I was off for a rousing evening of Uno in a bar tonight, and thought it would be a nice walk. It would have been had I not got really, really lost. A combination of pride and fear prevented my asking directions so I wandered about the eastern reaches of Ixelles till I found a bus that went home.
Popping into a Night Shop I found the only bottle of Pinot Grigio in Brussels; possibly in Belgium. You simply don't see it here. It is now snuggling in my freezer compartment. Mindful of tomorrow being Monday, a conservative amount only will be drunk. The delight in finding it must still have been on my face when I crossed the road, as a gentleman wished me Bonsoir in the middle of the crossing. I've been invisible for years but here it seems not.
Just recently I've been re-reading Henry Miller's "Quiet Days in Clichy". I don't know why as it annoys the holy fuck out of me. It's a constant stream of women/whores (they seem to be fairly interchangeable for Miller) falling open like Easter eggs, and then glowing satedly after a hectic penis-ing. I'm tempted to think Miller never actually left his bedroom and just made it all up. If my life were written by Henry Miller, that chap who said Bonsoir would have turned and accompanied me home, where I'd fall open like a chocolate orange.
But life isn't actually like that. Well I don't think it is, anyway.