Madrid, chica! Whose streets beat my drum, rang my bell, accessorised my eyes - golly gosh what dreamy shops. Life is a marvellous deep orange. An empanada melted in my mouth. A sunny park stroll with the lake’s cheeks aglitter. Warm air, blue rowing boats bobbed as boy brothers munched ice-cream. Podgy fellows, the younger greedily stuffing great gobfuls of chocolate goodness into his mouth while watching the older crumbling his cone into the lake, feeding the unusually massive fish.
Later, massive emotions unusually spilled out of a fair-haired Texan man I had been eavesdropping on in a cafe. To the patient caring ears of a young lady, he opened up about his flailing relationship. She reached a deft and gentle hand to rest on his leg as his tears began. That’s so good you can cry like that she says.
Oh I’ve been practising for two years. My big Texan dad… and on he went with the usual ‘man discovering emotions’ story. And why not - let us discover emotions!
When a waiter so gently poured water into my glass this morning I certainly discovered gratitude. Yes I do feel that emotion spilling over. The deep and bright orange with perhaps sourer notes of do I deserve this. Yes damn it! The doldrum decades are faded, mind-chains flushed into the gutter by supernatural rainstorms. Life is in flight, winged. Wing-ED, as they say.
And now, Oaxaca, chico! So blessed, bless-ED to hear the great gargling rumble of car and burly bus engines, to have my mouth and innards tingled, nay expertly assaulted, with spice, and taste, and colour. To have my Englishness exposed, nay dissolved. They say: you can take the English out of England, but you can’t take the England out of the English. I say, take the English out of England so you can have the England taken out of them. Fussiness, social awkwardness, milk with tea?
England, mate.
Madrid, chica.
Oaxaca, chico.
When a waiter so gently poured water into my glass this morning I certainly discovered gratitude. Yes I do feel that emotion spilling over. The deep and bright orange with perhaps sourer notes of do I deserve this. Yes damn it! The doldrum decades are faded, mind-chains flushed into the gutter by supernatural rainstorms. Life is in flight, winged. Wing-ED, as they say.
And now, Oaxaca, chico! So blessed, bless-ED to hear the great gargling rumble of car and burly bus engines, to have my mouth and innards tingled, nay expertly assaulted, with spice, and taste, and colour. To have my Englishness exposed, nay dissolved. They say: you can take the English out of England, but you can’t take the England out of the English. I say, take the English out of England so you can have the England taken out of them. Fussiness, social awkwardness, milk with tea?
England, mate.
Madrid, chica.
Oaxaca, chico.
