We thought we were safe, we thought we were very safe. But it turns out that living in a reasonably quiet residential area on the outskirts of Sevilla is on par with the level of safety in the Latin Kings district in Madrid.
The only sign of violence or bad feeling in our first year here has been the sparrows fighting in the nispero tree. So I’m still a bit miffed about what happened last weekend in the early hours of Saturday morning.
So there I was, dribbling on my pillow with one leg hanging out the duvet thanks to the sudden rise in temperature, when I heard my wife shouting.
“Babe, babe, tu bici.”
It took me far longer than it should have done to register what bici meant. Then when I realised my wife was talking about my bike, while holding our daughter in her arms, I freaked out.
“What do you mean? My bici.”
“Your bike, it’s gone.”