A Murder Of Wolves*

Sitting in a cafe in a trendy district of the city with brother.  He’s writing emails and has brought plugs, adaptors and so on.  Thought about bringing phone charger but decided against it and am now regretting this decision as battery down to about 20%.

The dog at the table next to us barks and is reprimanded for this, although a toy poodle at the next table started the dispute.  Brother is writing emails. Am drinking gin and Sprite Zero and will write this until battery dies.

One of the waiters looks like Rafael Nadal.  Wondering if there’s a way to say “has anyone ever told you that you look like Rafael Nadal?”  without it sounding bad in any way.  Don’t want to be told-off-for-inappropriate-chat by brother.  

Earlier, made quite a production about taking a taxi to the pedestrianised shopping district, where used to hang out, getting body-piercings, on my gap year.  Our first taxi leaves without us, our second taxi drops us there but the shops are all closed.

“Dad will approve,” I say to brother as we tramp down the deserted streets: past closed shops and through puddles – it’s been raining.

“Won’t he think it’s a waste of a taxi fare?” brother says.

“Yes but think of all the money we’ve saved on tourist tat, with the shops being closed,” I say, squelching through a puddle. “Fit-flops and wide-legged trousers are the worst outfit for puddles.”

“So you changed out of your first outfit into stupider clothes?” brother says.

There’s the sound of severe coughing.  A chap with his face covered in tattoos is sitting on a bench, drinking special brew and coughing his lungs up.  

We pass a wolf playing the guitar (photo attached) and this graffiti:

   

 

Happy Friday lunchtime everyone!  Need to walk off my lunch now…

*2013.  By Gary J. Cook.   American army thriller.

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