Avoiding Mr Right by Anita Heiss

tonight?'
    ♥
    Josie took me to Kanela on Johnston Street in Fitzroy for
lots of sangria, tapas and flamenco dancing.
    'This place is great!' I said as our paella arrived in a large
cast iron pan.
    'Yeah, it's run by two brothers – they're like two of the
country's best flamenco artists.'
    We watched the show and it made me want to dance, or
try to dance or to have a dance lesson at least, and it wasn't
because of the sangria. The rhythm of the music and the
hard soles of the shoes hitting the floor was mesmerising and
everyone in the venue was entranced watching the couple
dance their song of love. The woman was truly beautiful and
the guy was hot.
    'How hot is that!' I said.
    'Yes, she is,' Josie replied, eyes fixed on the flowing black
dress of the flamenco queen.
    ♥
    When I got home Shelley was already asleep, so I tried to
make as little noise as possible but I was really drunk and
had started to feel sick. The fruit in the sangria didn't taste
as good coming up as it did going down. I had a shower and
felt a bit better, but took a bucket with me to bed. I couldn't
remember how long it had been since I'd done that – at least
as long as I'd been going out with James, and maybe even
longer. He would have been appalled. I closed my eyes and
the room started to spin and spin.
    I'm at customs and the guy says I need a thirty-day visa
and I explain that there is no way I will be there thirty days,
maybe eight hours if I am lucky, and then I laugh and he
laughs.
    'What is your occupation?' he asks, because now I have
to fill out entry forms.
    'I'm the Minister for Cultural Affairs, on holidays,' I lie,
because I can, and I know it doesn't really matter and he
doesn't really care because he hasn't taken his eyes off my
cleavage anyway. Then he takes me and my astral passport
to a small room.
    'What are you doing?' I ask, only a little scared, because
I know that nothing bad is going to happen to me. I'm in a
dream and I am, after all, the Minister for Cultural Affairs.
    'I am going to strip-tease you,' he says and I laugh because
I'm not sure if he means he's going to do a strip-tease for
me, or that he's going to strip-search me, and I don't really
mind which it is, because my self-promotion to minister
has been an aphrodisiac, and I'm up for either because he's
hot. And because I know I won't be there for thirty days
and time is running out, we strip each other, starting slowly,
unbuttoning clothing, undoing zips, unbuckling belts, but
then getting faster and faster as stockings and boxer shorts
are aggressively pushed down around ankles and our bodies
are moving in time to the flamenco music and someone's
clapping – not applauding, but clapping a dance – and one
minute I'm on the plain table in the little room and then I'm
walking along La Rambla in Barcelona and there are street
performers doing acrobatics and flamenco dancing and
busking. It's colourful and noisy and I love it. I walk and
smile but soon I am frowning as I enter the Museu Picasso,
which is like five large town houses joined together, all of
them really old, 500 years old or more, and I'm walking
in a bit of a maze and my confusion is exacerbated by the
artwork; there's a portrait of a man in a beret and I get that
painting, obviously, but I am not sure of others, like the
Seated Man, who has a head like a horse but I read it's
meant to be mask-like, it's supposed to be a symbol and
fetish. No-one else seems to be struggling, rather they are
talking about 'broad brush strokes' and 'a basic and brutal
aesthetic'. I don't see it, though, and think Picasso must've
been on some serious acid or something. But as the new
minister I must try to appreciate the work; it is all part of
my professional development. I step out of the Museu onto
the street and I'm in Madrid but also Pamplona and there's
bulls running and people cheering and I get caught up in
the action and the red flags and matadors in