We arrive in Madrid

Okay so I fractured my foot on the stairs and have it
wrapped in a tensor bandage. I am not telling anyone
about this, and still running with the bulls this
weekend. We´ve spent a week of cold weather in London,
I walked to the new Swiss Re-insurance tower (the Gherkin)
and touched it. I brushed my hair in the Cloakroom
of the Savoy and left a pound for the attendant. In the
National Portrait Gallery there´s a fabulous photo
of Lucien Freud entering his banged-up studio, where
David Hockney awaits, his finished portrait on an easel.
And now we´re eating the little fried fish and drinking
small three-ounce glasses of beer in Plaza del Sol and I´m not telling anyone about the
condition of my foot, so that my girlfriend won´t
banish me from the route to Pamplona. More later.