After a particularly fraught night on the town in Sveti Vlas, the counterfeit t-shirt and handbag shops, drawing the children in like flies to shit. Hawkers outside their bars, offering high fives and the best margarita pizzas (traditional fussy children’s food, the world over) this side of, well, Sveti Vlas.
A candy floss attack by my son on my daughter’s hair, freshly washed, combed and looking lovely, rendered it sticky and tangled and rendered her grumpy and really cross. The bar we were in offered dungeon toilets below street level. At the bottom of the steps was a table and there sat a lady and gent, whose teeth had both seen better days, people of the darkness and the nighttime, unable to come out into the light. We emerged from the basement, the toilet seat having come off in my sons hand, and purposely heads down holding our breaths as we climbed the steps from the underworld, the leopard print minidress of the tooth decayed lady shrieking “Ayy!” after us as we gasped for the still sweetly stale smelling air of the town square.
It was on the way out of town as I stood looking down the hill towards the main road that I spotted below me what I reckoned to be a distant Eastern European relative of Mr Fandango, his head wrapped in cling film and in the tray of a candy floss machine, his main body below joined with the mechanism, destined to spin round perpetually nightly in a whirl of sticky sugar floss.
No offence was intended in this post, but as the saying goes,
“I saw this and I thought of you!”