The main plaça, bangers going off left, right and centre. Small ones, big ones, huge ones, nerves fraying, children crying. Into the ice cream shop, they sell local craft beer.
Two bottles of the blue one with the donkey, London murky in Mallorca. One doesn’t taste right, grainy. The other is soft, beguiling, gone almost before realising it. Gin i tonica to replace the duff bottle, don’t buy me anymore craft beer.
Why is there such a variation between bottles? Bad production standards? Shoddy storage? The stifling heat, even at 23:45?
No time to ponder cerveza artesanal Mallorquí production standards. Beer gone. People everywhere, tension, expectation. Still the bangers bang. Demonis congregating, time for another.