I am reluctant to say that it was a case of the ridiculous to the sublime, but it was a case of what I have a habit of packing into not just an afternoon but an hour of one afternoon. The last day of the Premier League season, and I stop off at Foxes for a coffee. I am en route elsewhere. The bar is - to use the vernacular that it appears we must now do - rammed. The boozerists of Manchester United, Chelsea, Stoke, Wigan or no team in particular. "Jamie's throwing knives," says Lee. Leicester have lost.
This is the English at play. Pints, boisterous, laughter, tattoos, lots of white skin having gone red, "come on, you's". You couldn't, in all honesty, ever describe it as refined. A substantial frame heaves into view. "Oi," I shout, with my best lack of refinement. I need a word. Grizz, aka Minty, is on foot patrol back to the hotel. Along with Pater Minty. I think to suggest that pater looks younger than offspring, but he can read about here instead. A somewhat, how can I put it, bulky child with a pink face asks Minty about later entertainment. "Statues." It seems to do the trick. Child's play and the English at play. Refinement is the word that has lodged into my mind as I depart the lager laager. It may be elsewhere.
I have an appointment. Have camera, will spend some time on a Sunday afternoon pointing it at a bouncy castle and a small child on a space hopper. This is the Mallorcans at play. Child's play and older. There is beer, but it is being served in more dainty receptacles. There is boisterousness, but it is that of children hurling themselves on the bouncy. The tattoo-ing is hidden. The only obvious body adornment is the white clown's face paint of three "chicas" whom I take to be play leaders.
This is Sa Romana, the impressive Romanesque pile on the road from Puerto Alcúdia into the old town. They have opened a children's play garden. It seems like a good idea. There is a deficiency of such places. The beer, and the Coke and the juices, come from the "chiringuito", also a new development. In the evenings it becomes a sort-of chill place. It is the domain of Luis, formerly of the now-defunct Mestizo. The play garden is large, large enough to accommodate a small football pitch as well as all the brightly-coloured paraphernalia and plastic of a Toys 'R' Us display area. And as it is all grass, it has a natural safety factor.
The Romana clan is there in force - from Mosquito and Cas Capella as well. The tourist office is represented, though not necessarily in an official capacity. Other restaurateurs are, too. Juan from Varadero, for example. I wander about the garden, photo here, photo there. A large and multi-coloured Swiss ball affair, minus the Swiss as it appears insubstantial, rolls up against me. I'm sure I can hear air escaping, so I ignore it. Slowly deflating oversized beach balls are not my job. Mine is ... . Well, what is it? I do at times wonder. The English at play, the Mallorcans at play and earlier I had written the longer story of the Jolly Roger and the piece about tribute acts. Easy. A Sunday afternoon. Child's play.
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