It never fails to amuse me that people still use the words 'concubine', and 'paramour' (special mention: 'danseuse'?). This is why a metro news item that would have inspired nothing more than a quick glance and casual solemnity, made me want to slap on some eau de cologne, hop onto a Vespa and ask someone for directions to the Fifties.
Still, I read on. And soon that one word wasn't the problem any more.
After establishing the fact that a lady lawyer had been brutally stabbed and killed by her 'paramour', the reporter went on to add that:
"After committing the crime, the accused had attempted suicide by slitting his throat at the murder scene. However, he ran away from the spot when his colleagues tried to catch him and entered a retroom[sic] in the court where he consumed pesticide."
Now, I just don't get this. How evil and inept can a 'paramour' be?
All through this, I couldn't help but think of the poor woman who was murdered, may her soul rest in peace. But the reporter seemed hell-bent on not allowing the reader enough solemn space to appreciate the gravity of said paramour's crime. Here's the coup de grace:
"Both were wearing black robes when the incident occurred, sources of the High Court police station said."
Huh? The crime was committed on the premises of the state's highest court, no less, and the deceased was a lawyer, for crying out loud. You don't need anonymous 'sources' to provide that crucial piece of crime scene trivia, much less include it in your misspelt report. What did you expect them to be wearing? Soccer jerseys? Black lace and bootstraps?
Ah, the joys of in-depth reporting in this country, what with our diligent note-taking and ear for detail.
Talking of soccer, the great game is at the heart of my top two of the week.
Soccer-crazy husband of a friend to another friend: Hey our TV's not working. Can we drop in at your place to watch the semi-finals at night?
The other friend who just does not get soccer (and most other sports): Well you could, but we usually turn in really early, so you'll be on your own. Anyway, relax. I'm sure you can catch a repeat show or something in the morning.
[Repeat show of the once-in-four-years FIFA World Cup semi final between Germany and Spain? Images of Marie Antoinette flash before my eyes, documentary-style...let them eat cake...]
Anyway, soon the scene shifts to my place, where we're watching the semis, desperately praying for a breakthrough so that we may use our fists and mouth to ceremoniously punch the air and shout happy obscenities, respectively, instead of using them to stuff empty calories into our faces... About ten bowlfuls of chips and fifteen Diet Cokes later, Puyol nets a neat header and there's a right ruckus in my bedroom, while I shoot dirty glares in the direction of the red-shirt sporting secret Spanish fan to my right.
Friend who has been asleep for the last 73 minutes of the game: What? Chunky Pandey scored?!!
Well, let us all have bloody cakes.