Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Sacking and ostrich feathers.

Mmm, good title for a book . . .
Look at this lot.
I mean, really - HOW did anyone think this up. Can only think it was the product of a heavy evening on some hideously strong liqueur made from old cheese.
Limoux Carnaval du Monde on Saturday featured this group. They were hotly followed by girating samba dancers: the contrast being, well, a good example of how very different us humans are.
The sambistas, despite it being about 12 degrees, and not 35 as one might find in Rio, smiled, and wiggled their bits about seemingly with great joy and verve. Or it could have been gritted teeth, either way—a general fun ambience.
It was amazing to see old men, sunk deep into their anoracks suddenly acknowledging that something was DIFFERENT in Limoux square on this particular Saturday morning—their heads emerging from scarves and collars like old tortoises.
The sacking and feathers brigade walked achingly slowly with expressions of varying sterness, and misery. Perhaps all their tax returns had arrived that morning, or their hotel had a cockroach infestation, or maybe it was all very noble . . . and I just missed the point. But I couldn't walk along in an inflated sack with a meter high white feather hat and a small basket of oranges without at least a small smirk on my face.

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