19.12.17 - Mosca morta

Winter is coming here on the Côte, and we do our best to fend it off with hearty broth and brisk walks along the ramparts. 

On Thursday night we donned our 3D glasses and went to see a Star War at the local cinema (one which involved a scene in a glamorous city full of war criminals which was basically Monaco), followed by a lovely dinner out on Friday night and a 5-hour constitutional round the Cap on Saturday, and the filming of our Xmas PSA called "Down in Antibes".

On Sunday we checked out the multitude of Xmas villages which have popped up around Antibes, ice rinks and all, and checked out the now-traditional feeding of the masses in the Safranier commune with a 15-metre-long cake (pictured here on fire) and vin chaud. It is, in fact, beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

To that end I point you in the direction of last year's Xmas mix, as well as a new one wot I made earlier this week, and my phrase of the day means "dead fly", or someone's who's a bit of a wet blanket, essentially. I believe the opposite is "barata louca" ("crazy cockroach").

Tomorrow I ride for London, until then, turrah,

Hit the Nail on the Fred

12.12.17 - Você não vale café sem açucar

Yo yo yo,

Christmas is nearly upon us, but here in Antibes I've been stuck in the unpredictable churn of work that usually takes place once our usual contracted stuff runs out for the year, in the hope that eventually it'll peter out and we can have some peace.   

We've also been to Nice for the day, which was spiffing and involved a trek around the bay, up the hill, under a waterfall, along the beach and finally up the main drag to the station, past the Xmas market and impromptu shrine to the late Johnny Hallyday.  

I've been swimming, I've been ill, I found out Radiohead are playing São Paulo next year, I made a pizza, I've had a pizza at the Elysée Carnot which was as emotional as you'd expect, and ended up singing a Disney cover to a bunch of strangers last night during an aperitif soirée in the driving rain.  It's all happening...

I've lovingly crafted another compilation, and my phrase of the week is a particularly damning put-down - "you're not worth coffee without sugar".  Coffee is a cultural touchstone in Brazil: if you want to say someone or something is completely unremarkable, you can say they're "café com leite" (milky coffee), or indeed "carne de vaca" (cow meat) or "água com açucar" (sugar water). Got it?

'Til the next time,

Frediterranean

05.12.17 - Fazer fusquinha

Week 2 on the Côte, and we are constantly on the move or making tea to keep warm...  We've been round the Cap to Juan-les-Pins, stopping off at a Christmas market in someone's front garden, and hosted an art exhibition in the flat as part of Premiers Vendredis, which was a roaring success despite the downpour that accompanied it.

Yesterday I went to check out an open mic night down the road and ended up playing drums in a makeshift jazz combo, before making way for the pros with their saxophones and French horns, which was rather fun.   And I'm currently in Monaco, having a wander while dad does some work down by the stadium. It's alright...

Today's phrase, "fazer fusquinha", means to show off in a needlessly ostentatious way - "fusquinha" is also the Brazilian term of affection for the VW Beetle, although I don't think the two are related.  And on that bombshell,

Ciao for now,

Fred

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