FLANDERS. I got there last December. Brussels, Bruges, Ghent —very fine. They’re too loud, though. Quite a thing, the Atomium, by the way. Cold, but that’s OK. What it isn’t is the sun —boy, it seems incapable of rising more than thirty or thirty-five degrees each day; rather a self-conscious sun, you would say. Beautiful bleak landscapes. I found Brussels about ten or fifteen years behind cities in Spain —that’s a lot of room for it to become further spoiled at the hands of dutiful city-planner officers and political modelers. Got a little surprised at myself with an unexpected, and not necessarily welcome interest in paintings, statues, buildings and that etcetera I never had found myself genuinely interested in. As a matter of fact, afterwards and from the comfort of my desktop I spent several afternoons virtually visiting the museums I didn’t have the time, the money or the will to visit in situ.
MY PEN. I bought a fountain pen and started writing with it. When I saw that was the thing to write with, I got myself another one for work. Cheap ones, I mean —priced between twenty and thirty euros; I wonder what a 1 500 euros’s one could do for me that these ones don’t. If someone knows please tell me in the comments.
A month ago I found my pen at work missing. Someone had obviously taken it. I’m happy with myself about how I handled the matter. Experience has taught me 1) There’s always a kleptomaniac at every workplace; 2) The typical reaction is to highly voice the subtraction in an indignant way 3) Which only makes the innocent (all of your workmates but one) feel offended while leaving the culprit frolicking now that everyone else’s a suspect.
So instead I said nothing. No fuss. It was part strategy and part, knowing 1), penitence —I should’ve known better. I started collecting my things at the end of my workday and locking them inside my table drawer —I knew only one person would notice.
Last day when I sat on my table I saw my fountain pen waiting for me there.