EVERYBODY'S TEARING IN
Spring - and love - were very much in the air yesterday in Anglet. A beautiful sunny day and light south winds conspired to trick the birds and the bees into believing that the gladness of springtime was nigh. Txomin and I went for a sandwich at chambre d'amour, which took a while. He opted for a trois fromage panini and frites (both very average) while I schooled him, again, with the classic cheese omlette sandwich/large cookie combo. The Cocktopus just happened to breeze past on the promenade perfumed with early blossoms, him just back from a quick trip to Alps where he broke an intern's femur in a gnarly snowsurf crash.
There were a fair few people taking lunch, and a lot of them were getting busy. Down on the beach, not far from the high tide mark, a couple writhed in the throws of extreme grinding. Meanwhile, on the wall, another couple gently stroked each others' each lobes and played tonsil hockey. Just a few metres upwind in the other diretion along the wall, were a two short haired ladies involved in some fairly heavy petting. On the walk back to the Corsa, the benches by the volleyball courts were fully occupied with mulitple saliva-exchanging clenches. Yep, it seemed the Pays Basques collective pituatary gland was being stimulated by golden sunrays into mass tearing in.
Shortly after marvelling at this spectacle, we got back to the office. No one was tearing in here. The urinal in the mens is still blocked and overflowing with mahogany coloured liquid ammonia. I released the otters, squeezed some pus out of my left eye socket and got back to my desk to learn the day's outgoing emails, those I'd spent hours skillfully penning had mysteriously all vanished, forever. How I wished I could be back at the wall with the feminists, harking the the seagulls' haunting caw...