Another day, another cathedral. In that baroque cavern of worship we both sat, I in my pew and Santiago (Spain’s patron St James) on his horse, a Muslim dying beneath its hooves.
Implacable; I looked away. Among the herd of tourists, two cleaners caught my eye. Working between marble floors and gold balconies, their feather-dusters flicking but, unlike Lady Macbeth, they didn’t seem to realise a world of scrubbing can’t remove some stains....
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