Someone in Barcelona...

I like my current smartphonelessness (patent pending on that word).
Someone in Barcelona did me a favour.

Some might say he half-molested me in order to take a piece of what was once my property and make it his own (I'm fairly sure it was a boy, not being sexist, just realistic).

Half-molested?

Well... I guess it depends on how you look at it. To take something from one's back pocket down a pair of extremely tight-fitting trousers, you can't really call it molestation, maybe not even half-molestation, because you know, then they would have at least done something.
In my mind, at the time, I was just considering an all-too-eager admirer with too much confidence. I remember a brief sensation, or maybe I imagine remembering it to make me feel better, but anyhow, split seconds where I thought my bottom was fondled, which had me arrogantly looking at someone without a face, who was probably already running away.

I could have gotten the phone blocked. But why bother? A thief needs to survive. We let our bankers steal our money and we'll happily pay for their mistakes. I guess it's only fair I support the thieves that actually take personal risks. Maybe I won't shout this last sentence out loud; won't want to seem like too easy a target.

I knew and know from experience that thievery is omnipresent among the Spanish; some people brush their teeth, others steal, that's how the world works. But since I know, I will admit that these are transactions that take place with mutual consent so I can happily give them forgiveness. Spanishness is a birth defect, nothing less (to my Spanish friends reading this; know that I am just an outside observer and that you are an exception to any rule mentioned here).

The day after, we thought we had found the culprit. A midget, a gay one, wanted to seduce me. I was struck by his candour, his spirit, to go for the Tallest guy in the whole of Barcelona. 

DRAMATISATION:


I wanted to explain to him that that's not the way you balance the universe. If that were the case, giraffes would be wooing ants and short stories would marry the Bible. 
Of course I did not have the Spanish vocab for all of this. Sure, I can talk sexy-talk in Spanish, but I can do that in any language known to mankind, as long as words aren't a necessity. Everyone is blessed with a number of talents, I guess. *Coughs*. 
I remembered the couple of pimps and fat prostitutes that tried to "tempt" me into patronage the night before. With the incredibly seductive "OYE!" (pronounced "OY!AY!") a number of fat prostitutes tried to get my attention. I tried to play deaf, but that was a risky strategy, because for all I knew were Barcelona whores sign language teachers in their spare time. And in a fight with them, they'd have won, I have no shame to admit that. 
But no, I had survived the fat prostitutes and their pimps following me for ten minutes. The midget wanted my attention. 
Being small of stature, the boy (I want to say "man", really, but can't) probably thought that my first minutes of ignoring his gazes and winks were due to his invisibility. So he upped the ante and took out his best material. 

What followed was a a visual display of obscenities and vulgarisms that I will not burden my innocent readers with. He turned bitter because there was no reciprocity. In his view, I guess both of us were freaks in this country of In-Betweeners.
It may be the last time that a midget goes after my affections, but I guess we all must make choices in life...
Mine was to not get raped by a midget, plain and simple. 

But was he my thief? He could have easily used his voluminous teeth to grab hold of my mobile in my back pocket, but using trusty old Pythagoras, I calculated that even on high heels, he would not have been tall enough to reach my back pocket. 
And no, my bottom isn't that high, the midget was just that small...