If I block out the other sights and sounds on my balcony, it’s the Catalan flags that I notice. There must be about 30 within view, fluttering in the summer breeze.

In the summer months in Barcelona, a message is sprayed in English onto walls and floors next to metro stations and tourist sites. In recent years it has become harder to miss. “Tourist go home”

Espanyol – the other football team in Barcelona. Yes, there is another team. Not that you’d know it from walking around the city. I normally do a double take when I see an Espanyol shirt.

At around 10pm the air was filled with a familiar sound. Some of the residents of my block had slid open their doors and stepped out onto their balconies. They were ready to protest.

You know it’s a bank holiday in Spain when you step out of your flat and into the beginning of a zombie film. There are no cars on the streets. Shops have the shutters down. Where is everybody?

When I lived in London, I often felt like a tourist in my own city. A particularly bad day at work could be salvaged if, when walking home, I looked up and caught sight of St Paul’s Cathedral in just the right kind of light.