It’s a Saturday, a lazy one – the perfect time to gather some thoughts that are too brief, too fleeting, or simply too random to warrant a post of their own. Some will be just a line. Some may be more. I don’t know yet, don’t stifle me!
The Cat in the HatI went out in a hat today, couldn’t be bothered to do the do. As I ventured out in this teacosy I realised that people were still staring at me – fixedly. And there I was all this time thinking it was the hair. I must just be Ravishing. Either that or they think I’m some sort of legendary being whose return from faraway lands has been long prophesied and it’s long been said that that being when he came would be ravishing. Those are the only two possible options I can think of….Oh, I don’t mean ravishing in the sense of taking their women. I think they’ve had enough of that sort of coming.
The Intricacies of Eating in the StreetYesterday, I was eating a KFC in the street on my way home. I do the Colonel a disservice – this was substandard chicken from a second-rate establishment. I have no desire to know Mega Burger’s secret blend of 11 herbs and spices. Anyway, the point is, as I was walking chomping down on the leg of a chicken that no doubt died from a steroid overdose (I think the popcorn bites were made from his shrunken balls), I suddenly had the sensation that I was committing a gross faux pas. Eating in the street in Bolivia is fine, of this I’m sure. In fact, it seems to be where most people prefer to do their eating – think al fresco without the piccolo. However, as I was indeed plodding along, wiping grease from my mouth – not the delicate way, but with long, lingering swipes of the back of my hand that brought back memories of a certain former editor (Oli will know who I mean) – I realised that nobody I’d ever seen eating in the street in Bolivia had been in transit at the same time. Now, I don’t know if that’s because they can’t multitask. It may well be. I, on the other hand, have been known to walk, eat and find a cure for cancer all at the same time. But my guess is that it’s actually a subtle unwritten rule here that eating in the street is fine as long as you remain perfectly stationary. To err in this case is quite subhuman. But Bolivians I beg you forgive my transgressions.
Oh, What Are We To Do With Those Druken Sailors?The word for porthole in Spanish is ojo de buey – ox’s eye. I like that. What business does an ox have out at sea?
Garage SaleTo my surprise I looked out my bedroom window this morning and saw a hurried group of people weaving their way in and out of weathered wardrobes, exhausted hoovers and veteran sofas that had been left on the pavement. But dear reader this was no council estate (ooh I’m gonna ruffle feathers with that one), this was the American Embassy’s perennial garage sale. Apparently every so often the Embassy’s employees flog their stuff off when they get reposted. For several hours, large teams of people busied themselves binding, lashing and tethering hulking pieces of furniture to the roofs and trunks of beleaguered-looking cars. I don’t know why they bothered, it was all tat!
QuetzalTalking of ruffling feathers, the Quetzal is the currency of Guatemala I learnt today. It’s named after the bird as the Mayans used to trade in its colourful pinions. EDUCATIONAL!
Kiss and TellI’m in a café and there’s a birthday party on the table next to me. A latecomer just arrived and promptly went round kissing everybody in the group. There were about 20 of them. It took forever. But I thought, “hey, what’s one more”, so I offered her my cheek for a kiss. She slapped me. I offered her the other one. She slapped me again. I don’t think she saw my funny side. The Fifth Element None of the four humours are particularly humorous. Funny that. I submit a fifth – Jocose.
Bills, Bills, BillsMy travails with the good people at TIGO, my network provider, labour on. They are to a man useless. Ok, I shouldn’t be unfair: there’s a girl that works there too – she’s also shit. But my experience with them yesterday showed just how unable to think outside the box they are. It’s ironic as the ceiling of their cubby hole is sky blue. The employee I had the pleasure of dealing with this time was about to turn me away to charge my phone just because the printer wasn’t working and he couldn’t print my receipt. I asked him what would happen if maybe, just maybe, I left his booth without the little bit of paper confirming my purchase at the princely sum of £3.25. By the look on his face I’m pretty sure he achieved enlightenment right then and there. I felt like Morpheus with the red pill. In fact, I might change my name and shave my head.
P.S. Anyone who read ‘piccolo’ earlier on and understood small flute rather than tiny coffee, shame on you, you uncultured swine.
P.P.S. I recant that statement about shaving my head. A moment of madness.