Becoming a Woman of Experience

Occasionally I behave badly and chalk up my misdemeanours to a sense of intangible deprivation. I can now give that sense of deprivation some material dimensions. Up until earlier this week, I had not encountered the following.
a) A living, breathing raccoon.
This chap I’ll call Rocky. What a snout! He is resident at the Country and Western Bar (aka Fort Raccoon) in Pilsen, a superlative theme bar replete with wagon wheels, Uncle Sam, guitar-playing locals and the flag of the Confederacy. The last is a clue to the Military Bar downstairs. Full of guns, military paraphernalia, and Nazi memorabilia the Military Bar may or may not be housed in the former headquarters of the SS in Pilsen. The clientele? Half irony-seeking youngsters, half scary military heads in uniform. I wasn’t game to take a photo. Oh yes, raccoons. Imagine an oversized hedgehog with fur who, like a young rabbit, expresses inquisitiveness through nasal gesticulation, and you are on the road to a portrait of the raccoon, possibly the cutest large rodent I have ever had the privilege to meet.

b) The film-clip for 'Total Eclipse of the Heart.'

It’s the schoolboys at the end who really confuse me.

Experiences like these are like virtual putty for chips in the shoulder area. (Sorry about the lurid simile, I’ve been reading Tom Robbins again.) No longer having missed out on the above, I now have two fewer excuses for ratbaggery.