20th August 2010. At the moment Primrose doesn’t feel like playing live, it apparently makes her feel old. Is it that going one more time through the pop moves makes one feel ancient, a brittle-boned sentinel of last century cool? Or that pop is roamed by herds of Velociraptor-like stars, not yet graced by pubic hair but crooning about danger, existential angst, lust and love? Plus, the two are connected: the lullaby of wash-and-go identities and repetition is comforting for the young bourgeois.
Anyway, this leaves us in Bucharest with specifically nothing to do which is not bad, the place exhales magical realism.
My dearest dream now is getting my hands on some home-made (or at least artisanal...) plum brandy, a semi-mythical potion in a place where corner shops prefer to stock refined seepages like Cointreau and Baileys.
Well, they stock more than that but you get the picture; the death of this wonderful artifact came at the hand of the capitalist Reconquista known as “EU enlargement”.
The only things enlarging around here are the reptilian phalluses of the Western victors and the self-satisfied bellies of the local sycophants. Yes, I do take my drinks quite seriously indeed.
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