For breakfast that morning we sat and took in the delicious aroma of freshly fallen rain drying on sun warmed pebbles in a magnificently cobbled presidio square. With no time constraints, we languidly enjoyed the morning sunshine, a seemingly endless stream of delicious espresso's and perfectly poached eggs in a pleasantly quaint stramash of interestingly ordinary people. I would casually avert my gaze from my now compulsory habit of people watching just long enough to spread rich sunflower butter on to Siobhan's wheat toast. Apart fae the charmingly tall Italian lady with the somewhat alarming Adams apple and the rather manly hands, I could not detect even the slightest soupçon of an anomaly oozing discreetly from the other early morning diners sitting at the tables around us. The fast flowing Spanish accent is on occasion smoother than an exquisite brandy, at times drawing a man in like the all powerful delectable female flower, before erupting vociferously into a bubbling sequence of small volcanic shudders of delightful Mediterranean melee. The female Balearic vowel trickles warmly down a mans back, it leaves his nape damp with lust and an excitable muskiness that protrudes his guilt and forms a veritable ruddiness upon his cheeks.
I chuckled aloud as we took in the somewhat risqué real life metatheatre melodrama between two nearby octogenarians as they sparred playfully with their colourful linguistic tryst. It would seem that the romance begins beneath the morning sun, with the gift of laughter, intelligent conversation and a spot of playful patter over a sumptuous breakfast and then rapidly gathers speed towards a late candlelight supper. My own culture's special skill is sadly subliminal, conquering the smoking ban in public houses with little thought to smudged lipstick and in many cases embracing the coquette's scorn. Encouraging the purchase of wee black cocktail dresses from late night supermarkets and shamelessly embracing the glossy princesses in the TV guide. As a result, Glasgow now has more unromantic men per square mile than your average licensed bookie has leg men. Romance does exist it would seem, but only between the working man and his beloved Friday night pints. It is a romance that will never end in divorce, an intrepid voyage of burnt hops and Dublin's finest water as it cascades down many a torn-faced Glaswegian gullet. A true love lasts, while lust merely exists as long as the beery froth on the inside of a warm glass.
Don't get me wrong here, It's not that I am bitter about the fact that my own loveless culture is pure shite. No, merely a small glimmer of cultural cringe seeping through my brandy-addled pores as I perspire pure alcohol and attempt to practise my woo face before Siobhan glides ever gracefully towards our marital bed. Glasgow people don't as a rule need to advertise our heritage for the same reason Pavarotti didn't need to wear a name tag. We look exactly what we are... Heavies! Unscrupled villains, cattle meat literally hot on the hoof, with the knotty limb of an enormous oak announcing our arrival. Somewhat pale, prone to looking forever fervent, there is something distinctly suspect about the way in which Mother Nature gifted her Celtic men with Rottweiler good looks and physiques large enough to draw green-eyed pangs from a gaggle of Californian youths. How could she omit the one gene that offers up red and white roses, opens doors and allows us to cuddle up with the desirable women folk in our hearts? The tango is a sensual ballroom gallopade, rhythmically significant, that sadly is far too intricate for my large scaffolders feet to indulge, but at the very core of my rhinoceros reel beats the heart of a simple romantic Glaswegian fool.
If only everything in life was as easy as an 8am poached egg, eh?