Song for the day: All Saints - Black Coffee
So, I didn’t tell my Gran, but I do in fact live in a red light district. It’s not a particularly obvious one. I mean, there aren’t crack whores hanging off lampposts outside my front door or anything. But walking from here to there of an evening by oneself is a bit of a minefield of slime-tastic male lechery, wolf whistling gut-churning ‘Hey, guapa, preciosa…. You wan suck my cock?’ –type heckling.
"Yes dear. I really want your greasy, shriveled up little peanut-shaped excuse for a penis in my mouth. What a good thing I bumped into you on the street right at this moment. How fortuitous. Because I was beginning to worry I was going to miss the fucking opportunity and go home disappointed."
Anyhoo, particularly in light of recent events and the local ethos, and on the kind suggestion of Big Brother 2.1 and The Princess, I have decided to dub my falling-apart-at-the-seams but still cool red Alfa Romeo, Roxanne.
Roxanne, it turns out, behaves worse than me. I told her to stay away from white lines, but did she? Did she fuck. And the upshot was I had to prison-break, nay, bail her out of a down-town penitentiary for wayward vehicles last week.
It had been an interesting few days, involving much soul searching about whether or not I really wanted to be here, on this ghastly, yet fabulous island. There had been much falling in and out of clubs trying to bury the demons under a layer of chemically induced serotonin whilst simultaneously trying to hold down several free-lance work projects without looking like a total waster. Let’s be honest – my short term memory was as tatty as a pair of prostitute’s pants.
But still, I stepped out of my flat completely compos mentis one sunny Friday morning to go and get some bits and bobs from my car. And after traipsing up and down the street for twenty minutes or so, something started to smell a bit fishy. I don't get this, thought I.... I've NEVER lost my car like this. I've temporarily mislaid it a couple of times, it’s true, and found it after an exasperated and bemused walk up a couple of possible roads, but I have never lost it like this.
Where the fuck is my fucking car? I wondered. I bumped into the dude from reception at Es Vive - Dude. I said, in fact. Where’s my car?
I was convinced she’d been car-napped and her once polished steering wheel and glistening body work covered in the grubby paw prints of some low-life tea-leaf.
Towed. Towed by the rozzas for sticking her nose over a white line. There but for the grace of God...
Fortunately I bought her freedom for the princely sum of 150Euros and all is now well.
But seriously, it made me wonder....why didn’t nature make us all with just that squatch more serotonin floating around in our veins? We would approach such pot-holes as the above, and indeed everything in life with infinitely more patience, even temper and positivity, let alone disinterested logic if we were all off our faces on happy chemicals the whole time.