On waking up to a genial erection
By Parson Thru
A bright and sunny morning. People are out early. There’s a slight chill, but it’s still only day two of the ascent of the grados (degrees Centigrade).
After a brief argument between my practical and aesthetic halves, I pull the screwed-up plastic bags from my dusty Texan boots and put them on in honour of the occasion. The boots, that is.
Minutes later, I’m self-consciously clipping along the street down which the sun will travel each day from now till November. Past the churrería where I look in and imagine the people at the tables in their Sunday best to have freshly cast votes in favour of PP. El Barrio de Salamanca, after all. But, in truth, they might just as easily be Comunistas as Franquistas and the tiny elderly couple, dressed in heavy coats and leaning on state-issued sticks, hankering for better days… Well, nothing is as it seems.
Maybe all of them have been beguiled by the youthful presence of the newer parties: Cuidadanos’ televisual leader striding out of his Metro posters crying “Vamos!”; or Podemos’ own Pablo Pan. In Andalucía, the new right-wing Vox populists are making headway, following a groove cut by Trump and various popular parties around Europe (the UK is European to everyone on the planet except the self-proclaiming English).
And what of home (home? Thesis, please.)?
Jeremy seems to be struggling to achieve an erection of his own, despite intense manipulation. Sometimes, it just won’t happen. Maybe give it up and go outside for a while. Take a coffee. Or at least smell it. Fantasies, all.
Here (home? Thesis, please.), Pedro’s seemingly effortless genial erection makes me wonder what all the fuss is about in the UK. OK, a little provocation by Catalan nationalists may have helped him get there by stroking those sensitive parts at a crucial moment, but today everyone’s spilling out on the street – a little early perhaps, but this is Spain.
Let’s see what the day brings.
Time for a cigarette.
Oh, I forgot. I’ve stopped.
Cafe con leche?