Harry and Meghan Meltdown

Spare did make Prince Harry a great deal of money but at what cost, and how long before it runs out? His hefty round-the-clock security team alone is chomping through all those funds. Having squeaked as loudly as a canary in a coalmine, what left is there for either of them to say? The problem is that everyone on either side of the Atlantic is bored stiff with the entitled couple’s perpetual tale of woe. It was vaguely entertaining for a while in a voyeuristic, hang out your dirty washing kind of way, but now it’s lost its Markle sparkle and no one can even bear to hear their names, let alone see their faces or hear their stories anymore.

Their chum, spokesperson and cheerleader, journalist Omid Scobie, who I renamed Obi-Wan Kenobi, also made a quick bundle with his book, Finding Freedom, another tedious tale of woe about the couple’s struggles. Keen to cash in again, Obi-Wan is unleashing his latest gem, End Game, a rather unfortunate title, surely, as far as the Sussexes are concerned. Unless a new big bucks deal lands in their lap pronto or the pair somehow manage to rebrand themselves, the future looks fairly bleak.

Rebranding the Sussexes would not be easy because, frankly, what do they have to offer? They have time and again bleated out their tedious mantra about their so-called treatment at the hands of Harry’s family so what else do they have up their sleeves to titillate LA with? I fear that the Sussexes are just a one-trick pony and the pair are now fresh out of wands. Obi-Wan’s End Game is therefore a sad metaphor for what is likely to come for Harry and Meghan. It portends nothing but a spectacular fall from grace.

Hot footing it

As the temperatures rise, I find myself groaning inwardly as I contemplate ever-earlier morning runs in my bid to train for an August adventure marathon in Iceland. I have been wanting to run this marathon course for the last three years, but wretched Covid got in the way. Since then, my training has been sporadic at best given my workload, and so from February I finally started pulling my weight. All went okay at first but then the small and nagging injuries started piling up and the training was curtailed while I sought help from Jos Alkemade, my brilliant physio, and Mae Hong, fabulous Chinese masseur cum medic extraordinaire in her lair at the Gran Hotel in Soller. Without them both I probably wouldn’t still be staggering up the hilly roads at 6.30am most days. I still have a residual problem with my left heel but there’s no time to get it sorted with the marathon looming.

The Iceland Volcanic marathon is not as simple as your average road run. It is 42km of running up and around a volcano and then negotiating volcanic sand, rough tracks and open countryside and then more hills. It will no doubt make the London marathon – which I’ve run twice for charity - look like a walk in the park. So, I’ve decided to just enjoy the experience and if worse comes to worst, I can aim for the half marathon, bask in the heady views and look forward to the rest of our holiday in the remarkable country. It will be our first holiday together in years and we intend to make the most of it.

Taxing times

This is one of my least favourite times of the year as it is when tax returns need to be submitted and I find the whole process onerous. There are the taxes in Spain and sorting the limited company in the UK, though admittedly I’m just a cog in that wheel with others. Meanwhile, I meet countless people here in Mallorca, particularly Britons, who don’t pay any taxes as luckily for them they get paid in black money or simply keep under the radar. They smile and sympathise but basically enjoy the benefits of a local economy that allows for this while the rest of us mugs pay up.

All the same, I’m glad that I paid taxes all my life in the UK so that I can avail myself of state healthcare as can my husband, and I will hopefully one day also receive a state pension, even if it won’t keep me in caviar. There are of course those who are willing to go on the system here but simply cannot afford to as the tax is crippling. Having been autonomo here for some years – thankfully not anymore - I have to concede that it’s a tough call. Being self-employed in the UK is so much easier and the tax so much more palatable and there are plenty of tax breaks. Here it’s a punitive system and my self-employed Mallorcan friends have shocked me when they show me how much they get taxed and how much they have left to live on. Let’s hope one day there’s a fairer system put in place that benefits all and persuades the black money pundits to cough up, knowing they’ll still be able to survive.