Sueños

And so I return to Bolo. I feel that I have progressed sufficiently in my life-saga to take some of your precious time and describe my happenings to you. I was living in a student flat approaching derelict status; I have now leap-frogged the usual socio-economic ladder to a dwelling approaching the highest echelons of living accommodation in old Madrid. My spanish still sucks and I am constantly reminded of how feeble my language skills are (as the waiter still tells me the bill for my coke in english). But fuck it. I have time. There is nowhere else I need be and I need not rush it; impatience is not a virtue, however… the señoritas are crushing my soul with every stolen glance, and are a constant reminder of the inferiority of the male gender. If you think I should be more of a team player, I offer you this simple anecdotal evidence: Last night, in a club near Gran Via, whilst surrounded with simmering sirens I lit the wrong end of my cigarette, and later, more embarassingly, I had a wet sueño.