The doorbell rung at a very early hour on that Sunday morning. In my dreams I could hear it ringing for several minutes until I finally realised that no dream could be that annoying and that it was a real sound coming from the outside world interfering with my sleep. That could only be some moron, I thought as I started to feel awake- Someone was actually downstairs ringing the street bell to my apartment at this early time. It is funny how my first thought was it could also be a couple of ladies from the local Jehovas Witness center on a mission trying to sell their boring newsletters to defenceless and sleepy victims. I could feel my head throbbing and threatening to explode with every series of rings. The night before I had been at a colleagues leaving do and we all had been drinking at the Pitcher & Piano bar in Wimbledon before ending up getting high and dancing our asses off at the infamous FIRE in Vauxhall, officially a gay club but which was famous by its hardcore techno music and that on its Juizy Friday parties was visited by all kind of people. Once again, as it was becoming a habit since Helmuts arrival some weeks before, I had overdone it by taking too many of the pills of dubious origin and composition provided by Zlato, our Serbian pusher, and could still feel the effects. I dammed whoever it was that was standing at my doorstep and impatiently pressing the bell. My head was about to explode in a zillion pieces and someone was going to pay for that. As there was no intercom I actually had to put something on before going down one flight of stairs into the hallwat and see who the heck it was. (my flat is on the third floor above a manicure shop in one of the oldest houses in West Norwood Rd. and for that reason we do not have such a thing as an intercom). In a extremely bad mood I stumbled out of the flat and went down one to look out of the hallway window. I looked down and all I could see was a long haired guy with a woolen hat and wearing what to me looked like hippy clothes. Jose, yelled the hippy downstairs as he heard someone opening a window and looked up, this is Teo... from Valencia! he added as I showed no sign of recognition and was about to go back in. Teo from Valencia? I was like, WTF? Did I understant correctly and that hippy downstairs ringing at my door could actually be Teo, my childhood neighbour (and unlikey teenage crush)? The one I had a crush on for so many years and that one sudden morning had moved out with his whole family to another town without even leaving a forwarding address? The same Teo Ojeda that broke my heart when I was too young to even realise that a heart could be broken and that was the main reason why I still could not listen to U2s Party Girl without thinking of him, especially since that magical weekend spent at his familys holiday house some 30 years ago? It was only recently that I had heard some news about them and how his mother had been seriously ill some months ago. The news came after my mother had run into an old acquaintance of hers at the Ruzafa fish market who happened to be still in contact with the Ojedas. I remembered she had mentioned it to me during one of her weekly phone calls which served to update me with all the news and gossip about our relatives and the people we knew in an attempt to make me still feel part of it. (Honey, sure you do remember Tatin, the bakers unlawful son)

I was so surprised by this unexpected visit that I rushed donwstairs without even thinking about how shitty I must have certainly looked. As I opened the door we stared at each other for a few seconds - it was so weird to be in front of him after so many years since the last time- and after an initial hesitation, we smiled and embraced each other. I took one of his suitcases from his hands (two suitcases? I thought as I saw them withouth saying a word) and started climbing the stairs as both of us started talking at the same time. He told me he had obtained my address after calling my parents (they always refused to change their phone number and even today they still have the same one since the time I was a child) and that he had tried to contact me on the phone the night before several times and had even left a couple of messages.

I could see he was as happy to be there with me as I was to see him.

As we entered the flat, Helmut was still sleeping on the floor in the living room. He had been staying with me since his wife had expelled him from their 3 bedroom flat in Hannover after finding out, through a well-wishing friend, about the affair he was having with Saskia, his daughters Polish nanny. Two days later he had already crossed the English Channel and was calling me from a phone booth at Liverpool St. Station. As he was very skilled with carpentry and had a vast experience which he had adquired during the years he used to work at his fathers furniture firm (Bespoke & Feinste Kuechen), he had proposed to stay at my place and in exchange he would fix everything that needed to be fixed in my old apartment. With this agreement we both were saving a good amount of money and at the same time we enjoyed each others company. He also loved techno and getting wasted almost as much as I do, so that made him the perfect flatmate for our weekend escapades.

It did not take long until he was woken up by our conversation in the kitchen where -as a good English host- I had put on the kettle in order to make some tea for the new arrival. Moved by the curiousity about who it was that I was chatting to so lively, and in Spanish, at such an early hour, he showed up his viking head through the door still wrapped in his sleeping bag. As I introduced each other he shook hands with Teo using his only free hand while with other one he held the sleeping bag in order to prevent it from falling and exposing him half naked in front of the hippy stranger.