In Practice, Production on May 20, 2012 at 3:36 pm
So, Valentin has attacked me in my sleep. He has pounced at my face and clawed me above my left eye. There’s a deep red gash that is very long and that I kept having to explain to the kids at school.
“Mi gato.”, I would shrug. “Yo estaba dormiendo anoche y……yo no sé….algo asustó a mi gato o….algo…ah…lo ha asustado?…yo no sé…una mosca…eh…cualquier…”
Such a pleasure for these people, to listen to my assault on their language. To stand by and watch as I single-handedly ruin it. They do quite well, generally, it has to be said, under the circumstances, in terms of remaining polite.
Please, please stop, their faces beg. We don’t want to know your stories, or about the things that have happened to you, if it means listening to this.
But I needed them to know. Apart from the fact that I didn’t want the gash on my forehead to be quietly attributed to some sort of alcoholic mishap, it had been a first for me, being attacked in my bed. It’s as though a rite of passage has been successfully navigated. In a way I feel as though I’ve shared an experience with the James Bonds and Chuck Norrises of this world. More
In Plenary, Practice on August 24, 2011 at 12:56 pm
It’s five am. Not long till K gets up. There is just a hint of cool in the air – enough to make pulling the single sheet over myself less ridiculous. I allow myself this little luxury; it reminds me of my native climate. Any earlier and it would have clung to my wet skin.
It isn’t particularly quiet; all around town the late clubs are closing and their customers are weaving (wobbling) their way back to their hotels and apartments through narrow little streets in the casco whose stone walls amplify their exchanges. It turns out that people on their annual holiday aren’t that big on considerateness. There are no attempts to keep voices down. The antique little town is awash with addled conversation, argument, laughter and singing; giggling, squealing men and sandpaper-voiced, roaring women.
Spanish, Italian, German, Scandinavian – in August they’re all here, and they all pass beneath our window at around 5am. I can’t say that they wake me up – I am rarely asleep anyway in the stiflingly humid heat. When they finally quieten down though – towards six – and there is that little bit of freshness to the morning, I get some shut eye. More
In Practice, Production on December 13, 2010 at 10:43 am
Blood. Spain. Me.
Where’s this going?
I don’t know.
Hot blooded. That’s what they say of the Spanish. Or Mexicans come to think of it. Or Italians. Basically anyone south of Brighton. It’s an awful cliché of course. A stereotype; it conjures images of fraught love trysts, fighting in the streets, bull rings, criminality and…well, blood.
This week I have had to jump through another couple of (relatively painless) bureaucratic hoops because I need to go to a doctor in the extracción department and give a sample of mine. If I’m to continue on my current medication then my blood is going to have to behave itself. More