I was given to take on trust that maudlin telenovelas were a fantasy flight for weak-willed women played false by their possum-playing men; flapping wings to a magical land tingling with romantic possibility, fervid formication, all the lovely things their men would never be. I was made to empathise that, being un-soft and semi-pure to the more refined rarities of life, men esteemed these dainty distractions as weak wasteful nothings.
Gladly gaining home on cruise control from hell-frazzling work this evening, I acquired a thick throng pupating around a tiny TV set somewhere open air in the 37 zone. The light, fluid traffic allowed me to glide to a trickling pace to range the secret spectacle. The men outstripped the women, and they were narcosynthesising on “Second Chance”, a teledrama about love, betrayal and souls playing hopscotch from body to handsome body.