Picnic

It is not often that I go to an event organized by the Spanish Community.  But there is promise of good weather and I really like the girl who invited me, Patricia.  

It is all a last minute, improvised affair, so the numbers are down and I find the reduced community a lot easier to deal with.  Most of the ladies are Spanish, but none of the men are.  We all seem to have chosen quiet, pale gingers as our long term companions.

Among the slender men and the small curvy women, there is the figure of Neil, a man built like a wardrobe who wears a Brexit T-shirt and lights the barbecue with a flame-thrower.  

We have people from the South, the North the East and the West . Four  languages (Catalan, Basque, Galician and Spanish) all united by our love of gingers.  

We burn meat and shoot the breeze till we are too cold to stay longer. Then the ladies pick up their stuff and freckled husbands and gather up  blond, blue eyed kids to take home. Half Spanish, but 100% English.

With our delinquent at home, S, M and I joint K at the Boot.  He is happy to see us. George Formby is drunk again, and last time he saw him, he threw up on top of him. We arrive just in time to interrupt a very one-sided intimate moment, sending George hurling into the door in a huff.

We talk about culture, united in our reminiscences about Dallas and our love of J.R.