What a Hell Party it was

The ghosts loved to boast while the witch liked to bitch.
And grumbling in the kitchen was a bad-tempered
Spook,
Simply because he’d been chosen
To be the party’s cook.

On a skeletal plate bound for Frankenstein,
Some cockroach nibbles and a glass of blood wine.
Followed by a recently removed, freshly roasted spleen
All of which turned the ogre a peculiar shade of green.

This went unnoticed by the wise old wizard,
Munching with relish on a marinated gizzard.
A dish which didn’t appeal to the mummy,
Who dashed for the bathroom holding his tummy.

In the games room there was trouble with the troll,
Who stubbornly refused to bowl.
He wanted the soul sacked as games umpire,
To be replaced with the bloodsucking vampire.

Around the punch-ed bowl in the darkened saloon,
Three sirens made eyes at the creature from the Black Lagoon.
The creature was unaware that he had another fan,
Watching him from his closet was the bogeyman.

Only one monster remained completely aloof,
The wolfman sat alone, howling on the roof.
As midnight struck, Satan took centre stage,
It has to be said he looked good for his age.

“Gather one and all, pop the champagne cork,”
Join claws, hooves and talons…it’s time for ‘New York, New York’”.
But he was rudely ignored by that rumbustious ape Kong,
Who was too busy flashing his enormous…

Well, you know how he gets at parties!

 

Happy Halloween

A not-so-shaggy-dog-tale

I tried to remind myself I was in a country with a decidedly casual approach to obeying rules, which was a much healthier philosophy than my British conditioning which dictates that even the most inconsequential rule should be strictly adhered to.
The sheer nerve of the woman. If this had been in the UK, security guards would have been setting off alarms and reaching for their angina pills by now, but there she was, bold as brass, in Puerto de la Cruz’ halls of power, the town hall, right outside the mayoress’ office and not only did she have a dog in tow, it wasn’t even on a leash.
The woman stuck her head through door after door, obviously looking for somebody in particular, with the dog mimicking her every move. I waited for the shouts of indignation, secretly gleeful at the thought of her being ejected from the building for her crime, but none came. Maybe it was because the dog was a Chihuahua and was passing below everyone’s radar. The woman was eventually pointed to the door she wanted and duly disappeared inside. The dog, however, in typical dog-like fashion was distracted at this exact point by something and nothing, and didn’t spot this. Chihuahuas never seem very confident creatures to me and this one obviously had abandonment issues; it went into panic mode. It skittered around the building (that’s what Chihuahuas do they don’t run, or prance, they skitter), running through every door that the woman had stuck her head through previously, until finally at one it was met with an “AYE” and the sound of a chair being pushed back. The dog ran out of the room, followed by a young bloke.
That’s it now, I thought, it’s one thing a dog being in the town hall with its owner, but on its own must be a complete no-no, now the dog’s for the offski. But the young man did something that completely floored me. Instead of turfing the dog out of the building, he pointed down the corridor and unbelievably gave it directions.
“She’s not here; she’s in the room at the end of the hall,” he said to the dog.
Of course, he had to repeat the directions a couple of times before the dog got the picture and toddled away to be reunited with its owner.
It’s little incidents like these which are part of the joy of living here. Viva la diferencia!

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It’s not every day you get accused of being an assassin!!

It’s funny the impact that apparently irrelevant choices can have on how your day is going to pan out. This morning I threw on a T-shirt for the simple reason that it was clean and didn’t need ironing. How was I to know that I’d end up face to face with a group of visiting exiled Miami Cubans who would take exception to the three images of Che Guevara on my chest?
I simply wanted to change my bank details with the local water company, but previous experience told me that this little job would take all morning, so I decided to mix pleasure with business and use the visit to photograph the La Orotava flower carpets which were being laid out for the Corpus Christi celebrations on Thursday.
The carpets attract visitors from all over the world and by the time I reached the town hall there was a multi-national crowd craning to get a good view of the designs. The town hall’s balconies are perfect for getting a good shot of the carpets and it was from one of these that I inadvertently caused a ‘Bourne Identity’ moment. As I swapped places with an elderly gent on the balcony, he looked in my direction, scowled, and mumbled something in Spanish. Before I could say ‘serious mistaken identity here’ I was surrounded by a group of men and women pointing at me and shouting “Asesino, asesino!”
Apparently one of them had lost their father during the Cuban revolution and another claimed that he had shared a girlfriend with Che and that he’d had to leave the love of his life and flee Cuba for America to avoid death. The sight of me wearing his image even as a fashion, as opposed to a political, statement sent them wild.
I apologised for accidentally offending anyone, but added that Che Guevara was actually a hero to some people which started them ranting again, and so I diplomatically retreated back to the mind-numbingly boring, but safer confines of the queue outside the ‘Consorcio de Tributos’ office and like everybody else filed another couple of hours of life in the ‘unnecessary use of my time folder’ as we quietly waited our turn.