How to Say Goodbye in Catalan

uini, uidi, uinci. I came, I saw, I conquered. And now another chapter in my short life has come to an end. I am now writing from my living-room in Cumbria, where skies are painted dove-grey and the opposite hills sport white rotating stakes from their hearts (wind turbines, in other words). My departure from Catalunya was not quite as interesting as my arrival, and yet the two weeks leading up to my flight will never be forgotten - my crippled back won't let me. It turns out that lugging around 30kgs is spinally traumatic. But Dickens and Shakespeare would never have forgiven me, had I neglected to bring their magnificent works with me.

However, goodbyes. That is the object of my discourse. There are many hellos in life and just as many goodbyes. Most goodbyes are flippant, they are casual remarks about seeing one soon, or promises for a union involving caffeine or alcohol. These are the ones I like best, for they hold only vague oaths, and engage you to no concrete significance or purpose. It also means you probably will see that person again. At some point. Maybe...

Other goodbyes include, but are not limited to, the Romantic (usually involving snogging and some mild groping); the Close Friend (involving a hug and two kisses on cheeks if in Catalunya); the Stormily Melodramatic (including swearing, shouting, and other modes of tantrum-like behaviour, most likely outside a club at 3 o'clock in the morning next to a tramp in his own vomit); and the Tearful 'Oh, God, I'm Never Going to See You Again!' (usually at airports).

There is also another type of goodbye, which just sweeps away all other competitors, like a fiery tsunami sent from Thor's hammer. And I invented it. This time next month, it'll be all the rage. Thanks to Barcelona, a text message, and a hip.

My sojourn with my friend (the same one who tricked me into carrying those putos calaixos) ended spectacularly with a broken window on the fourth floor, potentially endangering the lives of those coffee-ing below. The text with metro instructions must have sent me into a frenzy of good conscience, as I started locking up open windows. Now, some of the flats in Eixample are hundreds of years old still with original glass panes, single glazing. The rod and hook used to shut and lock the windows happened to be stiff. I therefore changed my position in order to hold a better stance with which to close the window, perhaps with more alacrity than was necessary and less grace than was required, and thus my left hip impaled the pane of crystal. The sound of shattering glass has never before sounded quite so symphonic, so cinematic, so monumentally and humiliatingly idiotic. Daggers stuck out of the wooden frame and glinting light spattered the terrace like minute twinkling stars on terracotta tiles.Shards overhung the balcony edge, teetering oh so delicately. Passersby may well have...passed by...ignorant of their proximity to a sliced scalp.

I rang my friend and grovelled. In whichever language came out first. Now that I think of, however, I do believe this was my subconsciously laid plan, executed in revenge for those damned drawers she made me carry. This is how you say goodbye in Catalan....and I shall call it the Glassed Goodbye.