Back from Chamonix in France. Had intended to be sailing a Swedish Icebreaker built in 1905, from Dover to Paris and back but the small trouble with suspected terrorist attacks shafted my plane journey, and a small but vital part of the Boats engine (the dweewhistle, I have named it) was still on order from the only surving supplier, in Austria. So, Chamonix and alps it was for a glorious week of arthritis and drinking.
Have been given to some light introspection due to holidays and the absence of computers to dumb my senses. Nothing earth shattering, just a general mulling. It’s nice to have a brother. Yup. It was his apartment we stayed in, and only the influence of such a constant and older and wiser companion would have convinced me that it was a good idea to don hiking boots and walk uphill for prolonged periods of time, followed by a shorter but more painful descent. Why? Well not the “ooo, I’ve climbed a summit” sense of satisfaction that is in the figurative brochure for these activities, but for the “I’m thourougly knackered and it’s probably done me some good and now I can eat my own weight in restaurant food and not worry that my thighs will take on the appearence of a giant kebab carousel”. So shallow, but eventually you come to accept it.
On return to Amsterdam, as I staggered home to my bijoux flat in “sleeping city” (the Oost) I was cheered by an encounter with a stranger. He slouched looking swarthy and dangerous on a bench by the roadside, the kind of figure you would cross the road to avoid at night. He was in mid yawn as our eyes met. Embarrassed he looked away and hid his mouth with his hand. I thought that was charming. Masking with an almost involuntary gesture of politeness. Maybe his Mum had taught him that.
People are alright.