Frigging pests. Flying rats.

Added a snap of the below mentioned Dorado, well half of it.

Resting before next attack at those humans on the beach who had the afrontery to bring food to the playa.
Wee buggers were diving on folk, and more worryingly, on ninos.
One guy got a nasty wound on the back of his arm.  To be fair, one human cretin was chucking scraps of bread into the air, thus encouraging the vermin- on - wings, so not all the birds fault.
So, after a pleasant but fruitless wander this morning, trying on lots of dresses ( don't even think it) we repaired to the playa this afternoon, tarde a las cinquo, after which we purchased a large Dorado from one of the fishmonger's stalls at the port.
En-route a casa, we fell by the wayside, comitting a cardinal sin by entering an Irish bar, only to find that they stocked Estrella Galicia, not Damm, a completely different animal, and only tins of Guinness.
Whilst there, we received a call from home conveying the news that our recently unemployed offspring (45yo, m) has been offered two new jobs.  Ah, decisions, decisions.  Just glad there not mine.
To finish today's tale, the Dorado, filleted and fried with Tomatoes Rosas, accompanied by crisps, not chips, were bloody magic.  Viva los pescadores.
Extras:  not necessarily in this order.  A barely are decco cinema, now defunct.  The aforementioned Dorado, and a rat that flew away.