Here Be Dragons (April 12th 2012)

Four colours, that's all you need for a topological map, of cantons, counties or departements; where no two colours are contiguous. What use is that information, if (t)here be dragons? Damned if I know. I wonder if one of the Seven Bridges of Königsburg is a dragon bridge? I guess there’s no answer to that either. There is a dragon bridge in Ljubljana, the prettiest little capital in Europe. Capital of Slovenia, you know, a country which sat on the sidelines as Yugoslavia blew itself to smithereens and stirred the Jihadist pot with a few injudicious massacres.

What's this got to do with anything? Nothing, it's what I do when I can't write. Riffing, I think it's called: if you're Eddie Izzard. Genius, if you're James Joyce. I am neither: so it's cock, then, as I'm sure you've already decided. It's Maundy Thursday and Auntie Betty is 85 years old and has handed out her likeness on specially minted coins in limited edition purses at Westminster Abbey, and I'm writing the blog that never was. The small inland town where I live has shut down for the weekend. Yes, that's right. Every shop is shut, except the ones selling Robertson's Jam and Wall's Pork Sausages. If you're a Doctor in private practice you can open for business, but your friend the lawyer can't. I probably broke the law today by teaching a class. Ha, ha! The desperate criminal mastermind Professor Subjunctive thwarts the Guardia Civil, the Policial Nacional and the Mayor's nephews who comprise the Policial Local by teaching two Alhaurino tourism students the difference between 'some' and 'any'. During Semana Santa!

Two colours is all you need for Semana Santa. Purple and Green. All the balconies in town are draped with one or the other. Massive crosses in gold are embroidered on these swathes of cloth. They show the allegiance of the inhabitants to either of the two 'Brotherhoods' in the town. Later tonight the Nazerenos and Penitents will march through the pueblo accompanied by numerous drums and out-of-tune valveless trumpets. It's a very serious business. That said, the get-ups they wear look like the Ku Klux Klan have had a makeover by Colin and Justin. Serious and religious: but the bars and restaurants do their best business of the year once the processions are over. It's the only time of the year you'll see anyone local drunk. An inebriate Helmut, Harald, or Henry is - of course - quite a common sight on the Calle Gerald Brennan at any time, although they tend to gravitate towards the Black Horse and the Red Lion rather than Kanadien or Bar Juanita.

A popular place for the Guiris on holidays and high-days is on the Cartama Road, on the outskirts of town. El Porton de Piedra, The Stone Gate. Fernando, who used to be the deputy-manager of one of the local banks went there often. In better economic times the bank paid me to shoot the breeze with him whilst pretending to teach him English. He has his own branch in Fuengirola now. Anyway, Fernando was about 30 or so and 'muy guapo' as the bank's Spanish female clients used to say. Fernando's English was very good, largely thanks to the British forty-somethings with their Bacardi and Cokes in El Porton. I don't think he was overly discriminating, or he couldn't read the map. At least the bit that read, 'Here be dragons.'