By the way, I am in a position to report that the "fewmets" (I think that's the correct term, c_b?) in this case were not the usual cola or butterscotch flavored jellybeans, but a kind of hard, unappetizing, potentially jawbreaking, saccharine pellet. As was the case for the penguin dispenser pellets also.
The price to be paid for extra "functionality" (talking, waddling) in the world of bizarre animal confectionery dispensers seems to be a distinctly less appetizing kind of specific excrement.
I know, I know. Very probably TMI. But I have to live with these things. They are scattered around my rented Madrid apartment, eying me balefully, even as I speak. A person could get nightmares.
Which reminds me, it's time to hide them in the closet drawer before the cleaning lady comes tomorrow.
I just hope bilby appreciates the sacrifices I make for art.
Actually I was having the guilts yesterday. Because I've been been a 'study abroad' student, at least initially; it was only after my first bout of Italy that I even contemplated staying longer. And I know how much crap you want to have with you: a few bits from home, enough clothes for weather you can't predict, book supply to keep sanity levels nudging the green zone, probably a pair of shoes too many, just in case, etc. Then there are the textbooks. Dictionaries. Local souvenirs. Maps (which somehow I can never part with ... those ticks and crosses and dotted lines that recreate my New Year's Eve in Salzburg). Delicacies. Posters. Costume items. Irrational things like a chocolate box with weird English translations on it. Russia was even worse, mainly because even my Russian friends had advised me to take anything I really needed as there was no guarantee I would be able to find it over there. Thus for six weeks I became my own mini-wholesaler of VHS-C tapes, you wanna cheapa price-a mister? You start to feel like a new lunar expedition; take one silver box, place into it the very atoms of your existence, lock securely. You start to feel like a small-scale touring exhibition, burdened by its own impossible sense of wanting to be complete: 'On The RoadKill: Existential Marsupialism Today'.
And then some yob eggs on what started as a mild Saturday afternoon speculator, and before you know it your luggage is overflowing with plastic animals and their plop-lollies. Oh dear, oh deer.