Bon apetit!

The time of the day: Friday, 9pm, beginning of the long weekend. Hurrah!

The place: my kitchen, preparing a nice dinner (pasta with salmon and vodka sauce, recipe courtesy of Trevor, Amore’s chef mate from Switzerland)

The conversation: flowing.

Something missing perhaps: why don’t we crack open that bottle of champagne while we are preparing the food?

Agreement. Food smelling promising. Overall atmosphere: very good.

Romantic thought: why don’t we open the champagne together? Make a wish?

The cautious of us: make sure we don’t point it in the direction of anything breakable.

The next step: aim, fire, bull’s eye!

The result: sudden darkness, broken glass noise.

Confusion. The bulb is smashed into the tiniest pieces that find their way to the salmon sauce…

Chance of aiming so well: 1 in hundreds.

Wish we could have rewound and filmed the whole sequence of events.

Laughter: uncontrollable. Still going.

Dinner: not bad.

You Look Just Like….

We human beings are, I should imagine, a tad more analytical than the rest of the species we share this planet with. Although this is merely an assumption, how would we ever know how analytical cats and dogs are, for example.

As humans’ thirst for knowledge and detail is something I am more familiar with, I’ll focus on one particular trait that I hate to admit I possess. It’s a pattern I easily and critically recognized in others until it dawned on me that I was no better.

What is it? Well, in a nutshell, I compare new acquaintances, colleagues, friends, friends’ partners with those I believe they look like. Not necessarily celebrities, although that makes for an obvious choice. But I will see someone and it’s almost as if my brain is programmed to send keen signals to my memory centre and inquire into whom the new kid in town looks like. Google images have helped a lot in supporting my individual cases.

Over the years I must have seen them all: from Klaus Kinski to Maradonna, Vanessa Paradis to Bono and moving on to an African American DJ at a party who – to me – looked the spitting image of my Italian neighbour upstairs.

It is not something I am proud of, especially when it becomes clear that my comparison is not welcome. Many a times, I’d declare in a victor’s voice that so and so are the spitting image of, say, the girls’ gay friend in Sex and the City. Bingo, got him right there! The look on their face indicates that they’d hoped for more! I’ve been on the receiving end of an unwanted look alike statement and boy, it was no fun. This is not the place to create inaccurate associations in your minds, suffice to say I was once compared to a reputable singer. No, it wasn’t JLo… I listened to the comment, I reasoned that my dignity was being put to the test and smiled it off politely not without a degree of grudge against the “opinion leader” who’d instantly found his nodding supporters. Well, at least she is talented ( which, when it comes to singing, I’m not)…

Nor was it great fun to have this guy in a bar in Spain stare at me with a mix of horror and filial love only to reveal to me that I was the carbon copy of his (now dead) mother. His intake of alcohol and God knows what else that afternoon contributed to the intensity of his feelings I’m sure, but how freaky had it become when the guy started asking me if I remembered how I used to feed him dinner when he was a small child? At this point it’s worth adding that he was quite a bit older than me…

Lesson here being that sometimes silence is indeed gold.

I do have a match in this respect (someone who may not look like me but certainly behaves similarly) and that is my colleague G from work. G will understand my otherwise inexplicable need for associations. He almost has a little ritual: one of our (male) clients has a very distinctive “cool glasses/ funky hairdo” look. To G this particular man looks just like another client of ours, only this time we’re talking about a “she” and she is 30 years older than our guy. And G is no amateur, he will bring accurate supporting proofs of his statements.

I sometimes identify this sport as bullying in others, but I guess the difference with them is that they make light of their often harsh views. I prefer to spare those who need sparing, but nothing is going to stop me from seeing Michael Winner sat in my office day in day out. All he has to do is say the Esure line and my point will be instantly seen by most.

The guilt within having been unleashed, I can go one step further and admit to a very deeply rooted belief in groups of people having their parallel peers in the animal reign. For example, eversince I was a child, I would immediately see the bird, fish, dog, horse in those around me.

This is when anonymity comes in handy otherwise I wouldn’t blame those of you who’d be inclined to call a shrink on me…

Instead, what you could do, is indulge in this deep conversation and reassure me that you, too are into comparing and also that you too see the animal within as an obvious fact of life. Who do you look like or should I say what do you look like?

I can tell those of you I know….

Hong Kong Story

Don’t know why, but it seems that when it comes to massages, spa treatments and any sort of body embellishments, travelling to Hong Kong equals heaven. Not only does the quality of the service excel, but – very importantly – the prices are affordable. That explains why many of us tired, jetlagged Europeans recently arrived on our 5 day business trips, end up looking better than before our flight took off from Heathrow. It’s the magic touch of the HK beauticians.

And this time around, I was not let down. My third trip to HK started like the other previous ones: get on the plane, watch some movie (saw star-packed Bobby), chit chat with the person next to you if they’re nice (she was) and hope to get some sleep in (I hardly did).

The next morning comes with a treat in store. We jump in the cab to go to Central, which is a shopper’s ultimate destination. I am not a keen shopper (it was the mortgage or the clothes…) but I was dead set on at least working with (or against) what nature’s given me. So picture this: a super crowded super narrow market street. Nothing like the welcoming wide aisles of the Istanbul Bazar, for example.

Suddenly you hear a lady in the crowd asking “Manicure for HK$70?” (that’s £5) and the next thing you know, you are entering this council tower- type building, going up the stairs to what may very well be someone’s flat. But there is a good feeling, so what if it’s not The Sanctuary?

Well, there were no incense sticks and waterfalls sounds, but boy were we in for a surprise! As we were going up the stairs to what traditionally should be a tranquil place to sit down and be pampered, we were greeted with a Madonna wannabe belting out I’m Crazy for You on the karaoke machine. They had a karaoke machine in the waiting room, complete with glass disco ball and all.

The place was a flat in which they had turned the tiny entrance hall into an entertainment centre: karaoke, internet connection they had it all. For a second there I contemplated leaving. There is a good reason why I didn’t choose singing as a career and a morning “I Will Survive” sesh was not on my agenda. But I was re-assured I did not have to sing if I did not want to, although they did encourage us to follow the example of a 5 year old who did not shy away from declaring the she, indeed, Will Survive.

I wish I’d taken a photo of the place. Most people working in there were from the Phillippines, so when a Philippino pop song came on, the nostalgia overwhelmed them and you should have heard the collective humming and tapping while they were painting those nails, rubbing those feet and applying the perm solutions….

Surreal! But great fun. I am going to take the idea back to my local manicure place. The ladies there are Korean, maybe they won’t think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe they’ve been to Hong Kong themselves. South London, get ready for this.

A non-Shakespearian Heroine in Stratford

This weekend Amore and I took a spontaneous trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. This is in line with our getting-to-know-England-better plan. Also, with 3 degrees Celsius extra on our doorstep (this weekend’s Sunday Times illustrated article on global warming is not for the faint-hearted), we said to ourselves maybe it’s time we did our bit and cut down on those tempting cheap weekend flights to the sunnier sides of Europe. What the heck… We live in England and when somebody mentions High Wycombe we still think they are talking about Scotland…

So, we got on the train at Marylebone Station, one of London’s oldest and most charming, my personal favourite (have you seen their florists?). Two hours later we are in Shakespeare memorabilia heaven: there are souvenir shops, statues of characters from his plays, a tour of the haunted house that once belonged to the man who inspired Falstaff (the Bard’s brother in law).

There are, of course, the theatres, the lovely country pubs, the beautiful riverside walks and the overall olde worlde charm that sold England to me in the first place, all those years ago. We had a fantastic day and I recommend it to anyone who wants to get away from the hustle and bustle of London at the weekend. Not a place for longer than two days, methinks.

The day is also memorable for the sight I’m about to describe. As someone else was commenting, it’s got to be one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen. As we were walking along the river enjoying the sunshine and eavesdropping on a tour guide, we saw this elderly lady coming from the opposite direction. When I say elderly I mean proper elderly, early 80’s at least, with a hunched back, snow white hair, a scarf and a long pink raincoat. Like any of our grandmothers, only older. She suddenly stopped, looked around her and decided on putting her large black bag by this big tree on the riverbank. Nothing strange about her yet. She wanted to have a rest. Well, here’s where I was wrong. I kid you not, ladies and gentlemen, the lady leant her bags against the tree, put herself in position and took off for a jog!! Up and down in a leisurely manner, stopping to draw her breath and then off she went again… I had never ever seen anything like this before. She was so fit, so the opposite of what you’d expect from a 80 something year old lady quietly shuffling along the river. She went on like this for at least half an hour while Amore and me were sipping our Stella’s at what we were told was the best known pub in the world (The Black Swan, also known as The Dirty Duck). She then stopped and dutifully did her stretching after which she recuperated her bag and went away. I can tell you that she made a lasting impression on a wide open air audience. She was our non-Shakespearian centre stage lady. She did make me smile. Amore thought she was not all there and felt sorry for her (How would you feel if your granny took off like that in the park?); I thought she was an eccentric fitness fan. Good on her.

  ========================================>

Let’s just say it was enough to make me reconsider the extent of my weekly exercise routine (three times a week walk from Farringdon to Elephant and Castle).

So here’s to you, the jogger in a pink raincoat in Stratford. You made the trip less about Shakespeare and therefore less predictable. Have you considered the marathon?

A Very Brief History of Dating

I start this post from the basics: Wikipedia’s definition of dating. It does actually re-direct you to courtship, which gives the concept a somewhat more vintage feel, but it defines it in a nutshell thus serving as a good trampoline for this post.

Courtship is the process of selecting and attracting another for an intimate relationship such as love, sex, commitment, living together, marriage, and having children, or any combination of these. Courtship may last days, months, or even years, but some lovers skip courting altogether as in cases of love at first sight or arranged marriage.
Many couples stop courting or going out after they have chosen to remain together, or after they have married, or after they have children. Those that do still may still call these outings “dates”.

My intention here is to depart from the standard boy-meets-girl scenario and talk about a particular form of dating. One that has become an intrinsec part of the overall getting together game (mating game would have sounded a bit too much out of an Attenborough show about friendly penguins).

You will have guessed by now that this is going to be a post about online dating. Hmmmm… There is enough material here for a novel, an encyclopedia even. Or – why not – a manual on the evolution of the dynamics of relationships. Volume 2007.

Seeing that I have called this post the way I have, let’s rewind back to 1998. A dear friend of mine is telling me she is going to meet up with a guy off the internet. On paper/e-mail he sounded fab: good job, decent age when you’d expect a man to be past the times of exploring avenues ever so new. The photo ain’t that bad either so what do I say? ” Are you sure about this? What if he’s a psycho?”

Now, I am going to be frank and admit to a higher than usual degree of paranoia. Where it comes from, it beats me, probably from some childhood experience, as is the case with everything that is not right in your life. Let’s blame it on the parents…

In my defense, though, in those times, meeting up with a faceless individual whose only relationship with you is based on typing sounded a bit crazy. She herself agreed thus keeping the way she met her now husband under wraps with many of their friends and family. The “now husband” bit reveals that particular story was a success. As she then put it to me: how is it different from meeting a guy in a bar? Well, eerrrgh, I don’t know how….You see them first, true, but that doesn’t mean they can’t turn into a monster of boredom or the drunkard from hell. Always looking on the bright side, me.

Roll on almost a decade later and if you’re single and have not given online dating a try, you are wasting your time. At least that is the case in my circle of friends. Many have tried it out.

Conversations amongst young and old rate www.match.com higher than www.meetic.com, whilst the newer discovery www.mysinglefriend.com is winning many over through the endorsement of the always pregnant, TV tough cookie Sarah Beeny. On her site, you basically big up your friend “without their knowledge” they are then chuffed at the surprise of it all (ha!), upload some witty comment themselves and before they know it, the virtual doors of your singlehood are crashed down by eager suitors. Hallelujah! Ladies and gentlemen, where does that happen in real life, if you are not Eva Herzigova or George Clooney?

There are even specialised religion-oriented sites where you can make sure you avoid unwanted outsiders and stick to your own. No extra comment on this one. You know who you are…

And I am pretty sure that a bit of time in my hands would yield a variety of dating websites catering for the pickiest amongst us.

My friends’ experience with online dating stretches across a broad range:

* some met their current spouses on the internet

* others have had to go through a lot of strange characters to get to a decent partner material.

* there are of course those who were asked if they liked setting fire to things which I’d rate as rather alarming. They had this conversation on date numero uno and a second date followed! Why??

* there have been trans-continental liasions as well as trans-generational ( call me a skeptic but who buys the 62 year old guy and the 24 year old girl story….not me, not you and certainly not him)

* there have also been cases of “is he ever going to make the next step??” series of dates when eventually the said dates were classified as a waste of time; in this online dating business people are serious and not inclined to waste time with niceties; Get to the point: unless mentioned otherwise, you are not there to find another male friend…

In my case the jury is still out debating as to where I stand on this issue. On the fence would be the answer at the moment. Would I try it if I were single? Probably. Would I look forward to the experience? Probably not. I’d be petrified.

The over analyzer in me has a few issues with this modern way to meet your match:

* although I myself would be involved in the process, I could not help thinking: “What’s wrong with him? Why is he here, if he is so perfect?”

* I would then wonder how I’d fare against the other 500 women he met that month

* So I’d end up paying ridiculous money to make myself look fab, thus letting myself in for a big and unforgiving fall should a second date occur ( spend the same money again now that I’m in or let him see the real me? Would not call this a win/win situation.)

* Also, very importantly, what if we don’t like each other? Do I stand up and go home? Or, worse, would I have to continue dining on my own should he up and leave?

I guess we can all conclude that I should stick to more traditional ways. I said it before, I met Amore in a bar in Shoreditch and that will do me fine.

But I am intrigued by how fast times have moved. Is internet dating a good thing to humanity? Clearly it is, for many. Virtual matchmaking is fastly replacing any other kind of happiness accommodating third party.

GSOH, LOL, :0), :0(, XX, watch out for the new language of love….

To be continued…..

I Believed I Could Fly

Did you ever sit down on a plane intrigued by whom you might end up sitting next to? Especially on a long haul flight? I certainly used to. I didn’t obsess about it, but it always intrigued me. It was always the thrill of one last possible treat after trying out all the perfumes and lipsticks in Duty Free. I am not going to lie to you and pretend I was after an interesting conversation with an academic lady from Nepal. When I was single ( to get things straight for Amore) I fantasized about maybe meeting the man of my dreams on a plane. What a great story that would have made for our grandchildren! Grandpa and I were sitting next to each other on the way back from Sidney and we’ve been sitting next to each other ever since. Get it? I am as cheesy as it comes.

+ B does not =

Few people I know get on planes as often as I do. No, I am not boasting about it, it’s a fact. I get on a lot of planes and actually go to a lot of places a lot of times. Some call it great luck, I call it something that I would get very bored without.

Inspite of all that, I have never ever started a somewhat promising conversation with an eligible guy on a plane or in a waiting lounge. I did catch glimpses of good looking fellas walking around airports in casual manner, but not once was there a conversation with view to keeping in touch later on.

For example now, I am on a plane flying back to London sitting next to a studious looking man completely immersed in his book. I just glimpsed at the book and it must be one of those things that come with a womens magazine. Where else would you get a book that says ” I just love it when men throw their eyes back and say mea-yaaaaoooww”…. ?? Bad! Bad! Bad!

To my left there is a handsome man reading The Economist. Don’t these successful business types ever stop?

The list of indifferent people on the plane can continue. Also, I have had the other end of the spectrum when conversations would start and never end. But never that romantic touch. Which is ok. Or it would have been had I not known at least two people who have found love on the plane. Is it me then?…Hmmm. Just as good, ‘coz I’m not interested. ;0) I met Amore while dancing away one night and we’ve been together eversince…

Just as I mentioned the conversations I’ve had over the years, I am going to point out the most interesting ones that will maybe one day become a story on this very blog. There was:

* the 75 year old Englishman who was going to Habana to marry his 25 year old Cuban pen girlfriend and believed it was out of love (call me a cynic!); he was sad at his 45 year old daughter’s ageist attitude towards all this…

* the Jewish slightly nerdy 30 year old who was going to Kiev to meet the Jewish man of his dreams

* the insurance salesman from Suffolk who was friendly and sweet and kept me engaged in conversation all throughout the flight from Sidney, even held my hand tight during the worst case of turbulence I’d ever experienced and then – upon seeing his wife and kids in the airport literally ran off without even saying goodbye

* the Turkish man who didn’t speak a word of English and- deceived by my Mediterranean (good) looks – made several attempts to converse in Turkish throughout a flight from Istanbul; to this day I wonder what it was he was saying, he looked like a kind person

* the guy whom my friend and I had left behind in a rather unladylike manner in Ibiza ( we did a runner on him because he talked too much) and then re-surfaced in the airport getting us acquainted with an un-necessary pang of guilt

* the dashing German young man who befriended me on a flight from New York to London, took my number and called me to ask for my advice as to how to tell his father he was gay

The list of such examples is long. A few years back I had a bit of a fling with a pilot in Madrid. Not DURING the flight, as one friend of mine thought in horror ( “Is this the type of people we put our lives in the hands of?”). I suppose that redeems my lack of success on the actual plane.

Unless the Turkish guy was declaring his undying love to me, you can tell that the plane was not going to spark a romance in my life. Not even a lasting friendship. Why I ever expected to build a rapport with someone on a plane, when that never occurs to me on my daily trips on buses, I can’t say. But there was a time when I did. Not anymore.

Have you ever met someone on a plane?

Cogito Ergo Sum

Saturday evening. Nice quiet evening in for amore and me, cooked up a quick pasta with red pesto (you can never go wrong with that) and sat down to watch some TV. Not much on, but eversince I’ve discovered the magic box called Freeview, if nothing else, I managed to broaden the choice of not-so-good films/shows.

So far so good. Ad break comes on and all of a sudden I feel enlightened. “The Sunday Times in collaboration with Mensa brings you the chance to challenge yourself with this interactive DVD quiz”. Hurrah! I love challenging myself with quizzes of the Trivial Pursuit, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire or University Challenge variety. I have this strange tendency to get the so-called difficult questions right and fail on the ones that are considered to be basic.

Before you think I’ve fallen deeply in love with the image in the mirror, let me explain: being foreign, I get questions to do with language, foreign culture, politics, etc. But I know nothing about things like children’s nursery rhymes, the detailed geography of England, the order of the English kings and queens, and so on.

Overall, though, I get above average results. According to the results of my last IQ test I could be an architect or a teacher. Not bad, better start studying for either…

Anyway, this morning I sent a reluctant amore to brave the rain ( “It is good for your cold to get some fresh air”) and get me a copy of The Sunday Times with the promised interactive DVD. It’s called BRAINPOWER – EXERCISE YOUR MIND.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are reading the blog of a person who got 11 out of 25 right. I am depressed. I mean, yes, I got it right that Mandela was released from prison in 1990. And that George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1961, but the rest was a disaster. I could not figure out what number was next in a chain of completely random numbers. Ditto for the letters. As for geometrical shapes that were supposed to come in some sort of logical chain, you can forget about those. The result: I was declared a middleweight brain. A middleweight brain??? Moi? I got so depressed and declared this morning’s purchase of the paper the worst £2 ever invested. Honestly, who do they think they are?

Anyway, I have now calmed down and I am not using all the intellectual words I can think of to impress amore, who was laughing his head off hearing the “wrong answer noise” one too many times…I will have that noise in my head for a while yet….My door buzz sounds a bit like it, maybe I should change it…
Are you into IQ tests?

Silly Story on a Wednesday (again)

The following conversation has just been sparked up in the office.  As you can see, we are a very busy bunch… It did make me laugh, though.   Apparently, should one decide to pursue a certain type of acting career, one that wouldn’t necessarily make one’s parents proud, the stage name is traditionally a combination of the following:  

Your first ever pet’s name + your mother’s maiden name  Mine would be CIPI MINTILESCU.  We also had Spartacus Lumberjack and Twiggy Winkle.  What would yours be? ;0)

(UN)LUCKY

HIM (on the phone on a Friday afternoon, with a cheeky tone in his voice) : Hello you, I have a surprise for you later on this afternoon!

HER (trying to suppress the hallelujah! coming up in full force from her lungs): Oh, really? Come on, what it is?

Who is he fooling? She already knows. All the ingredients are there: two happy-ish years together, mutual urge to settle down and have an army of kids. I mean, just like “those boots are made for walking” her hips are made for, well, pushing…. And it’s not like it had not been discussed recently…

HIM: What are you wearing today?

HER: You know, the grey t-shirt and a denim skirt. Darn, she should have made more of an effort on that Friday. Her mum was so right when stating that she was letting herself go…

HIM: OK, that’s cool, I’ll meet you at home after work.

HER: Not in town? Somewhere like Waterloo perhaps? She wanted to show him how intuitive she was without spoiling his surprise. But a trip to Paris had been on the agenda.

HIM: Waterloo? Why? No, just come home and we’ll take it from there.

HER: (muttering to herself) Ok, you are making it harder for me. How sweet! Ok, darling, I shall see you later then.

HIM: Bye!

HER ( to anyone at work who agreed to be her audience on a hot Friday afternoon full of the promise of a great weekend): HE has just called to tell me he had a surprise for me.

THEM ( guessing collectively): What could it be? A trip somewhere? Dinner out? You must tell all on Monday!

A few hours later.

HIM: Hello, just give me 5 minutes and we go.

HER: Go where?

HIM: You’ll see.

Oh, how she learnt a lesson that day. To never assume anything at all! And to try and keep such things under wrap. Talking about “the surprise” before it happened can often have one fatal merit: that of highlighting the ridicule of admitting it all later on…

They got into his car, with him looking mildly excited and not secretive enough , she thought; SHE was beginning to realize she was possibly on the wrong path. But nothing could have prepared her for what came next.

HE drove her 5 minutes away into the neighboring area that will always keep the price of her flat down… It sounds like the surname of a very rich footballer married to and ex Spice Girl, but rich it ain’t! He went and knocked on the door of a sad looking council estate. Nothing. And then he knocked again. A few knocks later this kind-looking half-deaf 98 year old (or close) lady comes out followed by an obese stray-looking dog, with obvious rheumatism symptoms.

SHE was in a state of shock and confusion. What on earth? (let’s stick to suggestive euphemisms…) Who is this? What is THAT??

THAT was most likely the ugliest looking dog on earth. With a lovely friendly and obliging personality, to be fair on him. His name was Lucky, which made his reality even more pathetic: heavily overweight, half blind, with heart problems and serious joint aches, that dog was not something SHE’d envisaged at the end of HER leish… Surprising it was, indeed! HE had basically picked up on HER passion for dogs and had contacted their local animal charity. To see how HE could involve HER with looking after a dog, without the dog actually moving in with them. Clever, eh? The charity matched HIM with Lucky and the rest flowed naturally. HIM, HER and Lucky ended up on a couple of visits to the park where Lucky would sit down with a wise look upon his tired face watching THEM run around playing badminton. A bit of a role reversal, don’t you think? Lucky didn’t even bother to fetch the shuttlecock ( now this word DOES exist, so no smirking, please!)

Gosh, and how the blokes at the local pubs laughed when THEY struggled to lift poor Lucky into the car!

Conclusion: No Paris, no middle-class heaven prospects, no 2.5 kids in the pipeline, so to speak. SHE had to move on. HIS was a carefree attitude that would have been carried through many a such confusion so SHE eventually gave up. But SHE does have a giggle every now and then over that story…

Idea de miercoles por la tarde o Discovery no es lo mismo que History Channel

Es un miercoles por la tarde y la ultima hora
del trabajo se esta moviendo con la velocidad de un caracol deprimido. El telefono no dice ni pum y la concentracion se me ha ido desde hace un rato.  Me estan pasando por la mente cosas de todo el tipo:

Habre pagado la electricidad? 

Como lo deje con amore, que nos ibamos a ver hoy o no?

Que pelicula quiero ver primero en cine esta semana, porque la lista que me hice es laaarga. 

OK. De repente me viene un idea entretenido. Dada una experiencia mia
del pasado muy cercano, porque no hacer lo siguiente: contar las cosas mas graciosas que nos pasaron a lo largo de los anyos.  No importa si fue en un encuentro romantico, en el tren, en una entrevista de trabajo, con los vecinos, con tu familia, etc. 

Yo empiezo por deciros que lo mio fue de declarar pasion profunda para el canal de television rival del donde me habia ido yo para una entrevista de trabajo.  La tia me pregunto que sabia sobre los canales de su empresa y yo – mas chula – le conteste que me apasionaba especialmente el canal de historia.  La tia –
agra y fea – me dice: “ Me alegro de que estes tan familiar con la competencia” La conteste que si quieria me podria ir a casa ya..  Me dio 5 minutos mas… Hubo mucho mas momentos “abrete tierra!”, pero os dejo la escena a vosotros.  Espero con mucho interes las historias de vuestros momentos de baja inteligencia y/o mala suerte. PS Os pido perdon por la falta de los accentos.