Raining on my parade


A near terminal rift with my vertical neighbours occurred recently when I was entertaining a new bit of totty to a birthday dinner. The theme was Moroccan and my apartment was ablaze with candles in sconces, rugs scattered hither and thither, and rose petals floating in silver and luxuriantly enamelled blue bowls. Aromas of tajin filled the air and freshly laundered gelabas (those voluminous robes that make everyone look incredibly sexy, no-matter – well, almost no-matter – their size) laid out for my new amorada. Believe me, if anyone was going to score that night, it would be me!

In preparation for the event I’d laid out a Moroccan-ish style rug on the terrace. On it I’d placed a low table and some Indian silk thread embroidered cushions. In the plant pots I’d plunged candles and those bamboo paraffin burners that look good but cost all of eighty-five cents from a garden centre. All was set.

As the clock struck nine, the bewitching hour when my little bewitcher would arrive, and almost coinciding with her finger on the bell, someone from above decided to be a fireman for the night and put out the blaze that was apparently gutting the apartments below. I heard a great sloosh, but at first I thought nothing of it. At the second I did! Someone was raining on my parade. In fact they weren’t just raining, they were completely tornado-ing! I dashed outside and saw my candles puttering into soggy indifference; my carefully laid (and borrowed) pristine white bowls serving an exceedingly thin sopa de agua, napkins limp with more lip-smacking liquid than they were designed for, cushions that would squish the arse out of the most incontinent gastronome and a carpet that whimpered “Hey, cool man, but, like, next time how about the dry cleaner?”

Coño, gilepollas, may your mother and sisters suffer the wrath of eternal fire and your cousins lose control of their reproductive organs and foster nothing but…but….and… and I’m bloody well never going to return anything that lands on this terrace again – especially the sexy red knickers!!!!”

A rather muted version of the original, I accept, but you get the sentiment.

If you would like to know more about Spain, visit my web site, www.derekworkman-journalist.com , and Spain Uncovered.



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