There was that time, right, when I went to the zoo with a dear friend and her two kids, and was left with the older one, in a stroller to save his tired little legs, while the other was taken for changing. And, because he likes trains, parked him up next to the little train line so we could wave at the passing little train.

And, after I had stood there, waving for a little bit, and chatting away to him about trains and who was on the train and where the train was going, I was disturbed from my waving by a voice behind me shouting “Excuse me? Ma’am? Is THIS yours?”, and, some dozens of yards away, a small family were standing by the stroller of my tiny charge, which had - without my knowledge - left my side, and rolled to a gentle stop just next to the lion pit.

Apparently, prams have brakes.
Brakes I hadn’t put on.
Who knew?

I ran, flustered, and grabbed the handles of the buggy, checking first on my little friend within, who had not noticed anything was awry, and was chatting away, assuming me to have been responsibly at the helm all the time. “Oopsies!” I said in my poshest winsome English accent “I didn’t know - ha ha ha ha - these contraptions had brakes! I’m not - ooh hoo hoo hoo hee - I’m not a parent, you see!”

“Probably best…” They joked, somewhat cruelly.
And quite, y’know, accurately.

And we all went off to enjoy our separate days off (although me and my little charge went in the same direction, this time), and my dear friend forgave, with deep sighs of patience for her chaotic childless Me, and that was that. And it was the kind of thing I meant to blog about, and then forgot.

It should be noted that there were no lions in the pit at the time.

Not that I would have remembered to blog about it any more urgently if there were.
That seems like a wrong thing to suggest.
I’m going to stop now.

This is how my brain works:

On the last night of my holiday, I was in the kitchen of our vacation apartment, pouring a couple of glasses of wine for me and my companion. I noticed, while doing this, that there were two towels folded neatly and placed in front of the washing machine.

My second thought was “Ah. Those are the beach towels. My considerate friend has left them there so that the owner of the vacation apartment can launder them.”

However, this came some distance behind my first thought, which was (and get ready for this, because it’s a blinder) … ahem:

“Oh no. My friend is so bored of my company she has been attempting to drown herself. These towels are surely evidence to the fact she has been attempting to do herself in by sticking her head in the washing machine.”

This thought troubled me for a good few minutes before tiny beasts of common sense managed to get the very tip of the tiniest claw into the corner of my illogical chaos of a brain.
I mean, I’m not saying it hadn’t crossed her mind. But I’m not sure it’s actually possible. How would you shut the door properly?

Radio silence. For all of last week, and some of the week before, I realise. I have been poor. Or rather, brain-stuffed and bad at prioritising.
The story of this blog the last five years, basically, yes, I know.

Apart from that, however, I have been in Portugal, having abandoned My Beloved and My Cats for DAYS ON END and run away with a friend in order to find a greater likelihood of sunshine and greater incidence of sleep.

As a country, as a place to go to, I recommend Portugal. Portugal is good.
For those who have not been, I highly recommend it. I particularly recommend Lisbon, and the areas immediately around it to the north, west and south, especially as these happen to be:
a) The Most Beautiful Areas I Have EVER SEEN In ALL OF PORTUGAL and
b) The only bits of Portugal I have ever been to.

I’m sure the rest of it is lovely as well. I have just not been to those bits so I don’t feel as comfortable giving them my wholehearted endorsement.

The things I like particularly about Portugal include:

1) The Pasteis de Nata, which are the very greatest kind of custard pie that ever there were. I have long wanted to know how to make them. And one day I will learn, but only when I am able to stop myself from eating them ALL.

2) The old ladies, dressed in black: I always imagine they are talking about very sage and serious things. They are probably talking about Portugal’s Got Talent, or something, but, in their hushed murmurs and impenetrable whispers, I prefer to think they are talking about the very mysteries of womanhood.

3) The amazing, unfathomably complex Portuguese language. Which I love to listen to, managed to work my way around by reading very in the most basic fashion… but speaking it? No. No no no no no. Never. Mainly because the words on the page seem to bear almost no resemblance whatsoever to the noises coming out of anyone’s mouth. I mean, I know they MUST, in theory, but in practice? Not so much.
It appears - and I’m aware I’m probably wrong here - that the remarkable thing about Portuguese is that words seem to contain lots of silent letters, that you MUSTN’T pronounce when speaking them out loud, and lots of invisible letters that you MUST pronounce when speaking the words out loud. The best thing about invisible letters, of course, being that you have no idea which letters those are. It is VERY clever.

4) The Fish: The dead ones. The dead ones that I can eat. I like them a lot.

5) Basically All of the rest of it. I commend it. Well done, Portugal.