New life
Delayed reaction
Zenga Longmore
Remember the night, seven years ago, when it was so foggy that all the planes had been cancelled? Well, that was the night. The next day, I was told the plane was leaving at 11, and I finally climbed aboard at two. Seatbelt clasped, I sighed a con- tented sigh, and watched through lazy eyelids air hostesses donning life-jackets. The plane whirred a bit, went slowly round a few corners and whirred again. Then it made a gallant attempt to move and stopped. Suddenly it lunged forward, jerked and finally let out a slow, lingering death rattle. We were all told to get out. I had an awful feeling someone was going to ask us to push, but luckily we just had to wait for seven hours in the airport lounge until most of us got fed up and went home.
Now I don't know if any of you are familiar with the escapades of Dostoevsky, but apparently, due to some Russian what- have-you, he and a few of his cronies were all lined up to be shot at dawn. They were just getting into the swing of things, putting on blindfolds, having last-minute fags, etc, when some bloke or other appeared and told them it was all off, they could live after all. One of the cronies died of shock. The reason for relating this lugubrious Slavic tale is that I was sure I was going to die of shock. I mean, if someone could die just by finding out they were going to live, what can discovering you're not going to Spain do to you? (Just in case anyone is in- terested to know what does happen in these circs, you don't die, but it puts you in a really bad temper.) Next day I tried again, and after an hour's delay, I found myself seated next to a very nice Madrid lady who taught me my first two words of Spanish. Unfortunately I'd forgotten them by the time I reached Spain.
Madrid is not bad as Spanish capitals go, but once you've seen the Prado, there's not much else to do save wander around the freezing streets, looking through res- taurant windows at things with tentacles floating in grey slime. Then there are the ham museums, which are ornate buildings with hams hanging about all over the place in various stages of decay. I was most disappointed to find out that they were not museums at all, but mere caffs. I expected to see the very ham that Carlos the Fourth had take a bite out of, his teethmarks still intact, or even the ham that Philip the Second never had time to finish before dashing off with the Armada, but no. There again, because so much of the food has an antique quality, maybe more of the restaurants shoud be classified as museums.
After five hours of torturing the ears of two studio technicians I made the pop record, but don't worry, it will never be on general release. My sister, who lives in Barcelona, tells me that the Spanish have far too much taste to buy so inane a record. Pop music, she told me, is only suitable for the English — and the under-fives.
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