Sitting having breakfast - espresso and something covered in sugar and filled with custard (called a ciuccio, the barman told me, ['muy bueno' he said, as if congratulating me on having selected a particularly fine wine]) - in the Placa de Saint Agusti Vell, watching people go by, I realised something had changed since I was last on holiday in the summer in Europe. No-one was wearing Crocs.
Where have they all gone? For a year or two it was forbidden to set foot on a pavement anywhere on the Continent unless shod in those hideous excrescences (now there's a word I've saved up for best). They must be somewhere - they never wear out (apparently that was the flaw in the business plan for the company). Perhaps there is a huge foot-shaped landfill somewhere, heaped with stinking perforated plastic clogs. Anyway, who cares. I'm going to open a bottle of Rioja and raise a toast to the ebbing of that collective madness. Change it seems is sometimes a good thing. That's something I'm very inclined to forget.
they've all been melted down and turned into vuvuzelas
ReplyDeleteSo change is bad after all? V funny, by the way
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