It's cold. No wait, it's hot. Madrid's situation on a plateau makes its weather go haywire, like it's being simultaneously controlled by two evil scientists who are definitely not happy with each other. As the temperature slowly drops, though, the lovely geriatric ladies of Spain have been rifling through their closets and busting out their nice, expensive, very real fur coats. Have you ever seen a dead fox hanging from Granny's neck? Even better: a fur scarf, mercilessly headless but with little paws still attached? Yikes. Now, I am by no means a card-carrying PETA member, but I find all this fur a trifle outrageous. Or very outrageous. Can I justify me eating meat or wearing my leather shoes? Um, no. But I still find myself reaching for a can of paint that isn't there whenever someone, cloaked in the skin of dead Yeti, passes on the road. Insert contemptuous sneer here.
ain't she glam?
