One of my favourite books as a kid was Ferdinand The Bull. Written by a Spanish author who gifted it to my Grandma, the faded red cover with Ferdinand The Bull drawn on it, now lies on a bookshelf in my parents home.

Ferdinand The Bull was a young but beefy bull. When all the other young bulls were charging around grunting and hoping to be choosen for bullfights, Ferdinand liked to sit under the trees and smell the flowers. He liked to chase the butterflies as they danced among the petals. He was like a 60's flower-child bull. Like the Mahatma Gandhi of bulls. The other bulls used to laugh at him. Gentle, sissy Ferdinand.

I loved to see the drawings of the show-off bulls. Kicking up dust with puffs of smoke emitting from their angry nostrils. In the background, on the hill, Ferdiand my friend was sitting under the trees, sniffing a rose.

When the men came, they weren't impressed with the bravado of the other bulls. They were impressed with Ferdinand. Shit, this bull was big. He was intense and composed. He wasn't running around like the other foolish bulls. So they took him to the arena.

When he entered, people ooooed. The matador trembled. And then as Ferdiand moved, a hush fell over the crowd.

Ferdinand lumbered slowly and menacingly to the far side of the arena, where he found a lady with a hat full of flowers.


This October i'm going to Spain.

I shall look for Ferdinand my childhood friend.
Hopefully, i won't have to look in the arena.