San Isidro and the plumber

God is pouring His love down on the bulls.  In fact, it’s pissing-down on them.

Madrid’s bullfighting should have begun on 4 May and run right through the month, taking in the fiesta of the local patron saint, San Isidro (who has given me Monday off work next week).  But toreadors don’t look at their best wringing-wet and splashing about in great pools of water.  Tight boots? Yes.  Wellies?  Not quite.

The ticketing of seats by sol or sombra kind of works, but kind of doesn’t, either.  Aficionados will have to wait for the tails of freshly-killed bulls from the plaza de toros.  Until then, they can chew on abattoir offcuts like the tourists.  I noticed a local cervezeria is offering rabo del toro on its menu regardless of the weather.

I’m sitting in the kitchen eating my second course.  It’s yesterday’s bread smeared with Brie and topped with jamon that has been hardening in the fridge since the weekend.  The first course was pasta with the last of the asparagus from Saturday, fried in oil, into which I introduced tinned cockles and my last three anchovies.  A pretty decent meal for me, I’d say.  A squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of Lea & Perrins to give it that certain I don’t know what.

The rain is fair clattering into the interior of the building – a kind of courtyard, but not as pretty as a patio.  Five storeys of windows looking in on each other.  I’ve long given up on being observed in the shower in the mornings.  Who would be remotely interested?

The shower is knackered.  The landlady (my sweet, intelligent and lovely landlady) broke it last night.  We’re waiting for the plumber.  He was due twenty minutes ago.  Seven o’clock.  It’s not late – this is comfortably afternoon in Spanish time.  But Spanish time means many things.  It means he might not turn up while eight.  It means he might not turn up at all.  That’s fine.  I’m managing my expectations, as I have been since I tried to extract the broken part from the stricken shower mixer last night.  I’ll wash in the sink.  My hair’s washed.  It’ll last until Friday.  Or whenever.

I lost a student today.  I always feel sad when that happens.  It might not have been my fault (or it might).  There was a communication breakdown on Friday.  I don’t get involved in the commercials, but I can imagine there being a disagreement about paying for the class.  I’m not sure I’ll see anything in my pay at the end of the month.  Now I have Friday off.  A sleep in.  A four day weekend (San Isidro).  Life’s not all bad, is it?