Moroccan Nikita's

We had to paint the bird cage for the white room, and this is how we discovered that the purple horse had disappeared. The horse had escaped and was hiding somewhere among the stuff waiting to be ordered. Only the turquoise ribbons had stayed on top of the cage, they obviously couldn't run away (they could fly , though, stupid..).  Renewing the cage with white spray paint on the terrace was fun (I felt a bit like a street artist every time I heard the pea while shaking the can) except I underestimated the wind, and found out suddenly my hand was all white. I didn't care much though, since daydreaming  under the spring sun was a much better thing to focus on.  When the paint was dry, we looked for the horse, but that was after she came home and asked me if I had changed the tire of my bike- which I hadn't done yet - since it was not flat anymore (If I didn't, who the hell did? Devil knows..).  We found the horse eventually on the sofa mingling with little el...

I jumped off my bike in the street right by the cathedral for a more than necessary coffee and waved back at the one who had once decided his professional career would be "blowing down this tube and making noises", which made him...a musician. The coffee was good, the cigarette too, but the wedding party going on inside, together with the cold that was hitting us outside made us quickly move to another place to have another coffee and lazy Saturday morning chat. We somehow ended up talking about our fathers who seemed to have some sort of similar mania: fixing it all themselves, leaving dismembered machines and devices of all kind in the sacred place of the house called "woman-don't-dare-to-touch,-order-and-don't even-think-of-throwing-away-anything-you-find-here". Rings a bell?  My dad loved to go to flea markets on Sunday afternoon, we would call it the "bric-a-brac" and me and my sister equally hated going there. Old stuff, from electric wire...