Andy's Glasses

Oh no! In light of the decision by the Phoenix Cinema in East Finchley to willingly and knowingly show… a film!!!, two members of the Phoenix Trust have resigned. In anger!! Yes, flagrant and life-long anti-semites, Ken Loach and Mike Leigh have resigned because of the showing of an Israeli film. Never mind artistic freedom, the right of cinema goers to see films of their choosing, the 2 Tossers want the power of veto, demand that freedoms of anything must be judged according to their own warped and Nazified set of prejudices. No-one minds when the Phoenix shows their awful films and no-one goes to see them. But a film made by an Israeli, any Israeli, even a film that depicts a single Jaffa orange, and out come the jackboots and swastikas once more.

Well fuck Mike Leigh and fuck Ken fucking Loach (‘nuf fucks). And all credit to the Phoenix management for being brave enough to show the film which was always going to be politically sensitive. And getting graffitied by some morons for their trouble.

And what’s the opposite of a ‘hate march’? The ones which occur every Saturday. Demanding annihilation of Israel, death to Jews, Rivers and Seas, support for murderous death cults. What’s the opposite? Because that’s what happened last night. A ‘love march’, which didn’t actually march anywhere. Because we were all to busy loving each other and enjoying the gorgeous summer evening, wrapped in our star-of-David flags, to actually move anywhere.

On the other side of the road were a few people who’d come ‘in their droves’ (37 of them) to protest along Loachian, Leigh-ian lines. Anything Israeli, or even Jewish, must be bad, so get your keffiyahs out, grab a Palestinian flag and PROTEST. But on our side, defending the cinema, mainly by kibbitzing and schmoozing (just ‘talking’ really), there were hundreds. Happy, cheery, chatting, mooching round, bumping into friends and acquaintances. If only someone had thought to cater it. It felt like a street party and the atmosphere was one of love and niceness.

One report spoke of ‘protesters clashing’. Didn’t happen. Lots of people crossed the road to bang their heads against the brick wall of stupidity and the misinformed narrative of Gary Linneker, George Galloway and the BBC, but mostly we just enjoyed the moment and, most importantly, showed that you can protest in a really lovely way. Mel wouldn’t let me hit anybody.

And you can’t have that crap right where you live.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Like Luke Skywalker, (another small person), Rishi Sunak listened to his advisers, his consultants, his electioneering specialists and then a voice in his head said: “FEEL THE FORCE, RISHI”, so he threw the whole motley crew out of his office, strode out into the pouring rain outside number 10 and told the world (57 drenched reporters and tv news crews) that HE, Rishi Sunak will prostrate himself before the electorate of our nation on July 7th. 6 weeks away. Plenty of time to overturn a 25 point deficit in the ratings. And why not? If he does brilliantly until then, he’ll still lose by 15 points, and if he’s made the mutha of all misjudgments, he’ll lose by 35. Does it matter?

Starmer greeted this with a typical smug but quite meaningless reply, as befits ‘the king in waiting’. Say nothing that may harm you and hope the people haven’t noticed that there’s no plan.

“FOURTEEN YEARS OF TORY RULE, RUINING THE NATION. THE NHS HAS PEOPLE WAITING SIX MONTHS FOR SURGERY!! THE RIVERS ARE FULL OF SHIT!!! AND ITS TIME FOR CHAAAAANGE!!! WE NEED TO SHOW THAT THE ECONOMY DOESN’T DEPEND ON THE WEALTHIEST FEW PEOPLE!!!!

Well, that’s interesting. Do we imagine that the day after the election NHS waiting lists will just disappear? Wow! Starmer’s brilliant!!

Allowing the water companies to pollute the rivers and waterways is awful, but nothing really to do with the government. And I’m not sure we can hold the last 14 years totally responsible. Ever since ‘man’ evolved the ability to take a shit, he’s been doing it near rivers, to avoid doing it on his own doorstep.

But announcing that you don’t need the business creators to create wealth? Ok, the ‘workers’ do the work, no question. But they need to be told what to do so that the enterprise can succeed in whatever it’s doing. And in the post-tech world, we need entrepreneurs who have the vision and can raise the money to start employing the workers.

Workers are essential. But without the ideas, and the money, they’d be out of work.

Tonight I’m going on a counter-protest. I’ve normally been a ‘protester’ so this will be really different. In, errrrr, so many ways.

The Phoenix Cinema, our local and the country’s oldest cinema, is showing the film ‘Supernova’ tonight. It’s a documentary about the Nova music festival which was attacked on October 7th. And apparently is a ‘hard watch’.

Protesters announced that they would be protesting (it’s what they do) because of this ‘Israeli government propaganda’. Which is particularly odd as most of the footage was taken by Hamas terrorists on the day and then posted, proudly, online. So how that constitutes ‘propaganda’ is beyond me, but heh, what do I know? And as with Lineker reducing the most horrendous massacre of modern times to a mere ‘thing’, people are already trying to downplay it. Make it an irrelevance.

Then they’ll try and write it out of history altogether because it doesn’t fit with their narrative. Another irony, if any of them knew what ‘genocide’ actually means.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

President Raisi tragically died in a helicopter crash on Sunday night. The president of all of Iran, famous for being an amazing Ayatollah-impressionist, met his doom when the aircraft was traveling across a mountain range in dense fog. So good work there from Iranian Air Traffic Control. The vehicle suffered what they are calling ‘a hard landing’. And I always approve of a wonderful euphemism. Hard landing. It hit the side of a fucking mountain; how is that a ‘landing’ in any sense.

But heh, I’m not here to criticise anything Iranian, just to bury a few.

Because President Raisi was… errrr… he did… errrr… wonderful… was a fabulous man? Yeah, whatever.

I have no idea what the President of Iran does. I’m guessing that his duties include wearing a black hat and long beard at all times and spouting Islam at every opportunity. Unlike the Ayatollah, who is the nation’s ’supreme leader’, because he’s more responsible for spouting Islam and wearing a black hat. More like the King. But with a hat. Beard. Yeah.

And the President is democratically elected. Everyone in the country gets to vote, even women!!! And as long as you vote for the ‘right guy’, that’s fine. If you vote for anyone else, you’ll probably be killed. Women have had the right to vote there since 1963, and even to stand for parliament. Yet there are no rights of protection for women from domestic violence or sexual assault. But countless laws about headscarves, enforceable, as are all laws in Iran, by the ‘Morality Police’ who will beat you to death for the most minor of infringement. But that’s fair. So they elected Raisi, who was known as ‘the Butcher of Tehran’ because he organised the mass murder of thousands of political prisoners, way back in 1988. Heh, we’ve all made mistakes, right?

Meanwhile, in Hampstead, my brother is doing much better. Than President Raisi. And much better than previously. He’s about to ‘move’, out of the ICU after 4 months, and into a general ward. That is big. He’s off life support. Other than nutrition, cos he still can’t eat. And dialysis. Few other bits and pieces of no real consequence, other than keeping him alive. The main monitor behind his bed showing his ‘vitals’ is not just a big clock. He’s been ‘turned off’!!! Which is great. And moving with great difficulty but its happening. And moaning. Almost back to ‘pre-illness’ levels. Yet he’s allowed to moan. Its a million miles from what anyone would ever choose. But onwards.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Silence may be golden but I know you worry when you don’t hear from me. Ok, you should worry when you don’t hear from me. But I’ve just been soooooo busy. As life sometimes gets.

Friday was an early start. We needed to be in Elstree for 8am to see a penis. Ok, for a circumcision. That delightfully brutal ceremony in which you ignore 5,000 years of medical capability and chop the foreskin off a newborn’s nob. In the precise instruction of Abraham. Who, if legend is to be believed, performed his own circumcision, at age of 80. God knows why. No. Literally, it was between God and Abraham’s foreskin and God won. So now we all have to do it, though at 8 days old. I’ve never seen a circumcision. I’ve been to dozens. But hide at the back of the room. Unless the bagels are near the front, then I get serious conflict.

So after the working day, which followed the eating of circumcised food, we had team Lila over for dinner, and that’s always exhausting.

Saturday, the sabbath day, started as all do. 8.15 tai chi class, punching my mates in the face. As you do. But then, no hanging round chatting, rushed off to play tennis, earlier than usual, because of an engagement later on. So rush to tennis, rush home, in the shower, dress, and off to see Lila in her first stage… thing. Ever. It was a ‘show’ by her club; ‘Razzamataz’, which says it all. Song, dance, and in a totally wonderful team display, Lila shone. Stood out. Not only because she was the littlest one there, but because of her natural talents. Mainly, being my granddaughter.

Sorting out the garden took the rest of the day. I do ‘destruction’, Mel does ‘pretty’. I mow the lawn. A job with a skill: moron ratio of 1:100. Then hacked some things down wot needed hacking, whilst Mel performed a ‘miracle with the beds’. Which she has to as she’s fallen out with every single (and company) gardener in the entire borough of Barnet.

Sunday was also an early start on the tennis court as I had to work for a few hours after. Then whizz down to the ICU (no weekend is complete without) and back in time to clean the car. Which wasn’t dirty, in any real ‘dirty’ sense of the word, but… its an excuse to spend quality time with it.

I also ‘had’ to watch the final day of the Premier League season!!! Its compulsory. There was just so much at stake!!! Would Arsenal beat Everton? Well, they almost didn’t but in that ‘Arsenal way’ managed to grab 3 points by the end. And so it was all down to Manchester City. Would they be able to beat consistently inconsistent but verging on shitty West Ham? A big ask. At home, when you haven’t not-won a match since about September. Nails were bitten. For 2 minutes til the quite unbelievably brilliant but slightly dim Phil Foden scored his and their first. Then we all celebrated the genius of Pep, the amazing and unprecedented 4th consecutive title and the hard-working lawyers, fraudsters, financiers, accountants and creatives who’ve kept that team at the top.

Tottenham Hotspurs finished fifth. Great…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

What’s a ‘foodie’? Someone who loves ‘fine dining’. As opposed to someone who likes all dining. Preferably with a trough of some kind, filled with wonderful things. Breakfast buffets do it for me, as long as they’re good. And am I a ‘foodie’? Or a ‘pig’?? Because I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Don’t want to. Wish it would stay open til 12 then I could carry on and just call it ‘lunch’ from then on. Or, if you eat enough, you don’t actually need lunch. Of course, you can have it anyway, but you fill up on breakfast, which we did in Lisbon, we skipped lunch. Other than a custard tart. Or two.

So a ‘foodie’ is just a pretentious pig. The foodie likes his/her trough to arrive in tiny little, works-of-artish, beautifully arranged, drizzled with a jus, for all 26 courses of the ‘tasting menu’. I do the same, but with bigger portions. I do try to be ‘artistic’ with the food arrangement on my plate, but it’s hard with a shovel.

Anyway, I’m back home now, so it’s just a banana for breakfast once more. Another 3 days in that breakfast buffet and I’d be in hospital.

Whereas my poor bruvva hasn’t had breakfast for over 4 months. Nor lunch, nor dinner. And now they want to start him on… well, water’s a start, but he can’t swallow. It’s a reflex and it goes away with lack of use. Needs to be retrained. Weird, or what? Because if he can’t swallow it, it goes down the ‘wrong pipe’ and will give him all sorts of problems. Like he needs more problems. If I was in charge (God help them all!!!), I’d give him a curry. He’d be swallowing with the first bite. But apparently this a common issue with long-term ICU… ‘abuse!’ It stops you working, completely. Even though he is now, officially ‘trach free’!!! Which is brilliant. No more little pipe sticking out of his throat. Don’t need it no more. (Count blessings). But don’t worry; he still has umpteen other tubes, lines, pipes in countless other places.

So yesterday he took his first two steps. Literally, in four months. I do 26,000 steps in one day in Belem, and he takes fucking TWO!! Slacker. But after those two his blood pressure plummeted and he had to be medically ‘improved’.

I’m going to see him this morning so called in first to check he’d ’be there’ (he actually doesn’t go out very much but does have various ‘procedures’ and scans and stuff) because I really don’t want to visit an empty bed. Or really, a space where his bed would be because generally, where he goes, his bed (and all his hi-tech gear and monitors, go with him). And he might be in the dialysis unit. With his bed. As his kidneys haven’t recovered from their original shut-down. But I can see him there whilst he’s ‘busy’ being dialysed. More pipes.

And that’s how it goes. 2 steps forward, but literally, and one-and-a-half back. But we’ll take that half step, put it in the ‘profit’ column, and go on from there.

When he’s finally ‘better’ I’m going to take him for that curry. And if he has any issues swallowing it, I’ll eat it myself. No problem there. It’s the least I can do for him.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

(today’s pic was taken by Mel. That’s why it’s all healthy stuff. I was somewhere else at the time, with no hand free for the camera).

Last night. White Hart Lane. Man City. Most important game of the season. Of the decade. Ever. In the entire history of all things. Here’s the scenario.

Massively important game for Man City. Lose, or even draw, and Arsenal become hot favourites to win the league. Win, and they take it all. Assuming of course that Sunday finishes as it probably will.

Then there was Spurs. ‘Just’ out of contention for the league title but vying for ‘that fourth place’, Champions League slot. And all we needed was to beat City, to win on Sunday and for Villa to drop down a hole in Spaghetti Junction and never come out. Or concede 15 goals in their last match whilst we score 27. Some such combination of total fucking impossibles.

Thus, having accepted, as virtually all Spurs fans have, that, yet again, we’ve fucking blown it, we were left with a choice. Like Sophie’s Choice, but much harder because giving away one of your own children is far easier than letting Arsenal win the league. Every mother knows that. Every good mother.

Thus last night’s match became the oddest of odd. Every Arsenal fan in the world was rooting for Spurs. Whilst every Spurs fan was rooting for Man City. (Every Chelsea fan was out, probably being abusive, aggressive, drunk and disorderly).

Because we had all agonised with our inner gods and gurus and some had even undertaken counselling to try and understand this peculiar dilemma. Do we hate Arsenal sufficiently to actually will our own beloved team to lose? Or should we put hearts and souls into a victory which would be as unlikely as it would be productive in achieving our own goals? Well, to those, like our dear manager, Ange, who say ‘you must always want your team to win’, I say, ‘then you don’t know the Arsenal fans I do’. The ‘moral high-grounders’ who feel that to ever wish for anything other than winning football matches is a mortal sin simply don’t get the ‘big picture’, the history between our near-neighbouring clubs. It is NOT about football. It is about… history, its about bragging rights, its about rubbing noses in whatever ‘it’ may be, its about good (us) vs evil (them), right vs wrong, its about the very basics of humanity!!!

So the match went well. Until they scored. Then… not so good. Except we played well. Certainly a lot better than we’ve played in the last totally abysmal 6 weeks. We always up our game for City, but alas it fell short. Had Sonny converted his ‘sure thing’ one on one against whichever keeper was on at the time for City, it might have been different.

Then the denouement. The finale. The coup de gras. Both for our hopes of winning (not that we had any) and of Arsenal’s season. The penalty.

I love a penalty taker who knows exactly what to do and just does it. I fucking hate mis-stepping, stutters, feints and all the other bollocks employed by the majority of those stepping up to the 12 yard spot. I loved Alan Shearer taking a penalty. Ruud Van Nistlerooy, Harry Kane. And… Erling Haaland. Shear class from the spot. ‘I’m going to hit this so hard’, he said to himself, probably in Norwegian, ‘that if you get near it, it will break your fucking hand. But you won’t because it will be so brilliantly placed.’ And that’s what he did. 2-nil, game over.

And that’s it. Job done. Not proud. Just what it is.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Today is Yom ha’atzmaut. Israel’s Independence Day. The Declaration of Independence was 14th May 1948 and since then they have turned a complete desert into a thriving, lush, beautiful and incredibly productive nation. Fiercely democratic, ultra-liberal, inclusive, tolerant and leads the world in technology and medical advancement. It also leads the world in weaponised defence systems, unfortunately but essentially.

But no one wants to know that. It’s all counter to the current narrative. To which Gary (faaaarkin’) Lineker added his own dagger in the back the other day by calling the October 7th massacre, during which 1200 people were murdered, raped, tortured, burned alive and a further 350 kidnapped, he called it “that Hamas thing”. Such a trivial ‘thing’ that he not once tweeted/said/wrote one word of horror, of condemnation, of disgust, even of amazement. Because he is a toxic imbecile.

I’m not saying that in the intervening 76 years Israel has not had a few ‘issues’. But when you live in the middle of hundreds of millions of people who wish you weren’t there, life can have its difficulties.

And here we are today. When Israel is the word that cannot be spoken. Except in Lisbon where it’s actually fine and the Jewish artefacts, memorials and buildings remain unmarked, clean and proud among a population who are accepting and tolerant. But across much of Europe and, it would seem, most of America, to even be Jewish is tantamount to a ‘crime against humanitarianism’.

So when Israel was ‘allowed’ to enter the Eurovision Song Contest, there was uproar by the virtue-signalling, uninformed, moronic and mainly antisemitic tossers of the world, led by the toxic dwarf, Greta Thunberg and those fine nations, Ireland, Greece, Switzerland, who dusted off their swastikas and made a big fuss.

Sweden, to their credit, took a stance and let Eden Golan sing her powerful song. Under massive security, armed escort, boos, protests and all the shit you’d expect. But this amazing woman simply soldiered on (poor choice of metaphor?) and eventually came 4th. Which is just so irrelevant. The Eurovision used to be a singalong talent show for the tragically untalented, showing the worst of their home nation’s inability to produce decent music. Now, it is fiercely politicised. If you’re not protesting a war, a national problem, a gender issue or someone’s abused rights, you’re not there.

I’ve never watched a Eurovision. Not since 1974 when ABBA’s Agnatha wore those skin-tight blue satin pants to help her sing Waterloo. You’ll never beat that. No point watching. Certainly no point listening. But this year I voted. Not once, not twice, but 20 times. The maximum allowable and (at 15p per vote) the maximum I could afford. And as a direct consequence of MY action Israel was the most voted song by Britain. Ok, one or two others voted for her too. Firstly because she deserved support for accepting to endure the world’s wrath and the media and social media shitstorm which inevitably occurred. But secondly because however much I agree or disagree with Israel’s methods, I can’t fault the underlying logic of getting rid of Hamas and the cancer that it brings, not just to Israel but to all of Palestine. And also because the wave of rabid antisemitism that has become part of the ‘protest’ is just fucking wrong.

Gary Lineker should rot in hell. Or at least get booted out of the BBC.

Otherwise,

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We fly home today. 5 o’clock flight, in case you fancy picking me up from Heathrow. And who doesn’t love that trip? Which is why God invented the Elizabeth Line. Upon which special people (very very old ones) travel freeeeee!!!

It’s been truly fantastic. Yesterday we set a world record of over 26,000 steps walked. 10.2 miles in one day. Though the last 2 were walking back from dinner so we don’t remember much of that bit. But guessing, a fair bit was uphill. Lisbon is all uphill. Don’t know how those Romans, possibly Moors, arranged that but you NEVER walk downhill here, only up.

And I’d like to mention Belem. Again. Because (apparently) there’s much more too it than just the difinitive custard tart. There’s a history there. There’s intrigue, castles, monasteries, Portugal’s most famous tower, and there’s this fab memorial. The bit behind Mel.

I has a long list of names, commemorating the dead. As memorials do. Not sure when they died, I was too busy looking for selfie opportunities to bother about details. Similarly, the tower, next to this memorial is just wonderful. Worth a tenner Uber ride of anyone’s money.

Yet to actually go up the tower was more of a problem. There was a queue. Not just any queue but what we term a ‘fuk-dat!’ queue. Because the sign said ‘queuing time 2 hours’ and I said ‘fuk-dat!’ Because time is precious. Standing in 85 degrees for 2 hours is not fun. And I’d maybe have learned a few facts, but we have Wikepaedia for that, so who needs it? Similarly, the truly magnificent Monastery of someone or other had about 4 different, 2-hour queues outside. Fuk-dat! The tour coaches were arriving as fast as the Pasteis were being hauled out of the oven next door, dumping their cargo of camera-wielding, selfie-sticking, barge-you-out-the-waying… tourists!!!!

So it’s best if you invent your own history, it’s good, useful, dementia-defying creativity, to just jumble up these phrases, words and dates until it sounds plausible.

1427. Roman invasion. Moorish invasion. 1629. 1722. Burn a few Jews. Inquisition. Carlos V. Pedro IX. Paulo II. Republic.

And, based on past experience, whatever they tell you is forgotten before you’ve left the building. So why learn it in the first place when there’s sun to be bathed in, custard tarts to be eaten?

I’m thinking of starting a travel company called Impatient Tours. Surely I cannot be alone? (Again).

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So I’m still loving Lisbon. I know it’s been here about 2000 years (bloody Romans, what did they even do for Portugal???) but I like it as much as I did yesterday, if not more!! Possibly because we went to Belem for ‘the ultimate custard tart’, which was the 28 day cured Kobe beef served medium-perfect, to a Big Mac, compared to all the others. Which doesn’t mean all the others are not worth eating. Even more amazing, at the Pasteice Belem they cost 1.40 Euros. If they came from Gail’s they’d be £7.95. Paul’s Patisserie, £12.77. Because they don’t do pretentious here. They just do perfection.

And Lisbon is exceptionally beautiful. In its own way. It’s when you get out of the main city that it really gets fabulous though. Beautiful, spacious, everything well considered. It all seems to fit.

This morning we took a ‘Jewish tour’ of the city. We love those. Must have done at least a dozen, round Europe, Buenos Aries, Mumbai, loads. Wherever any Jew hath walked, we shall do a tour. To see where he went. Learn what he ate.

Portugal had a massive Jewish community. The ‘famous’ Spanish and Portuguese Sefardi Jews who still roam the planet from as far away as Golders Green to Tel Aviv. And beyond. Portugal loved its Jews, they were good at money, business, government, lots of things, back in 14 hundred and whatever. And then you get the bit which is repeated wherever you choose to do your Jewish touring. It’s always the same. Goes like this:

Then in 1523/1684/1422 a new king came to the throne. He then decided to throw all Jews out/convert all Jews to Christianity/slaughter all Jews for being too unCatholic. God made me do it. Or, that geezer with the dog-collar who speaks for God in all matters of torturing confessions and wholesale executions (economy of scale issues there). So they all left. Here’s where they used to live before it was burned to the ground/smashed to shit in pogroms/(in the case of Lisbon) destroyed in an earthquake. Pretty biblical in itself, as the earthquake was combined with a fire and a tsunami, as it was in 1755.

Yet modern day Lisbon is a tolerant place. Liberal. Accepting. Feels nice everywhere.

So we went to Belem to eat custard tarts. Because that’s what you do when the weight of history sits hard on your shoulders. Or when you just want to eat them.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

On Thursday it was Richard’s birthday. So a party was completely out of the question; they wouldn’t allow the entertainer to take animals into the ICU. And apparently strippergrams aren’t medically approved either. No cake, no champagne, no nuffink. Though the ever-wonderful nursing staff did make an effort, bless em. So I treated him to giving me a weekend in Lisbon. From where I am corresponding. It’s the least I could do for him. And I’m just loving it here.

There’s four famous Portuguese people. They are, in strict order of importance:
Christiano Ronaldo
Eusebio
Vasco de Gama
Paula Rego.

And that’s about it. Ok, there’s half a dozen B-listers knocking around, the Luis Figos and some priests of merit, one way or another, but otherwise, you would have to ask yourself if we actually need Portugal at all. Until you come to Lisbon and then it all starts to make sense.

Lisbon is built on seven hills. That’s what they tell you. Once you start walking around the place you realise that they are actually mountains. Really steep ones which don’t get any easier to climb when the thermometer rises. As it does most of the time. So you look on Google Maps and find the restaurant/bar/cafe/museum you want and it shows it to be 420 metres away, three streets across. So what’s that? 5 minutes? Yet once you cross the first traffic light you need to get your climbing gear on, or if you’re coming down, your abseiling equipment. Or a helicopter. But you do it, because wherever it was you were headed (other than the ‘museum’; the weather’s much too nice to bother with them) you will be greatly rewarded. Especially if you were looking for pasteis de nata. Little custard tarts. Yet so much more. They are ingestible orgasms. The are little bits of heaven in a world of pain. They are simply… simply… little custard tarts, the likes of which they can’t make elsewhere. And you have to eat several every day. Which you can because God has decreed (well MY God has, I can’t speak for yours) that these little wonders have absolutely zero calories at all. And no fat. Sugar. Just angel dust.

They’re great but tomorrow we’re headed to Belem, where (I think; no-one actually knows, well, no-one who can speak English actually knows, nor cares) they were invented. By monks. So you visit the Monastery tower, go wild for the view for as long as you can, then you go eat Pasteis.

Today’s trip took us to Sintra. Another wonder of Lisbon.

And the Lisboans are delightful, polite, charming, friendly and helpful. All of them.

Lisbon is the best European city I’ve ever been to, this year. No doubt about it.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx