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.

A man sat near me has seen enough. He shakes hands with those around him and makes his way up the stairs to my left. He’s about to miss one of the craziest last 10 minutes in the history of sport.

Toward the end of the Celta game, banners started appearing behind the goal where the ultras sit. Each carried a different slogan, but the overall message and accompanying hashtag was the same. #JoHiCrec. I believe.

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.