel of the hips and a perfunctory backheel of the door. Even more sadly, it always worked. It also helps to have your door key at the ready from about five miles out.

Next, how to get to sleep at night. Well, the bad news is, you can't. The thrones are often out until five or six in the morning and, while wax earplugs can take the edge off, they're no match for the bellowing brass ensembles and insistent drum beats that are the soundtrack to the whole week. Making a mental list of tomorrow morning's most boring chores sometimes helps.

In short, then, it's a question of embracing the occasion as much as possible. I suggest hanging from your balcony windows, taking endless photographs and sucking on a lemon - no, really, 'limones cascarudos' are a typical Holy Week tradition in Malaga (don't worry though - they're quite sweet, just like the whole experience, really).

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