28.11.17 - A última bolacha do pacote

I write to you in Antibes, and since I am now among my usual audience - my immediate family - I'm now writing this blog for my own gratification, and if anyone else reads it so much the better.

 

On Wednesday I went to Jack and Julie's riverside house in Shepperton for a catch-up with them and Finn the baby, before heading across London and on to Ely the next day, for gallons of soup and tea with the grandparents in Isleham.   After a wander round Ely the next morning, and a slap-up Chinese meal in nearby Fordham, it was time to move on to Antibes, via the delights of Ryanair and Stansted airport, to gorge on lasagna and address my perpetually bunged-up head.

On Sunday we met up with Juliet and Mel at their Mougins hotel porter's lodge, and head up a mountain pass for a hike through the wilderness of Courmettes, plus pan bagnat sarnies and pains au chocolat. And yesterday I became reacquainted with vieil Antibes and Scrabble, which I'm glad to report I still rule at.

I've made another compilation - the hundredth since I started numbering them, although of course there have been many more outside the official canon - and today's phrase means "the last biscuit in the packet", to be applied to anyone who thinks they're god's gift and blessed with unique talents for any given situation. 

Ciao for now, Fred

Fred

22.11.17 - Desse mato não sai coelho

Hallooo,

I write to you from the jazz-inflected surroundings of the Foyles café, on my whistlestop tour of London, and following the successful work do out in Berkshire over the past few days.  

But first: before I left we had a preemptive birthday party for Gaby on Friday night in our building's "party room" (she then had a family BBQ on the actual day), which was fun and fuelled by caipirinhas and cake, despite a torrential downpour outside.   My flight over was interesting - I tried to be clever and choose a seat with extra legroom, but it turned out to be in the place where they put small children, so I had a screaming child basically in my lap the whole night.  

I got to Cliveden House on Sunday afternoon and didn't leave my room until the next morning, making full use of the bath and room service facilities, then rushed through two days of herding statesmen, printing statements, overseeing discussion groups and eating three-course meals until it was time to hitch a ride into London with my boss's luggage.

Having dropped off my suitcase at Kika's Bloomsbury office I hung out in a new Swedish smorgsabord place on Tottenham Court Road, before we went for a review courtesy of my erstwhile Fluid London editor, on a boat opposite the London Eye, which was a pleasant blast from the past featuring steak and fine wines.  And now I'm laying low in Central London before heading to Shepperton to see Jack and the family, before hitting up Ely/Isleham tomorrow. Then on to Nice!

No compilation this week unfortunately; my expression of the day translates as "from this forest no rabbit will come", and is used to express frustration towards fruitless situations, if you're that way inclined.

See you sooooon,

Fred, 'til you get enough

14.11.17 - Ter alguém na geladeira

What ho,

Less than a week 'til my European grand tour kicks off, and we're doing plenty of last minute shopping/washing/cat herding/conference planning in anticipation, stopping only for ice cream and a quick Friday afternoon trip to Cidade Jardim for STEAK. We also made fondue, which went reasonably well, and I tried my hand at making pastéis (pictured, slightly burnt). And there was much rejoicing.

I've made another mixtape, and my phrase of the day ("to have someone in the fridge") first rose to prominence in Wesley Safadão's timeless classic "Camarote"; as I understand it, "having someone in the fridge" means you have an unsuspecting Plan B on call somewhere if your main man/woman falls through (as one would defrost a ready meal if one's grand plans for dinner don't work out).   

Speak to you soon, and the next one of these will be from Lahndahn, hopefully.

Fred the Mechanic

07.11.17 - Outros quinhentos

Wotcha,

Had a rather chilled-out week including a stroll round the cemetery next door on the Day of the Dead (it was packed with folks sweeping graves, putting down flowers and setting fire to an entire supporting wall with commemorative candles, which I assumed was a Day of the Dead tradition and not just straight-up arson), a couples' night out in the Zona Leste on Friday night (attached is a photo of the men, striking very manly poses), a visit to an outlet outside Campinas on Saturday for a burger in a shipping container, and a family lunch on Sunday with Gaby's grandparents.

Et maintenant: I've made a rather low-key compilation, and the phrase of the week - "another five hundred" - means "another story altogether".  The saying originated in arcane Portuguese legislation (unlike another English equivalent, "a whole other kettle of fish", which is totally straightforward). 

Speak soon!

Fredator