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Today was a holiday in Portugal. This meant that both the National Library and the university were closed (although, since I am a university employee, I could always go in - but enough of that). I thought that I would take the opportunity to do some shopping, make travel arrangements and visit the annual Book Fair (Feira do Livro). Rather foolishly, I thought that I would be able to do all this without having to return to the flat at some point. Never one to press on when surrender appears to be the sensible option, I did just that, and returned to the flat laden with newly purchased goods and dripping in sweat from the oppressive humidity. I collapsed into a chair and was promptly handed a nice cold glass of beer by my flatmate and landlord, Charles, who was being visited by someone I have not seen in almost 8 years. Peter Flannigan is, so I am told - for I am no expert in these matters, one of the best cellists in Europe. The last time I remember seeing him was at my 34th birthday party when, in the early hours of the morning in a very busy Irish pub, he used his very expensive cello as a double bass to accompany my (not entirely sober) renditions of Stray Cat Strut and Be-Bop-A-Lu-La. After some reminiscences, it was time for me to be on the road again - still had to visit the book fair. I waited until it had cooled down a little before venturing out. I had a leisurely stroll around the massive fair (too much to see in one go), which is held in Lisbon's Parque Eduardo VII, and bought a couple of books that were massively reduced from the shop price (although that did nothing to reduce their weight). Earlier in the day I had bought a day ticket for Lisbon's public transport. You would think that I am old enough to learn. Like the stereotypical Scotsman that I so obviously am, I was determined to get my money's worth from the ticket - so that meant using it on the bus at least five times - whether I needed to or not. This involved me changing buses when the sensible thing to do would be not to. Typically, I ended up waiting at a bus stop for almost 40 minutes before the fact that the last bus had been and gone 50 minutes ago finally dawned on me. As a result, I had to walk - complete with two very (physically) heavy books and my usual photographic gubbins - for almost one mile in the sultry Lisbon night to the nearest tram stop at Janelas Verdes. I finally got back to the flat at around midnight, had a shower, a chat with Charles, then collapsed into my bed to the sound of my new Caetano Veloso CD where I read about a paragraph of one of my new books. Before I knew it, I was scoring the winning try for Scotland against England in the rugby world cup final.

This time last year I was beside some cold water