After I crossed myself and genuflected in the Convento Santa María de Jesús on Saturday morning, I left and wandered down to the Plaza de Pilatos. There's a large tourist map of the city there, on a plinth behind perspex. I took it in and set off, meandering; seeking whom I may devour. Had a wonderful half hour or so; one foot in front of the other, through leaves, over bridges. Started to think it was time to get back and resurrect the Bomber from his pit, only to find that I was hopelessly lost. Not a scooby.
Being a half wit, I decided to solve this by walking more quickly, Yeah right, here's an ironic italicized question mark in inverted commas "?".
Did I mention that whatever tom fool O2 scheme I am on gives me calls and texts in Europe but no data? Thus I couldn't get Google Maps to put a ring though my nose and drag me back to Hotel Abanico.
I messaged Ben asking him for the name and address of the hotel so I could get a cab back. He replied with the necessary but also mentioned in passing that he only had 2% left on his phone's battery and that he hadn't brought a charging cable. Idiot child; I wonder where he gets that from?
I managed to flag down a taxi, though I had to get outside our largely one-way or pedestrianized area to do so. The driver delivered me, and then.
Though it is unlikely I will ever be identified in a line up for a crime committed by David Bowie or Peter O'Toole, I am slimmer than I used to be. Any roads, I left my belt in the basket after going through customs and when I got out of the cab pigeons came home to to roost.
I pulled the deck of ID's, receipts and cards out of my back pocket and laid them out them on the taxi's roof so I could pick out the right one with which to pay. As I did so my pants fell down around my ankles, I had disrupted the triple fold I had done on my waist band to keep them up beltless.
There I was legs akimbo, spreadeagled with my arms on top of a car and a bare arse. It looked like a cheap 70s porn knock off of Starsky & Hutch. Dignity always dignity.
I do hope that none of the Poor Clare sisters from Santa María de Jesús saw it.
This concludes my Seville stories, unless there is something even more hideous that my subconscious is hiding from me,