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Authors: Anna Nicholas
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and panaceas, his symptoms, puzzlingly, persist. Consequently, Ed feels justified in mistrusting medical evaluation, illustrating the point with an anecdote about a Swiss respiratory specialist who once branded him a hypochondriac.
  'A what?' Ed had exclaimed in outrage.
  'Do I have to spell it out, young man?'
  'You most certainly do.'
  'H-Y-P-O-C-H-O-N-D-R-I-A-C.'
  Ed had left the surgery in a state of apoplexy and indignation, deciding from that day forth to equip himself with his own trusty medical emergency kit (known as MEK) wherever he went. It has never left his side since.
  Reaching Starbucks some time before Ed and I are due to meet, I decide to have a leisurely espresso. It's still raining and clusters of grey thunder clouds, like aimless teenagers, hang sulkily above the London skyline. At the counter, the man ahead of me is gesticulating animatedly to a barista. She looks mystified, as do the rest of the counter staff.
  'Anyone here speak Italian?' she asks no one in particular.
  'Español!' the man says in a wounded voice.
  Without thinking, I greet him warmly in Spanish. He looks relieved, saying that he wants to eat something freshly prepared, not pre-packed. I explain that it's not that kind of cafe. With some distaste he settles for a cellophane wrapped tuna sandwich and a coffee and follows me to my table.
  'Can you help me?' he asks plaintively, settling his tray down and opening a map. I offer him a seat.
  'I'm looking for Buckingham Palace.'
  He takes off his wet jacket, revealing a T-shirt emblazoned with a Catalan logo.
  'Where are you from?'
  He shrugs. 'Mallorca. Have you been there?'
  Have I been there? When I mention that I live in Sóller, he is palpitating with excitement.
  'But you must know my mother?' he yelps, giving me detailed directions of how to reach her finca , a death rattle away from the town's cemetery. I nod uncertainly but promise to keep a beady eye out for her when next strolling around the graves. Jordi, for that is his name, tells me that he is having five days sightseeing in London, staying at a small hotel in Pimlico, before heading off for Paris. His travel agent in Alcúdia, on the north side of Mallorca, had fixed up the trip and aside from a few language hurdles he insists there have been no problems.
  'What do you think of London?' I ask.
  'It's wonderful,' he replies, 'but Mallorca is the most beautiful place in the world, as you will know.'
  I find it endearing that Mallorcans on the move demonstrate such loyalty and fervour for their island. By contrast, ask a Briton holidaying in Mallorca for his thoughts on the UK, and a stream of invective will be unleashed on subjects ranging from the cost of living and crime to education and the weather.
  Some time later, Ed crashes through the front doors, gripping his MEK in one hand and his dripping telescopic umbrella in the other. Then, with head tilted, he begins sniffing the air like a wary deer, scrutinising each table from behind large brown frames until his eyes rest on mine. He waves enthusiastically with his umbrella before depositing it in a small bin at the entrance. Jordi rises from his chair and kisses me on both cheeks.
  'It's been good to meet a British Mallorquina in London. Thanks for your company. Hasta luego .'
  He saunters off while Ed follows his departure with some curiosity. As soon as Jordi has left the cafe, Ed makes his way over to my table.
  'Who on earth was that chap?'
  'A Mallorcan I just met.'
  'But you looked like bosom pals.'
  'We are now. I'm going to meet his mother.'
  'You never change.'
  He shakes his head sorrowfully and offers to buy me a sandwich, returning some minutes later with a mound of food and chocolate cake.
  'It's been so long, Scatters. I wish
  'A what?' Ed had exclaimed in outrage.
  'Do I have to spell it out, young man?'
  'You most certainly do.'
  'H-Y-P-O-C-H-O-N-D-R-I-A-C.'
  Ed had left the surgery in a state of apoplexy and indignation, deciding from that day forth to equip himself with his own trusty medical emergency kit (known as MEK) wherever he went. It has never left his side since.
  Reaching Starbucks some time before Ed and I are due to meet, I decide to have a leisurely espresso. It's still raining and clusters of grey thunder clouds, like aimless teenagers, hang sulkily above the London skyline. At the counter, the man ahead of me is gesticulating animatedly to a barista. She looks mystified, as do the rest of the counter staff.
  'Anyone here speak Italian?' she asks no one in particular.
  'Español!' the man says in a wounded voice.
  Without thinking, I greet him warmly in Spanish. He looks relieved, saying that he wants to eat something freshly prepared, not pre-packed. I explain that it's not that kind of cafe. With some distaste he settles for a cellophane wrapped tuna sandwich and a coffee and follows me to my table.
  'Can you help me?' he asks plaintively, settling his tray down and opening a map. I offer him a seat.
  'I'm looking for Buckingham Palace.'
  He takes off his wet jacket, revealing a T-shirt emblazoned with a Catalan logo.
  'Where are you from?'
  He shrugs. 'Mallorca. Have you been there?'
  Have I been there? When I mention that I live in Sóller, he is palpitating with excitement.
  'But you must know my mother?' he yelps, giving me detailed directions of how to reach her finca , a death rattle away from the town's cemetery. I nod uncertainly but promise to keep a beady eye out for her when next strolling around the graves. Jordi, for that is his name, tells me that he is having five days sightseeing in London, staying at a small hotel in Pimlico, before heading off for Paris. His travel agent in Alcúdia, on the north side of Mallorca, had fixed up the trip and aside from a few language hurdles he insists there have been no problems.
  'What do you think of London?' I ask.
  'It's wonderful,' he replies, 'but Mallorca is the most beautiful place in the world, as you will know.'
  I find it endearing that Mallorcans on the move demonstrate such loyalty and fervour for their island. By contrast, ask a Briton holidaying in Mallorca for his thoughts on the UK, and a stream of invective will be unleashed on subjects ranging from the cost of living and crime to education and the weather.
  Some time later, Ed crashes through the front doors, gripping his MEK in one hand and his dripping telescopic umbrella in the other. Then, with head tilted, he begins sniffing the air like a wary deer, scrutinising each table from behind large brown frames until his eyes rest on mine. He waves enthusiastically with his umbrella before depositing it in a small bin at the entrance. Jordi rises from his chair and kisses me on both cheeks.
  'It's been good to meet a British Mallorquina in London. Thanks for your company. Hasta luego .'
  He saunters off while Ed follows his departure with some curiosity. As soon as Jordi has left the cafe, Ed makes his way over to my table.
  'Who on earth was that chap?'
  'A Mallorcan I just met.'
  'But you looked like bosom pals.'
  'We are now. I'm going to meet his mother.'
  'You never change.'
  He shakes his head sorrowfully and offers to buy me a sandwich, returning some minutes later with a mound of food and chocolate cake.
  'It's been so long, Scatters. I wish
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