Este artículo no está disponible en castellano; se muestra su versión en ingles.

On a strange series of encounters, one afternoon in London.


2pm, last Saturday, next to Victoria station, London. My friend Max and I had just met up with a view to talking the hind leg off the afternoon, but no sooner had we opened our mouths than we were buttonholed by an elderly lady whose upmarket voice declared that she could not abide girls who wore jeans then pointed at several who happened to be passing and huffed: 'look at those bottoms, how absolutely disgusting!'
Chuckling nervously at her quirkiness, Max and I sought refuge in an empty pub but when I came back to our table with the drinks Max had been joined by an elderly man in a wheelchair with an outsize woolly hat on his head who launched into a tirade about how the Twin Towers had been primed with explosives by the CIA then shifted to how he had almost been killed by an infection of the brain before pulling off his hat to reveal that a third of his cranium had been surgically removed. Hungry, we left for lunch, laughing at the coincidence of running into two (fairly) weird, old strangers in the space of an hour.
In the restaurant, Max, taken aback by the waitress's undeniable beauty, asked her where she was from and was told to guess which we did wrongly a dozen times until she impatiently informed us she was from Portugal at which point I blurted out some nonsense in pidgin Portuguese while Max showered her with heaven only knows what compliments, both of us tee-heeing a touch hysterically due to the booze and the strange afternoon and now our social clumsiness in front of this young woman in whose increasingly wary eyes we had clearly turned into two (fairly) weird, old strangers. Our sails abruptly bereft of wind, we paid the bill and hastened our bejeaned bottoms out into the incipient rain.

- Textos i contingut: Matthew Tree - Disseny i programació: Nac -