I was invited to dinner last Friday night by some colleagues from the day job, all of whom were women. This does not guarantee, in any shape or form in the Iberian Peninsula, that the evening's conversation would not revolve around football, but the way that the long table was arranged, with myself at one end and the only other bloke at the other, led me to believe that some sort of conspiracy had been arranged beforehand to keep us apart. Then again, the chap at the other end was a Catalan, and a famous one at that, at least in the world of education. Conditioned by an unspoken law in these northern parts that on a Friday cena (supper) you cannot talk shop, the evening's conversation revolved pleasantly enough around a variety of stuff, until, that is, the Catalan gent mentioned Joan Laporta.
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Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Phil Ball in Spain
I was invited to dinner last Friday night by some colleagues from the day job, all of whom were women. This does not guarantee, in any shape or form in the Iberian Peninsula, that the evening's conversation would not revolve around football, but the way that the long table was arranged, with myself at one end and the only other bloke at the other, led me to believe that some sort of conspiracy had been arranged beforehand to keep us apart. Then again, the chap at the other end was a Catalan, and a famous one at that, at least in the world of education. Conditioned by an unspoken law in these northern parts that on a Friday cena (supper) you cannot talk shop, the evening's conversation revolved pleasantly enough around a variety of stuff, until, that is, the Catalan gent mentioned Joan Laporta.
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