Ilive on the other side of La Rosaleda stadium, that huge mass of concrete that I've only gone into for my physiotherapy sessions when I was run over. That's why I know it takes me three minutes to walk there from my front door. That closeness means I know when Malaga are losing, when they score a goal and when it's half-time without having to put the radio on. That closeness also forces me to park in another neighbourhood when there's a match on. And finally, that closeness made me feel for a minute last weekend that a bomb was about to fall on my terrace.
I'd already seen that something was going on in there that morning when I took Rómulo out for a walk; I noticed the hustle and bustle. That afternoon, when I took him out again I thought, what a long match. I know nothing about football, I didn't know whether it was the beginning of the season or whatever. I thought little more of it. But it was just after 11pm, when I was already in my pyjamas having decided not to go out to a concert, that the great bang sounded above my head. I saw the red flash reflected on the building across the road. The dog, that is never bothered by anything, quickly ran to find me. I was looking out for flashes, for the plane. For a moment I really thought that we were being bombed (the thought lasted for several seconds); in fact I was convinced. I'd seen it on the news at lunchtime and now it was happening here. I felt that my home was badly positioned, very exposed; whose idea was it to live on the top floor? That would be hit first.
In a matter of seconds I thought about how I had nowhere to shelter, that there was not the slightest chance of survival, and given that certainty I realised I was quite calm. My heart wasn't thumping, neither did my life pass before my eyes as it does in the films, I just felt resigned and concerned about my dog. So that he didn't suffer too much I picked up his 22 kilos and stretched him across my lap. Then I read the news again, giving it the attention it deserved: something about Kings, Queens, Gerard Piqué, Ibai... the penny dropped.
It makes me laugh that when we were touring we sometimes came across theatres with sound restrictions which meant we couldn't play music at its optimum volume, like a 49km/h speed limit for some mopeds. It makes me laugh that I always accelerate gently when I leave the street so as not to disturb the neighbour who lets me leave my motorbike outside her door day and night.
Noise regulations and advice in the form of an index finger on closed lips also makes me laugh when they turn a blind eye to a minute of fireworks that sound like bombs are raining down on our heads.