Upside-down weather

It's a little cloudy today, but the sunshine is unaffected since the clouds are er... rolling along the sea rather than floating up in the sky.

A bizarre sight to see.

If you build it, they will come

Back to the subject of the new beach: the other cool thing about the development is that because it needed a car park, we now have a local flat space.

I realise that may not sound like a big deal. It really is. I stood looking at the smallish car park, with its little pavement along its perimeter, and immediately wanted to walk around it. I don't get many opportunities to walk quickly here - going downhill trashes your knees, uphill is reserved for wheezing, but here was flat space. Practically an expanse, except, you know, littler.

So I walked around it (at Malahide walking speed, for those from Malahide). Several times. Then the following morning I went back and jogged around it. Heaven. Already the news of the flat space is spreading: this morning there were people walking their dogs around it, enjoying the horizontalness of it all.

Sniffly Spidey

I went to see Spidey 3 today (6 other people in the cinema). Oh dear, the cast of Schindler's List cried less. Even the closing credits had Snow Patrol singing some tearful number. There's only so much footage of huge watery eyes that you can take (I'm sure we all remember the hobbits climbing up that bleedin' mountain in the last LOTR; hour after hour of Elijah Wood's big blinkey teary eyes). The special effects were great, as was the camera-work, but the film was poorly-executed. Shame.

And here's a photo for Sara, who may be missing the flowers of the island...

Snorkelling season open

When I moved here last year there was loads of building work going on around Cristo Rei - a new beach was being created. Building anything here is a big deal, but particularly a beach: blast away part of the cliff, pour out some concrete plateaux, get a load of stones to make a pebble beach (no sand on Madeira), deck some areas, build some buildings (which will need water and electricity), oh and build a road to get there in the first place.

It's finally open! Well, kind of open: there's nothing inside any of the buildings yet, but the beach and the sea are there. And there is a cool cable car that makes a super-steep descent down from Cristo Rei to the beach.

I went down there yesterday, which was my first time in the sea since New Year's Eve (when there was, er, an incident involving an unobserved red flag. Anyhoo the point is everybody got out alright). The new beach is in the middle of the protected sea reserve, so there's plenty of stuff to see. There were no dolphins around yesterday, but a big boat has just breezed past my place with dolphins jumping in its wake. It crossed my mind to rush down and get snorkelling, but this key lime cocktail juice is so cooling...

Tales from Orvis

[Blog road trip: back to Devon. Orvis is an olde worlde shop in Exeter that sells waders and stretch tweed shooting jackets and squeaky dog toys that look like mallards. You know, the basic essentials. The other Saturday night, Jenny wrote...]

So am at home today with a bad throat, the kind that feels like I’m trying to swallow razor blades. Watched Midsomer Murders this afternoon as my attempt at culture.

Unfortunately, my being ill meant that I was unable to help Andy out with the first Orvis Open Day of 2007. We were both a bit gutted; him because he’d been relying on me to meet and greet folk, and for my part, because I always find it such a lovely and relaxing place to work – the building is very old and the shop has a lovely feel to it, and also the customers are all so ‘kooky’! Usually these open days consist of cheese, wine and nibbles, but this one was whiskey tasting, so Andy brought home a full bottle of The Balvenie Doublewood, a life saver for me in my current weakened state…

But on to some classic tales about the kooky customers:

Beans
Lady walks into the shop and announces in an extremely loud voice “I bought a new skirt in here last week! I’ve spilt baked beans down it, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”

Boots
Lady customer asks to see the Orvis collection of walking boots. Andy explains that they don’t sell walking boots, and the conversation proceeds thus;
“We don’t sell walking boots madam.”
“Why not?”
“We sell clothing and accessories for fishing and hunting madam, we don’t sell walking boots”.
“You sell walking sticks don’t you, why don’t you sell walking boots?”
“If you require walking boots madam I would suggest you try Blacks, or Taunton Leisure.”
“Well you should sell walking boots!”
“Well I’m afraid we don’t madam.”
“Well why not?”
Needless to say, this continues in much the same vein until Andy loses patience and tells her to leave.

Barmy
At the Orvis Celebration Day last year the first 20 customers were presented with a ‘goody bag’, which contained among other items a free watch. One Orvis customer - let’s call him Major Barmy - was one of the lucky customers who won. After being in possession of said watch for a year, and which had now sadly stopped working, Major Barmy demanded free repair, free replacement or a full refund… can you believe it?

The Raw Sewage Story
A most unfortunate incident occurred during one Friday night of last year, which consisted of a flood of raw sewerage into the basement of the shop. I arrived that Saturday afternoon just in time to see the council shit wagon parked outside, and the driver feeding the pipes through the shop down into the basement to extract said fragrant fluids, and an exasperated Andy who had just had cause to practically forcibly remove a lady customer from the shop.
She came in, despite the fact that 1) large notices were displayed outside to explain the reason the shop was closed, 2) the lights were off, 3) a standing ‘closed’ sign was placed right in the shop doorway (the woman had moved the sign so that she could walk into the shop), 4) there was a large Exeter City Council shit lorry parked outside, with large shitty pipes leading through the shop. Not to mention the extremely fragrant odour, which had completed bypassed her senses.

However, when challenged she refused to leave, complaining that she couldn’t see the merchandise as the lights were turned off. When Andy explained that the shop was actually closed, due to the fact that the basement had been flooded with sewerage, and that she was contravening Health & Safety rules by treading human excrement across the carpet, she exclaimed loudly that this was “typical of Orvis, never considering its customers” by which time he lost all reason and told her in no uncertain terms to get out.

[Brilliant Jen! So many of Andy's stories end with him turfing out the customers, I'm surprised Orvis has any left! Thank you SO much for the glimpse of Devon :) ]

All in the mind

This morning I was thinking "must nip over to Canico and pay that electricity bill" when Landlady appeared. We caught up (on ailments, stresses) for a bit, then she said they were off to pay their electricity bill - would I like them to pay my bill as well.

So I've been sitting here thinking "must go and get a salad, and perhaps some vinho verde". It's been ten minutes now and nothing.

I'm getting hungry.

How does Devon make it so creamy?

[Blog Road Trip time: we're off to Devon, to see what Jenny's up to]

I’m alternating work between Topsham and Bovey Tracey markets on Saturday mornings. I enjoy going to Bovey Tracey as I do this on my own, and only sell cheese.

The customers are the funniest.

I smile and nod when faced with the sweet old dear who says, “Ooh yes my dear, I comes all the way from Exmouth, there’s nothin’ like your pasties you know, ooh yes…”

Folks come in and buy the butter because it’s labelled Farmhouse Butter, and it’s “the best we’ve ever tasted”. It’s the same with the eggs. “Are they free-range?” No (apparently you can’t get free-range at the moment because all the hens have to be kept indoors due to the threat of bird flu) but they’re eggs from barn hens. It’s amazing how many people have a problem with this…

Then some smart-alec points out the small paragraph on the side of the box which states ‘Eggs from caged birds’.

The pies originate from varying locations around Devon or Cornwall. It just gets a bit tricky when folk start asking the really awkward questions like, “What’s in the pie?” One of our regular customers, a lovely lady (luckily) who had purchased a supposedly chicken and ham pie, informed us that when they cut it up for dinner it contained beef. Oh well… life is strange.

[Thanks hon - mystery pies? Let it be said that the cheese from your stall is the best ever. More Devon Tales from Jenny later this week.]

In the name of the Father

Among last week's photos is this tiled panel from Monte Palace gardens.

We figured it was supposed to represent the Annunciation, but it's the most suggestive rendering ever.



If Mary wasn't pregnant before that angel appeared, she certainly was after...

Music to our ears

Well, for Sara's last day we decided on a levada walk. We started at Camacha - the land of wicker. Apart from a zillion baskety-type things, they also have a selection of animals and, er, a rather large boat (upper right photo).

When we were all wickered out, we set off. Lovely countryside, pretty flowers, easy levada walk. Until the levada disappeared. We retraced our steps oh, two or three times and kept coming back to the same abandoned creepy house in the forest. Very Blair Witchy.

And so we took to the roads and began heading down the mountain. We found a few levadas along the way, met some locals and more dogs (Sara's dulcid tones can soothe the most rabid hound), and walked down a steep travessa to find ourselves in a lettuce field, having to heave ourselves back up the hill. Three hours passed.

And then we heard it: the strain of music.

Music celebrating onions.

We made it to Canico for the big prizegiving ceremony: young dance groups were entertaining the crowds, the bars were heaving, and yet more onions had appeared overnight.

Beer and Bolo de Caco has never been so welcome. All praise the onion!

Onion Festival

The Feast of the Onion is here!!

Well the little town of Canico is heaving with all things oniony. Here's a little flavour...

Things have been busy busy. Two of the laydees go home tomorrow, so we're out on the town tonight. With my mom's advice ringing in my ears - "Don't give it out cheap" - what could possibly go wrong?

Low visibility

Just about to go and lounge by a pool; if cocktails should appear then so be it.

I think Sara will post at some point. Until then, let me say that we did an eight-hour tour yesterday and saw loads of the island. It was stunning weather on the south coast; rainy and cloudy on the north.

The bit that I was all excited about was the plateau in the mid-west of the island. This is what we saw...

Flora Madeira

In between key lime cocktails and a whole lotta red wine. Busy busy.

In the meanwhile, we got to see the tail end of the flower festival...

Having a ball!

Before we frolic in Funchal...

Yesterday was a fabulous catch-up day, despite various flights being delayed/rerouted.

Off to Funchal now. And if I should happen upon some glasses that might be appropriate for my new cocktail juice, so be it...

Talk about the perfect present :)

We are go for launch

Surprise visitor morning - Landlady and Mrs C have already been in, bearing duvet cover (another story) and flowers respectively.

I should be meeting up with the expected visitors within an hour or so (one is staying with me; two are staying in a nearby hotel). Everything sees reasonably organised, and I even have muffins made. Heart-shaped muffins :)

Flower Parade Anyone?

It's been a glorious weekend - real vodka & tonic weather.

Just in from a sunshiney nap. The big finale of the flower festival should be on at the moment - a parade with lots of floral floats. Yesterday oodles of kidlets brought a single flower to build a 'wall of hope' in Funchal.

Anyhoo, so I figured I'd catch some footage on Madeiran TV.

They appear to be showing a U2 concert.

Hmmm. The guys seem to be winding up the show now, so I'll wait and see what comes next...

Flower Power

Yes it's Flower Festival time! Madeirans seem to be able to whip up a carpet of semi-tropical flowers at the drop of a hat.

Coming from a place like Dublin, where pot plants are stolen from your front garden, it's amazing to see carpets of unguarded orchids on the streets. Amazing, and very beautiful. Funchal smells gorgeous!

There's only one week to go until The Festival of the Onion...

What sea?

There goes the rest of the known world again...

I've come to like the floaty feeling of days like these. I'm tapping away at the novel, there is ample wine in the vicinity, and I've downloaded a few episodes of House for later.

There's even a tray of apple muffins in the oven. Almost done. Heaven.

Bone-turning

A few months back Mr C described the bone-turning ceremony of the Imerina people in Malagasy. It's been playing around in my mind since.

Basically, once a year the family tomb is opened and the bones of the dead are brought out. Each set of bones is unwrapped from a silk shroud, wrapped in a new shroud, and treated to a day of feasting, singing and drinking. The bones get to catch up on the news of the previous year. If there has been a wedding, the bones are 'introduced' to the new family members; if a new house has been built, the bones are given a tour.

If it's your first year to be bone-turned, the initial part of the day is spent with your relatives picking away your putrid flesh. Then you can catch up with the rest of the dead in their escapades.

There's a really practical interpretation of life as super-transient, and death as a permanent (much better) state. So what if you live in a mud hut wearing raffia clothes, because life will soon be over, and when you're dead you will get to live in a stone house, and wear silk.

The ancestors protect the land, so if someone dies away from home they need to be brought back to 'live' in the family tomb. As a result, you get some kooky lists of taxi fares:

• Journeys up to 2km - 50 francs
• Journeys over 2km - 100 francs
• Weddings, funerals, exhumations - Price to be agreed

At the end of the day of celebration, the bones are taken for a final dance around the land, to bring fertility. Then they're brought back to the darkness to rest for another year. Remarkable.

There's an account of a bone-turning from earlier this year here.

It's cake Jim, but not as know it

You can't get madeira cake on Madeira. That's the short version.

There is a traditional madeiran cake, which is called 'Bolo de Mel' - honey cake.

There's no honey in it. Well, no bee-honey, but it contains sugar-cane 'honey'. The cake isn't golden and light, but dark and heavy. Worst of all, it has nuts in it. Gakkarama.

Other people like it though.

As for what the rest of the world calls madeira cake: they've never heard of it here. Now there's a niche market waiting to be exploited: sell tourists the cake that they expect to find. I can see it now: the madeira cake wars...

Singing like a canary

There are birds that trill around during the day, and I finally figured out what they are.

Canaries. I should have figured.

So, the wild canary is indigenous to the islands in the vicinity: the Azores, Madeira, and you guessed it - the Canary Islands. The birdies are named after the islands, but it turns out the islands are named after dogs. Folks there kept a load of dogs, and the Romans took to calling it canaria - of the dogs.

Lots of people here keep pet canaries out on their terraces. It must be strange, being locked up in a little cage and hearing the wild version of you twittering around. Quite tormenting...

Anne-Flore's Morning

One of my friends is running the Paris Marathon today (along with 34,999 other people that I don't know).

I went to check on the race, and saw that it was won ages ago. They start the marathon at 8.45am - sheesh! I toodled around a map of the course while curled up with coffee and muffins.

My friend is running for Médecins Sans Frontières. Yep, not only is she super-fit, makes the best chocolate cake ever (recipe from French grandmother), but she would spend four hours running for a Nobel-prize-winning charity. Quite a lady.

Well done Anne-Flore! Just amazing.

Time to put on another pot of coffee, and get back to my cryptic crossword. Busy busy...

Friday 13th

Gagging for a glass of wine so will keep this short:

I went to see 300 today. It's difficult to make a classical film without constantly evoking Gladiator or (shudder) Troy or (shudder shudder) Alexander, particularly if you include 1) wheat fields and 2) yer woman from Gladiator. I think they succeeded through omitting 1) the Peter O'Toole/Richard Harris character and 2) Sean Bean.

Anyhoo, I loved it: fabulous cinematography, spectacular story, the best fiery sparks ever, and the end credits are a blood-splattered treat.

And now for wine. I go through phases with (red) wine. At the moment it's one called Periquita, which is scrummy and oaky and whose only disadvantage is that a little Elton John voice in my head sings "Periquita is it cold, in your little corner of the world..."

I see that I haven't managed to keep this short after all. But then I did pour a glass of wine as I was checking the spelling of periquita, so it all evens out.

It's a small world after all

The world just keeps shrinking.

I met a Madeiran woman who said "You're from Ireland? I love Ireland."

Now, when people say this it can mean many things. It certainly does not imply that they've ever visited Ireland, or could find it on a map.

But in this case she had. She'd lived there for twenty years, and used to love going down to Kinsale to stay at Actons and go shark-fishing.

Which I used to do.

Around the same time, as it turned out.

She asked if I was writing about Madeira. I said not really, but that I was curious about George Bernard Shaw learning to tango here. I thought it might make an interesting short story. It turned out she used to live in Shaw's house in Dalkey.

At that point I figured I could have said anything and there'd have been a link.

I should have said 'Armadillo' just to see what happened. Or 'Elvis Costello'. Darn.

The dawn chorus

This morning I was woken by Landlady calling for me from below the terrace. I decided to ignore her (and fought the guilt) and a minute later she was buzzing away on the doorbell. So I gave in, and opened the door to a frantic Landlady with Landlord in tow.

The apartment with the bathroom-sans-one-wall had got water damage because of the building work, and they were worried it would trickle down to mine. So they raced through every room while I stood very still, deciding between Lady Grey or coffee (the latter won).

Then they apologised, a lot.

A sedate haircut

An epic morning.

So, Landlady was raving about her hairdresser, and I mused "I must give her a go next time". I presumed she'd just give me the name & salon, but no. She booked an appointment, and she was taking me personally. Her husband was driving us - heaven forfend we should take a bus. And because her husband was actually busy, we met at 8am outside the apartment, two hours before the appointment (yep, that bit I only discovered en route).

Landlady wasn't her normal hyper self; it turned out she'd taken a 'calming pill' last night. It was like when pets come back from the vet - all dopey and floppy. It wore off quickly, but it was a treat first thing.

She needed to take the pill because of building-work-related stress. The lady in the apartment adjacent was taking a bath and noticed a drill hole in the wall (very Porkys). She got in a strop, but it transpired that when her bathroom was redone last year, the workmen pulled down a wall and didn't bother putting it up again; they just shoved a new bath against the wall of the other apartment!

All is quiet today as they discuss the next steps.

Whan that Aprille, with his shoures soote

I swear, every year it's the same routine. In April I tend to get stuck into some bit of Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales are set in April), which leads me to some books with pretty manuscripty pictures, and then I start into calligraphy.

I've spent seven or eight hours writing out the same words: The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

It might as well read All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I adore calligraphy, but man its brain-frazzling powers are mighty. Time for a vodka and some fruit-juicy-type-stuff.

In other news, the sun is just starting to fade, and the sky is all lilacy. Heaven.

Easter Sunday

Just in from a sunshiney nap. It's a glorious day here: had a great lunch with the Codebreakers, which was a smidge boozy (I know, shock horror).

I was responsible for dessert: the original plan was to make brandy truffles, but I opted for something non-alcoholic, which was like a mini-trip to a detox clinic.

Or it would have been if we hadn't been drinking at the time. Or eating a buttery-sugary cake. Okay maybe the detox analogy doesn't work.

In other news: for Lois and the guys still shovelling snow in Michigan, here's some sunshine :)

Propitious timing

I just realised that my next visitor is going to be here for the Onion Festival at Canico.

What fun we'll have!

Now is the winter of our discontent

All the clouds that loured upon our house are about to be in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

And there's a misty bank of clouds rolling down from the mountain. The world will be snowy white in about twenty minutes.

When clichés take form

The guys I worked with in Michigan owned a place in Herefordshire called Hampton Court, and we held annual academic conferences there. So ensued much high jinks and hilarity, especially when the American flag was hoisted over the castle: the guys from the local RAF base would buzz the castle in their Harrier jets. Try listening to a paper on the Dead Sea Scrolls while the chandeliers are tinkling overhead...

Anyhoo, in scanning photos I came across one of the non-crystal chandeliers from the place. The castle is fifteenth-century, but pictured above is a spanky new chandelier, made with freshly-culled deer.

You know the cliché of the eccentric English gent? Well the owners bumped into him, larger than life: some bat-crazy oddball who looked at a deer and thought: light fixture!

His chandeliers also came sans animal heads, for the zen minimalist downsizers among us.

There's no place like home

This morning over madeira wine with the Codebreakers I learned about the early life of Mrs Beeton. (Total aside: I can't get the image of her as a matronly Victorian Martha Stewart out of my head, despite the fact that she died at the grand old age of 28.)

When her father died, her mother (who had 5 or 6 kids) married her dad's friend (who had 5 or 6 kids). Then they some kids of their own, which brought the grand total of children in the house to 23 (apparently one prankster son posted the dad a condom, which was the equivalent of calling him one who frequents prostitutes. Cue: one unimpressed father).

Anyhoo, so the bizarre bit is this: the stepdad happened to own the Epsom Racecourse - yes the Epsom Derby place - and since it was only used on a single day each year, he moved the family in there. Moved the family into the racecourse.

I imagine a few throw cushions, some nightlights, and any stadium becomes cosy.

That is some family. I see now why Mrs Beeton's recipes nonchalantly call for 12 dozen eggs.

Too many bits to count

Okay, me getting a bittorrent client may not have been the best idea. There's so very much out there to watch, and the temptation to download an afternoon's worth and relax in a cafe with laptop and headphones is pretty tempting indeed.

In other news, I'm back scanning all my pre-digital photos. I keep coming across shots of gargoyles: from Antwerp, Oxford, and these little guys from Exeter Cathedral.

Juicy Days

The nice thing about Monday is because it's one of the flaffier weekdays, it's only reasonable to expect an afternoon tipple.

I was going to blend some pineapple and do something rum-my, but the fruit needs another couple of days to ripen. And so instead Absolut Raspberri shall be served with freshly squeezed orange juice.

Speaking of which, this morning I juiced the most enormous pomegranate. There's probably a knack to doing it in such a way that the kitchen doesn't end up looking completely blood-splattered. It tasted great though :)

Tum de dum. Busy busy...

Travelling Tales

Some of my family should be in Singapore by now, en route to Australia. And with that in mind...

Mrs C lived in Singapore for several years when she was a child. She faced almost daily air raids from the Japanese in early 1942; then the Japanese landed on the island in overpowering force. Churchill gave the okay to surrender on 14 February.

While her mother packed a single suitcase for the family, Mrs C and her sister were allowed to choose one thing to take with them. Mrs C decided on her stamp collection; her baby sister was desperate to take her white mouse, but couldn't. She spent her time setting out food and water for the mouse.

The family made it to the harbour safely, to the evacuation boats. Before he boarded, her father drove their gorgeous car into the sea rather than let the Japanese get it. Mrs C was twelve. They got onto one of the last ships, which made its way through the Battle of Pacific and beyond.

Mrs C visited Singapore decades later. When she was a child, Orchard Road had shops on both sides of the street. These days it has the world's largest concentration of shopping malls.

So enjoy the shopping guys, and safe travelling.

That Friday Feeling, again

I spent most of yesterday thinking it was Friday, so I'm looking forward to the weekend all over again.

So, once there lived a man called Hyman L. Lipman. I guess being named Hyman, he had something to prove. Today in 1858 he patented his idea of attaching an eraser to the top of a pencil.

He was probably called Rubberhead after that.

Check out the wizard to see the name's inexplicable burst of popularity at the turn of the twentieth century.

In other news, today is Paul Reiser's birthday, like we needed a reason to rewatch Diner:
"You know what word I'm not comfortable with? Nuance. It's not a real word. Like gesture: gesture's a real word. With gesture you know where you stand. But nuance? I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong."

Classic.

A whole other world

I realise I'm probably the last person on earth to notice this, but here goes...

I kept confusing The Illusionist and The Prestige, and went online to differentiate the two. And I found them both - the actual movies. Both of them.

And so led to the underworld of movies and tv online.

With movies, everything is there, and it's not like it's hidden away: Miss Potter is on Google videos for heaven's sake. There's stuff that hasn't been released yet: 88 Minutes (the new Al Pacino film, which is awful) and The Number 23 and Frank Miller's 300 (which I just refuse to see except on the biggest screen available).

The stuff appears and disappears constantly. The guys who upload them disguise the contents, so you probably couldn't search for 300 and find it (for example, Lost is labelled as Not Found). You can only get to them via portal sites, like this one.

Forget the threat of youtube; that features only snippets of things. The problem is with brilliant streaming sites like http://www.veoh.com/ where you can put up an entire movie in one go. What a copyright nightmare: it's like trying to control the music someone plays in their home when they have friends over.

And so for the lady out there who is addicted to House, you can find Season 3 here or here or here or here (some will break episodes down; some post entire episodes as a single link).

As for me, I took advantage of this discovery to revisit The Tick. What a hero, with his mighty battlecry of 'Spoon!'...

The Question Bug

This little fellah has taken up residence on my bedroom wall, where he muses on imponderable philosophical questions.

Time to get the hoover out.

A pastry high

As a special treat, here's the pastelaria van.

This van is often seen going from snack bar to snack bar around the neighbourhood, delivering fresh pastries and breads. Scrummy.

But once upon a time I had a visitor; let's call them The One Who Sees Conspiracies Everywhere. I got up in the morning to find them staring out of the kitchen window, checking up and down the road. They'd seen something very strange. A van had pulled up about 7am, queer-like. A man had got out and crossed over to the place across the road. He was carrying something. The other man waited in the van. He was smoking. It was probably a drugs drop-off.

Or a pastry delivery. Cuck-koo!

Two things happened after that:

1) we happened to hear on the radio that there was a massive drug-smuggling ring whose leader lived in Portugal. Which means there is no convincing TOWSCE that the pastelaria van is innocent.

2) every time I see the nefarious pastelaria van I either start laughing, or take a photo, or both. I tried to take this one surreptitiously from my kitchen window, but they noticed me. So the end result is that I'm the one everyone thinks is bat-crazy.

A lemur by any other name

Over coffee with the Codebreakers this morning, we got on to the subject of lemurs. As you do.

One of the most famous kinds of lemurs is the indri lemur. Scientists are always setting up camp in Madagascar to study them. Locals guide them through the jungle, point up at the lemurs and say "indri, indri".

It turns out that indri is not the Malagasy name of the lemur. Indri actually means 'Look! Up there!'

Inbetweeny Stops

Pictured is another type of bus stop: it's not real, but not quite imaginary.

It's across the road from a real bus stop, so theoretically there's a reason why a bus might stop there.

It's wafer-thin reasoning, but there you go.

Hidden laws

Sitting in my third café of the day, pondering imaginary bus stops.

They’re different from the actual bus stops, which give themselves away by having a sign or timetable or even a shelter. These imaginary ones don’t have any of that stuff, but they work nevertheless. They’re probably on ley lines or something.

What makes them interesting is they aren't just for getting on the bus; they work both ways. If you press the stop button, the bus might continue on to the real bus stop or it might stop at an imaginary one (at a blind corner, for example, where all you can do is step down into the halted traffic and try not to look sheepish).

I'm currently in a nice café round the corner from home: if you order wine the nice man brings you over a little snack with your drink. The brilliant advantage of being out is that if you take away tv and the internet, it turns out that I write happily for hours. [I'm just on a little break to write this.]

Later: He’s just given me the password to log onto the café’s broadband connection, which may scupper the whole dedicated-writing-biosphere. Perhaps I'll just log on to post this...

The jittery down side

It would appear the disadvantage to hanging out in cafes all day is that one drinks significantly more coffee than normal.

And if once upon a time you happened to order an extra strength coffee, that's what the nice man behind the counter thinks you want, every time. Even when you clearly order the normal version, he defaults back to the super strong stuff.

The obvious solution is to switch to beer or wine...

Another glorious rationalisation.

Choose weather words carefully

Sometimes there's an awkward moment to phone conversations, when people ask what the weather's like.

I never know whether to play down the sunshine. Sometimes I mention storms, but storms here are so dramatic they don't come across as very negative. It's more obvious when skyping, when I have to scout out the darkest corner of the apartment so the webcam can function.

I've learned not to say that I feel chilly. We get talking temperatures and people, well, they scoff.

In other news, congrats to Dennis on his Ronnie Scott's nomination for best trombone! Superb :)

Aah the hammering has just started again. Off to sit in a cafe for the afternoon.

Barmy block

Mayhem reigns in the apartment block.

German Porn Man has been to see his lawyer about the noise of the building work. He's been writing letters to Landlady, which is causing her stress. And she can't have stress.

Three guys have just left having technically 'fixed' my terrace door. They put on new hinges and drilled it back upright, but they planed the warped door without sealing the wood so as soon as it rains it'll bloat up again. About as far-sighted as a short-sighted thing.

And the Codebreakers had a little flood, which has now abated. We're just waiting for a plague of locusts now...

Can I get extra mice with that?

Perfect evening for pizza and red wine.

I might try the Dom Carlo tonight.

They'd need to hold the mushrooms though; they have a tendency to make the dough go grey.

And that would be yukky.

Later: a close up of the special ingredient. This is probably way too normal for a Royston Vasey pizza...

Codey Capers

In another eclectic conversation with Mr C today, we somehow roamed from the Battle of Thermopylae to Rennes-le-Château. Who doesn't adore madey-uppy conspiracy theories!

At a conference seven or eight years ago I met an archaeologist who was all mysterious innuendo about a place called Rennes-le-Château. The name rang a bell, and I wondered "That's not that loopy Holy-Blood-and-the-Holy-Grail place, with the bloodline of Jesus traced through King Clovis and the Merovingian kings, ooooh creepy..."

I wondered this aloud. It turns out it was Mr Archaeologist's life work. Ahem. I made my excuses and went to be somewhere that was away.

Anyhoo, part of the R-L-C myth is that super-secret 18th-century parchments were 'discovered' by a cleric in 1891. They were in code, but the cleric managed to decipher it; they hinted at hidden treasure yadda yadda yadda.

It turns out that Mr C was consulted about these parchments, to get a Codebreaker's point of view (which was that they were madey-uppy).

Of course, since The Dastardly Da Vinci Codswallop the conspiracy is more popular than ever. Can you imagine if everyone who has read that book also read Foucault's Pendulum? The world would be a smarter place, and we'd all smile more.

Off to read this book in the sunshine now, and appreciate a day without apartment-gutting noises filling the air.

Hammering home

They're gutting one of the apartments in the building, which involves continuous staccato hammering noise from 8.30am-6.30pm.

It finally got to me today - took refuge in the cinema (The Good Shepherd - a packed house with five other people there).

Hoping to get some work done over the weekend.

Bunch of utter rot

Yesterday a cryptic note was pushed under the door: Have you ever had Noble Rot?? Join us tomorrow for lunch. It's from NZ.

The Codebreakers strike again.

The world of noble rot was all news to me. Apparently if you let vines become infected with some fungus called botrytis cinerea, and then you harvest the grapes, it makes a fabulous wine. Mr C described in detail the furry manky grapes that go into it, and seemed surprised that I was begging to be left in ignorance (I explained there's no such thing as botrytis in Orlaith-Land).

So (having had a bottle of wine with lunch) we then opened up the noble (semillon) rot. It smelled like nectar of the gods. And it tasted just like it smelled.

Almost time for my nap now. May be able to squeeze in an episode of Boston Legal beforehand. I'd never seen it before - for the first few minutes I was thinking 'a legal West Wing' until James Spader says "I can't speak that quickly". Brilliant.

Music to watch girls by

I's a very stare-ey culture here. I mean, everyone stares, but guys really stare, as though each female biped was the first one they'd ever seen.

It's the kind of place where if you're waiting for the bus, a car might stop to have a good look and make some remark. Just stop - in the middle of the road. I know many guys believe that women are secretly flattered by anonymous unprovoked leery attention. Not so much. You quickly learn to keep an ipod on at all times.

But today made up for all. I was wandering along to the new fabulous fresh veg shop when a car pulled up on the other side of the road. And it was the local postie, waving an Amazon package (should be Boston Legal).

In other news, it is a glorious day.

PS - Obviously I won't open the package until after I've done a day's work. Because that would be wrong.

Lost for words

This morning Landlady appeared well, early. When I answered the door she demanded to know why I wasn't wearing any shoes. The fact that I was in my dressing gown and brushing my teeth would have been a giveaway for some people...

Anyhoo, so began a whirlwind adventure of a day.

At some point I asked if 'orla' meant edge here (I didn't even start on flaaaange). It doesn't; Landlady said it might mean something in Lisbon, but not here.

It struck me how uncurious people are about words here. One night I was out for dinner and when the waiter brought over the pepper mill I asked him what it was called in portuguese. He had no idea.

How does that work? How do you spend your days in a room with objects and not have words for them. Even makey-uppy words, like 'the wooden pepper thingeydoobewhatzit'.

Weird.

If only it was lost in translation

Why does bad music sound so much worse in a foreign language cover version?

You'd think no matter what you did to it, Have you ever really loved a woman couldn't get any more dreadful. I was in a store this morning and a Portuguese version of it was blaring without mercy. After a few minutes I realised it was on a continuous loop. It was on its fourth iteration by the time I fled.

There's got to be some EU working-conditions-directive that deals with this...

Global market

Stunning weekend. Yesterday I was sharing a bottle of wine with the Codebreakers (it being after 11am, oh and Mrs C is technically a Keybreaker rather than a Codebreaker; I could try and explain the difference but my brain has just stopped hurting) - anyway, wine with the Codebreakers: so we got talking about China, jade, carving, and onto stone name seals.

So I showed them my little stamp of 'Orlaith'. My brother bought it in Stanley Market, Hong Kong - where coincidentally, Mrs C had bought the cardigan she happened to be wearing. The world felt small.

Weather's been fabulous - everyone's starting to look tawny again.

A bit of skirt

In Irish, 'Orlaith' translates as golden-haired princess.

In Brazilian Portuguese it means border, hem, rim, skirt, web and worst of all flange.

Few words are more ill-sounding than 'flange'. Flaaaange. Euchk.

Luckily here, 'Orla' means nothing at all - Madeirans waver between 'Ola' (which means Hi) and 'Orrrhhhla'; Germans add a few more 'rrrrrs' and the English start with 'Oila' and graduate to 'Awla'.

All of which outshine flaaaaaange. What a word.

Anyhoo, must go write something before sitting-in-the-sun time commences. For those who asked what the plaits were like, here's a picture...

The spaghetti is out there

One religion on the rise is the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. The Pastafarian faith began as a protest - when the Kansas schoolboard ruled that the theory of intelligent design was to be taught alongside that of evolution.

Basically, it claims that the creator of the universe is, well, a big flying spaghetti monster.

Instead of the 10 Commandments it has the Eight I'd really rather you didn'ts.

But its crowning glory is that those representing the faith should dress as pirates. That's gotta be winning over converts by the thousand.

Caption Competition

Well, 'competition' is probably the wrong word.

However, the Codebreakers got their Christmas photos developed, and are smitten with this pair.

But they're looking for a suitable caption...

Keeping your head

Something's not quite right here...

Approach with caution

In between films yesterday I got a nice lady from Senegal to do a few beaded plaits in my hair.

I guess there's a knack to brushing mostly-unplaited-hair. Some technique that involves being very slow and careful...

Going through the motions

Aah the games we play. The cinema ticket guy spends ages going through where I'd like to sit - refers me to little schematics of the theatres I'll be in - what row would I like, whereabouts in that row...

As though we don't know perfectly well that I'll have the place entirely to myself (for both Scoop and Hollywoodland).

Weather's been fab all weekend - there are some dramatic clouds just rolling in now.

A case of ignorance equalling bliss

Landlady appeared in a flurry of anxiety (something about that medical condition of hers - the one that I haven't translated yet, the one that pure lemon juice helps to alleviate).

Anyhoo, her doctor said she wasn't to be alone anymore because it causes her stress. Would I like to come for coffee?

Man I am so easily guilted into things.

So over coffee she talks about the panicky condition. The doctor told her that she's not to suffer any stress at all, she just needs total calm in her life. Total calm.

I listen and nod and make the right condolencey-sounds.

And while I'm doing that, I try to gauge when and how I should tell her that the terrace door was ripped off its hinges by the last storm.

Words for every occasion

Aaah the Hallmark™ Journeys range. For every situation in modern life. Is someone you know getting out of rehab? Feel you should send a card? Then this is the range for you. It covers eating disorders, hair loss from chemo, going through IVF, and my favourite - getting fired:

I'm sorry you lost your job, but please remember that your job is not who you are. You have many great qualities, and that's what really matters.

So until someone appreciates your unique abilities, I hope you'll take pride in all you've accomplished and realize how much you have yet to give.

I don't question that there's a need for people to demonstrate support in these circumstances; I just wonder what people write on the card that already says it all, often in rhyme.

I think it's such a cop-out when someone signs only their name, with no actual personal message. If they left the card blank altogether at least it could be reused...