The Fiddle and the Fire Estinguisher.

Corner of Madrid/Corner of March

(previously published in the archives)

It’s St Patrick’s Day, and I don’t think you’ve made an effort.

I’m not Irish.

Ah.

Besides, I have – I had a shower before coming out and I dried myself down with a green towel afterward. I’ve got my best green t-shirt on under this yellow one and I’m wearing matching green socks.

Quite an effort you’ve made.

I’ve brought a bottle of crème de menthe and a can of Guinness for the drinks table.

Sweet.

What are we eating? Broccoli?

Wild Boar.

Yuk.

Or Venison.

I can’t.

There are some deserts.

I’ll be there. I hope that tall woman is here somewhere.

The tall woman?

She was at Yoga on Tuesday night. Might have been at Pilates on Monday too, but I’m not sure it was her. I want to ask her why she had to give her uniform back and why she had one in the first place.

How did you get on at pilates? I think it was your first time, no?

Yes. I kept up. These muscles here are a bit sore; clearly I had never used them in the last sixty two years.

Mine too, and I’ve been before.

What have you done for this St Patrick’s day do?

I went to confession.

You didn’t!?

No.