Thursday, July 16, 2009

I Don't Do Gossip, But...

Nº 1: Imagine a dark night deep in the country. Paco, the gamekeeper, has been warned that someone is driving through a remote area of the farm in the early morning, to poach, or for who knows what other purpose. It is unlikely to be legal or harmless. Paco informs the boss, who decides they will wait together. It'll be like hunting wild boar- hours of waiting in silence, motionless, ready for any movement among the trees, patient and alert. At about 4 A.M. a car appears, without lights, and gets a lamp shone suddenly in its face. Brakes squeal, doors slam, confused shouting is heard, the lamp is switched off, and when it is turned back on Paco and his boss find that they have captured two men who have no right to be there and who are carrying a shotgun.

We take a fairly relaxed attitude to poaching down here, as long as it's strictly limited to rabbits and is done in a certain way. This is a bit different, but perhaps a strong warning would have done. But they find they have caught the nephew of the Potato Crisp- who is easily led astray- and the Little Moor, so called- and not affectionately- because he is a junior member of a family who are all known as the Moors. Not a pleasant character. None of them are.

And it so happens that the Little Moor lived for a while, in another town, with the rather wayward daughter of Paco. He did not treat her well and it ended very badly. And now Paco has the ex-boyfriend bang to rights.

The Little Moor is now a guest of the Civil Guard. Not for long I imagine, but it would appear he resisted arrest. That's Paco's story anyway, and he is very much enjoying telling it. It all happened not far from here.

Nº 2: I have discovered that my spiny co-blogger has a secret. The sort that should remain untold, but it's too good to keep quiet and his shame is not my problem. He should have thought of that before.

The secret is this: my Atelid colleague has an underwear fetish. Used underwear, both male and female, which has for whatever reason dropped to the floor rather than staying in the basket, has disappeared, and later been found hidden in the places my prickly aler ego tends to secret food, toys and indeed, himself of a morning.

Why he should do this is not clear, but he is obviously more disturbed, or at least an altogether deeper character, than I imagined.

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