Majorca Flats -- 79

"Sorry to be such a wimp.” Jason was deeply embarrassed, and took his hand away from Graeme's as soon as he could.

“There's nothing wimpy about grief, mate. We love someone, they become part of our life, and then …. Don't apologise. Listen, I know you have to go soon, and so do I, but I'm glad I met you. Would you like to have dinner or something with me? Not a pick-up, or for anything like that. Just for friendship.”

“Yes, I'd like that. But I work at nights mostly. It'll have to be lunch. I suppose I should get a mobile so I can keep in touch. But I never thought I'd meet so many people.”

“Ozzies are very friendly people. None of your English standoffishness here. If we like people we say so and if we don't, we make that clear too. Sometimes that offends.” Graeme's eyes were grave, but Jason could see the smile.

“Well, no one has been unkind to me, yet,” said Jason, only then thinking how nice that was.

“There are so many people so close together in England. It's like rats squeezed into a cage. They get ratty.” Graeme was grinning.

“Get away! That's a terrible pun!” Jason was grateful that Graeme wasn't being all serious, that he was making light of the situation. “Maybe I could get a prepaid mobile. But not right yet. I have no money.”

“Well, I can't come round tonight or tomorrow but I'll see you at The Lord Grey on Thursday evening.”

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World Cup

Quelle blague! Efferybotty iss zo stupide! exclaimed the countess as she pushed the maid into the cupboard and threw away the key.

OK. Each to his own. But really! A bunch of blokes wearing shorts too long and too baggy, in a game where a one-all score is exciting? Sorry, me darlin's, it's borin'. Footy and rugby players are sexy to look at. They wear short shorts. American football players wear those wonderfully revealing lycra tops and bottoms. Though you can never see what they actually look like because of their helmets. Sort of like Transformers the Movie. But soccer? C'mon. Get them out of those 1920's baggies into something sexier. And I'll think about watching. Or at least, think about thinking about watching. I mean, why else does one watch sport, except for the beaut bods? As this article by Myf Warhurst (a woman) says, rather funnier than I could.

So instead of a pic about the world cup, I'll give you this one of a beauty in Rio. I like his smile. And his bod. And his Speedos. Who needs overclothed world-cuppers, nu?

Rio de Janeiro

So Rio is the location of the next Olympics. Normally I wouldn't give a flying foo-foo valve, but Rio has always fascinated me. There's something about seaside cities and towns in an east coast climate in these latitudes (23 degrees). It makes for easy open living, a warm climate leading (maybe) to a warm people.


It's the same latitude (almost) as Maputo in Mozambique, another former Portuguese colony, which used in its time also to be a city of pleasure, and a bit closer to the equator than Durban or Brisbane.


Another reason for my interest is their music, not just the obvious 'Latin' styles of bossa-nova and cha-cha but also their more 'classical' composers--Louis Moreau Gottschalk (A Night in The Tropics) and Heitor Villa-Lobos, just for starters.



They speak an odd sort of Portuguese in Brazil. Though I can understand written Portuguese and written and spoken Spanish (including the odd dialect of Buenos Aires, where 'y' is pronounced 'zh'), I struggled with Brazilian. They pronounce 'r' even more gutturally than the French, almost like a Dutch/Afrikaans 'g', and swallow all their 'l's.


I did a quick random search of images of men on beaches in Rio. I note that they wear squarecut swim briefs rather than the smaller racing briefs or the bigger shorts. But the women still wear less than the men!


American visitors will have to get used to seeing more male flesh than they do at home. It is good, though, to be exposed to other cultural moeurs; to see the world differently. Broadens your mind.


Here's the Wikipedia article about Rio.


One of the places I plan to visit when I've sold a best seller.