Thursday: Bruges is three á trois kerken session.

Vanishing into booze is the only answer. Truly. Tomorrow I seek those graves where men have made red earth since the very earliest head crushing, pole punctuating and head bleeding violent nonsense: how did this? Bruges isn't always but it is mostly. Fickle me with bust nor quim left to feister release before a cold cold front touches those regions as yet free of wool.

In the Monks Arse I finally resolve a local to provide me Pannepot. Bliss but it took me all night to find this malt sock. Three black stairs undid me and I tripped like a triple bastard fool into a urinal waiting for the laughter and the abuse but this was imagined in the fall.

I was brought up to think all fast food was always the same (pasty or sausage roll, fish or chips) but I am sure Belgium did early as theirs is soberly esteemed. Tried a local taste and can't understand the speed with which they seek to deliver frozen chips! Gentle-creatures on a bike so you must dodge them like straight rain drops. Without options self cleaning in a sink feels my felt bits cleaner but odd and harmless; yet in a short alley I am neither Paris or Madrid. The weather is clement and hardy but requires no felt, tweed or cashmere. Morrow we clear to stop the war beyond bayonets 1914 etcetera and I won't play the role officiously it is 2013(please forget).