Much bull
The last two days of our annual fête have been largely rained-out, eliciting awwws from the kids and under-the-breath hurrahs from grumpy grown-ups whose pocketbooks have been plundered to the depths, and not giddy with anticipation over being kept awake by spandex-wrapped Abraxas mutilating the sounds of the 70s (Hi kunt gat no-o zateezfuktio-on) until the wee hours of Monday morning. (The same grown-ups who went apeshit dancing to equally cheesy Krystal Noir Friday night – James Brown their sole excuse. Consistency is apparently not a priority.)
But the running of the bulls was exciting, especially the part where one of them was heading straight at me (as it dawned on my jelly-kneed self that positioning behind a flimsy tin barrier was not one of the smartest things I’d ever done).
And, believe it or not, whispering shoo, little bull, shoo actually worked, after staring him between the eyes as instructed had failed. Although… now that I think of it, I suppose that the eight bull herders on galloping horseback may have helped just a little.
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