IN which Giles and the ‘Ziglet’ confirm their status as the most unconventional Padrino and goddaughter on the planet…
The eldest goddaughter was back in town earlier this month.
Yes, that’s right, I am the moral and spiritual guardian of three young ladies.
You can stop laughing now … and I include the charming online troll who accused me of being ‘high and drunk’ when I write my articles.
Considering I have spent the best part of the past two decades wrestling with those particular demons, that sort of comment could send a recovering alcoholic into a downward spiral and cut to the very depths of his soul.
Luckily for the aforementioned keyboard warrior (and the delicious irony of the fact that I wrote about that very subject in my previous article), and the fact that I did a deal on the crossroads a la Robert Johnson several years ago, I am splendidly lacking in the soul department.
So, little Facebook irritant, go f**k yourself (Note to future trolls, don’t pick on columnists, we’ll write about you).
Anyway, back to the eldest godchild.
Ziggy – fabulous name, fabulous kid – is a brilliant modern circus and burlesque performer, with hoops, flames and a variety of tassels and outfits that would make a parson blush.
I, having no soul, (see troll rant above) think that she’s absolutely fabulous and was thrilled when she landed a gig at the Frol!k Burlesque party at Cat’s Kitchen in Estepona.
The ‘Ziglet’ flew in late on Friday evening and with the show the following night, Saturday was spent setting up for the gig, getting costumes ready, applying glitter and putting on nipple tassels (The latter two just for me, obviously).
And then we had a problem with the props.
As part of her Burlesque act, Ziggy uses a chair, but we discovered to our horror that none of the chairs at the venue would suffice.
Cue a mad dash to the nearest hardware superstore.
At this point I should point out that Ziggy has a fair few number of tattoos, various piercings and was also sporting glitter, while I was wearing my Berber dessert sandals.
We didn’t look like your average expat couple on a mission to purchase pot plants.
A fact that was underlined by the expressions of the staff when we came running in asking where the garden furniture was.
“We need a chair for my goddaughter’s show,” I explained to the bemused assistants.
Glancing at her tattoos, they led us to the relevant section, where Ziggy shook her head.
“No, they aren’t high enough. I’ll have to test one out.”
Without further ado, my goddaughter grabbed the nearest chair, planted it firmly on the ground, and proceeded to haul herself into a handstand splits on the chair, legs out, derriere pointing proudly down aisle 7 of the aforementioned garden centre.
I turned around to see the male assistants’ eyes bulging out of their heads.
I swear one was panting…
As the Ziglet’s moral and spiritual guardian, I have never felt more proud!
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