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Sunday, 13 February 2011

It's seven o'clock and I can't sleep. I've just hung my head out the window (ha! on the end of a stick.) to see what the natives are up to and there are about a hundred maybe more congregating in 'El Tubo' and to an untrained eye it could look like 'something going on' an incident of some sort, like just a load of people with no homes to go to probably because of the recession. Here they come now one by one leaving the throng. Mainly young men on their own having drifted off without a by your leave as that would involve another half an hur ( what am I from Belfast now? ) of goodbyes. Said young men seem to have their hands stuffed into their pockets which proves quite difficult on account of the fashion nowadays for skinny jeans. They look even more absurd from behind as latest fashion involves the arse and crutch of the trousers to stop somewhere around the thighs although combined with the hands in the pockets does provide a safe way to navigate home after the downing of many pints of rum. Then there are the folk who can't leave the group and decide to start a philosophical society just outside my kitchen window. They've been at it now ten minutes and will I assure you, be there in an hour's or hur's time even,  still none the wiser but will have woken most of the dogs up that reside behind garage doors.
After a brief interlude accompanied by toast and hot chocolate the old head was hung and not a soul to be seen. All the bods have gone and what's left is a trail of souvenirs of a good evening, broken glass, crisp packets and unused condoms. I did wonder if the above celebrations were due to Mubarak's departure. After all it's a well known fact he is Aragonese. No one could be that stubborn.

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