|
COPYRIGHT 2005 The Spectator Ltd. (UK)
At Pamplona for the running of the bulls, my usual spiritual, mental and physical meltdown occurred, as usual, about the fourth day. As usual I visited that awful place lit by the shocking white light of alcoholic truth and as usual I'd been frightened. And as usual I'd come home feeling a little shriven, while yet marvelling at the new depths of despair and degradation that I'd plumbed during the week-long religious knees-up.
Back in England, no sooner had I slung my foetid bag down in the hallway than I was due to leave the house again. My boy's half-brother was 14, and to celebrate it there was the usual birthday tea at my boy's mother's house. Sitting shoulder to shoulder around the...
Read the full article for free courtesy of your local library.
|