Waiter, my horse has bolted

If you’ve left the stable door open then lunchtime is not a particularly good time for a free wash and brush-up in a bar. This can happen to the best of persons, but most of the gents one meets, struggling in cashpoints or on streets in Barcelona, netherwear clutched carefully at knee-height, are smackheads. It’s a peculiar logic that would cheerfully destroy body and soul and then invest so much effort in saving a pair of trousers found in a waste bin, even if clothes do make the man.

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