In honour of it being National Day of Spain, I am today, largely being Spanish. I have indeed already dissed the butter in favour of rubbing garlic on my toast. I have already drunk a bonbon (the most ludicrously strong espresso you can make brought down a notch by adding über-sweetened condensed milk). I have even sat in the shade. Yes, today, I’m going to be Spanish.
Of course, there are typical things that are “Spanish”, the same way in old Inglaterra we might drink a nice cup of tea at a particular time of day or drink flat beer until we’re sick in the street. It’s only normal to build a little garlic-infused ritual into daily life. Each nation has its own way of feeling at home. So, in honour of Columbus, or Colon to his Spanish friends, I might even go to bed after lunch.
If today is National Day of Spain and I am partaking fully in the event, yesterday was National Go To The Supermarket Day. I also partook of this spectacle, albeit unknowingly until I got there. I thought “a couple of prawns for the weekend” (Sir?), but when the wave of chaos struck me as I came out of the lift from the calm and dank underground car park, I knew the prawns would have to wait until mañana. A metaphorical mañana, of course, as you’ve got no chance of a gamba on a Sunday, lets face it.
Everyone in the town below five foot and with a perm seemed to be shopping at exactly the same time as I arrived. Gossip everywhere, no one buying anything, everyone just gossiping. The crush at the fish counter with the señoras almost clambering on the ice-strewn racks even warranted a “step back ladies” from the young shop assistant behind the counter nonchalantly gutting some mackerel. The mackerel did look good, lovely colours, but I was not letting myself be allured by a glamorous fish. I grabbed my slab of frozen swordfish and I was outta there, like a bull in a fish shop.
In fact, maybe later, say around midnight, I’ll go out for some prawns, play a fruit machine and throw prawn heads on the floor of the bar. Like you do. When in Spain.
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