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January 11th; Saturday. In the morning visit the men at the hardware store to ask how I instal the new spring case for the shutter blinds. Later on, am on a bus under blue skies going along suburban streets approaching a hospital in southern Pest. With a leafless wood on one side of the road, sunlit cottages on the other, I glance up at the dot-matrix digital clock. The bus says it is 01:11:11:00, then as I watch clicking to 01:11:11:01. I've been getting lots of spam letters recently about noticing such numbers in plain view. When I look back up it's moved to 01:11:11:11. Down this road lies madness.
January 10th; Friday. Apparently those tiny water-bear things can freeze into some kind of glass. / Light sometimes comes out of people's eyes, horror-movie style?
January 9th; Thursday. El Trumpo's zapping of General Qassem Soleimani appears to have paid off. He was a co-ordinator of irregular militias in Iraq & Syria. Usual suspects are outraged. Seems that Ed Miliband somehow as a minister in 2007 vetoed an earlier opportunity to off the sinister-looking but very talented Iranian commander.
January 8th; Wednesday. A claim that unvaccinated Amish children don't get certain diseases. Though since they're socially isolated from epidemics and live lives low on stress, they might not be the best of control groups.
January 7th; Tuesday. Once again am sleepless from 3 to 6, and again eerie mood of inexplicable joy & beauty. Mutinous muttering among the goldbugs again.
January 6th; Monday. Much talk about how Australian bushfires are the fault of manmade global warming. Another
is they are the fault of
environmentalists (or perhaps just mentalists) who believe in manmade global warming, and have forced policy changes on logging
January 5th; Sunday. Awake in the small hours with strange stabbing feelings of indescribable happiness and gratitude: hard to put into words. Stumble over this woman's songs while trying to get back to sleep: Opening Night / As The World Turns / Aeroplane. This might be a case of less is less, but the record-cover image of her in flared slacks standing on someone's double bed is in some way exactly right for this echoey dream-ballad stuff.
January 4th; Saturday. Again go with Greek Michael to the nearby Indochinese soup restaurant. Place still full of well-presented fillies. Here's an interesting and clear piece about the alliance of Islam & leftism.
January 3rd; Friday. Later in day go with Greek Michael to the nearby Indochinese soup restaurant 100 paces from his door. Several tables of willowy girls with long, freshly-coiffed tresses are at tables in the restaurant, wearing the currently fashionable skintight black fake-leather leggings. I get the impression this place, only open 3 or 4 weeks, is still in its trendyness honeymoon as the new location in town to dress up and trawl for eligible bachelors, ie. men who aren't me.
January 2nd; Thursday. Much of the day we sit around the hearth, though there is an exciting mid-afternoon shopping trip to Kunszentmarton. Same night Andras & Denes cook a Hungarian dish for dinner and then drive back to town, giving me a lift. It seems that, even though they both slept last night in the only heated room at Robin's (its cosy grate heaped with glowing logs), the rural freshness was too much at least for Denes. Is modernism finally sinking?
January 1st; New Year's Day. Andras & Denes come down to Robin's and we drink to the New Year one day late. I show Denes the cow-moo device Andras gave me. Interview with idealist philosopher Bernardo Kastrup.
December 31st; New Year's Eve. Bela & I alone. I discover that the brown-paper-bag-and-ironing-board trick works. I vaguely recall my mother doing this, or perhaps talking about having once done it. Bela is fascinated as I iron through hot brown paper and the splashed wax stains on my nice soft black pullover lift right out hey presto. He asks do I think anyone elsewhere on earth is ironing out wax stains as New Year begins? My rather boring thought is if our time zone has 500 million+ people in it, there might well be a hundred or more folk tackling wax marks with irons and brown paper right now on this longitude. The wonder of large numbers.
December 30th; Monday. Robin & I watch 'Valerie & Her Week of Wonders', another film I've been meaning to watch properly all the way through for a few years. Although events are a little overdone halfway through during a set of crypt scenes, the magic-realism mood pulls the whole thing off. Something very odd about the Bohemians. This film about a girl coming of age occurs in an esoteric place and time, a village in Bohemia at some point in a perhaps rather unhistoric (give or take a straw hat) 17th-to-19th century span.
December 29th; Sunday. Robin & I watch 'Les Biches' (also known as 'Bad Girls'). Have been meaning to watch this for a few years now, not quite having the stomach to check out any of Chabrol's more blood-splattered films. Lots of buried psychological conflict between two steely beauties. All set in luxurious haute-bourgeois hipster France around 1968. Lacking subtitles, we didn't really follow the subtleties well with our very rusty French. Quite fresh, simple cinematography, not unlike some 1970s TV dramas. Clear, compelling opening credits and first scene.
December 28th; Saturday. I think it's today I make my first ever Yorkshire puddings, working from both a copy of the Constance Spry classic cookbook Robin inherited from his mother, and a Youtube video. Quite tasty for a first attempt, although the smoke I fill the kitchen with is a bit alarming. Especially worrying since, if anything, the puddings are underdone not overdone. Robin & I watch 'A Matter of WHO'. A very interesting 1961 black & white Terry Thomas comedy thriller we stumble across and watch on a whim. First of all, he is oddly new, yet different as a cheerful bowler-hatted, moustachioed English "germ detective" (an agent of the UN-affiliated World Health Agency of all things) hot on the heels of a smallpox outbreak between London and the Austrian Alps. Though he is clearly playing himself, the rogueish, witty Terry Thomas Naughty Gent of at least a dozen movies, something else stirred at the back of my mind. There is a gangstery scene in a cable car above the Alpine slopes vaguely reminiscent of the (made later, though set in WW2) 'Where Eagles Dare' movie, and as Thomas a couple of times surprises us wielding his furled umbrella, it snaps into focus. He is a prefiguring of the dapper British civil-servant/spy John Steed, also with comic bowler and umbrella, from the TV show The Avengers, also starting 1961. WHO is portrayed so mysteriously and approvingly, I wondered if they actually helped sponsor the film. This odd film is in fact both entertaining and clever, with some plot twists and genuine character development. Also something like an early Bond villain, a year ahead of the first of that franchise, 'Dr No', in 1962.
December 27th; Friday. Robin & I watch 'Baby Driver'. The director for over a decade wanted to make his pop video with the same concept into a full-length film. Finally he got the chance, and the result is nothing if not slick. Many scenes were shot & edited to fit round the soundtrack, rather than the other way round. The whole idea is a clever piece of identification fantasy. As so often, the trailer gives away much of what the film has to offer, and there is a definite loss of discipline halfway into the story. Towards the end, parts are cartoonish, and something goes wrong. The other bank robbers are too butch or villainous, for one thing.
December 26th; Thursday. Boxing Day. Drive after dark into flat, windswept countryside of central Hungary with Robin and Bela, discovering Cserkeszolo neighbour Comedian Dave with two daughters and ex-wife in a restaurant. Russian dog walks 200 miles to find girl who nursed it to health. But how?
December 25th; Christmas Day. Short, dark, sleep. Augustine & free will.
December 24th; Tuesday. Christmas Eve. Festive lunch with Textile-designer Edina, her mother, and her daughter. Later on, splendid feast at Irish Michael's antique-packed apartment, attended by Mark & Zoe and their two daughters. Remarkable Christmas pudding, soaked in rum & Cointreau. Michael & I natter late into small hours, discussing philistines, scholars, and
December 23rd; Monday. Possible forgotten influence on Edward Hopper.
December 22nd; Sunday. Depressing humour: the Married Kama Sutra.
December 21st; Saturday. Slightly dizzying photographs of Persian mosque ceilings.
December 20th; Friday. Unreported in Britain's largely pro-EU press, French strikers cut power to their central bank; French generals accuse Macron of treason.
December 19th; Thursday. Doctors euthanising patients to harvest organs? Hilarious to recall pompous medics angrily telling me such a thing was impossible.
December 18th; Wednesday. Have some researchers found a fifth force of nature?
December 17th; Tuesday. Interview with US Navy pilot who filmed a UFO he charmingly dubs the Tic Tac.
December 16th; Monday. Late at night with Andras, interesting discoveries about internal affairs at funny old Centrum.
December 15th; Sunday. Naked Mexican hero painted on perky horse: patriots irate.
December 14th; Saturday. Senior Labour figures reproach British voters for letting them down in the election. Ken Livingstone chides Britain's Jews as "unhelpful".
December 13th; Friday. Exit polls turn into proper counts and it emerges that the Tories did well and Labour did very badly. The only seat in the entire country won (as opposed to held) by Labour is wealthy London suburb Putney. Oddly enough the Putney Debates in 1647 saw the emergence of a kind of radical 'left' inside the Parliamentarians' New Model Army. A sort of prefiguring of the famous 1944 mock Parliament organised by British soldiers at Cairo, late in WW2.
December 12th; Thursday. A
general election in Britain.
December 11th; Wednesday. Warning on sexual morality - long essay, thoughtful.
December 10th; Tuesday. China forces face scans for phone users. Fraud, right?
December 9th; Monday. Charming, plausible American fraudster on a radio show. His style in interview eloquently shows how he did it.
December 8th; Sunday. Social-media vegan lady eats meat. Feels much better.
December 7th; Saturday. Man claims his farts kill or repel mosquitoes.
December 6th; Friday. While we discuss US politics back in the 1990s, Dr D. is momentarily unable to recall the name of Monica Lewinsky. "You know who I mean," he says, snapping his fingers as he tries to remember, "You know, you know --- the fat girl." Not how most English-speakers remember Bill Clinton's impeachment scandal, but: Continental values. Meanwhile, this politics chart claims to show the network of extremists on the Labour far left. Supposedly by some "retired spooks".
December 5th; Thursday. A cheerful talk about why cooking for yourself matters.
December 4th; Wednesday. Thought-provoking talks by Alan Watts, the inspiringly lucid Anglican/Buddhist active in the 1950s and 60s, some with low-key bits of instrumental music in the background.
Mystery of Time /
The Veil That Conceals Reality /
The Joker /
Outwitting the Devil /
Spectrum of Love.
December 3rd; Tuesday. Got to the end of 'The Devil Rides Out' by Dennis Wheatley (an interesting interview with him here). A mid-1930s novel which marked Wheatley's first foray (he had already successfully published 3 or 4 other thrillers) into the supernatural. Greeted by critics at the time as "the best thing of its kind since Dracula", it was adapted for film, along with later novels of his like 'To The Devil a Daughter'. Although big handsome motor cars with style and horsepower are a feature of the tale, there is something also of the 1880s Holmes stories: chilly, foggy outdoor scenes contrast with stuffy interiors. The indoor scenes are cosily padded out with comfortable old furniture, cigars, cheroots, deferential servants, and some totally routine heavy drinking. Even young vigorous characters, for example, find it quite a testing ordeal to stay inside a pentacle for 12 hours without their usual refills of wine and brandy. An unspoken dread in the background of the novel is that there should be another great war in Europe. Published in 1934, the threat that the magical beastliness unleashed by the chief villain might bring forth again the horsemen of the apocalypse, is explicitly part of the plot. Both the love-interest characters are East European totty - the young almost-English wife of one of the thoroughly decent eggs is in fact a beautiful girl "brought out of Russia", while the other exotic lass "mixed up in" the dark arts is a Hungarian girl named after a moon goddess. She must be rescued in all senses of the word by Rex, the bluff good-hearted American chum of "The Duke", chief warrior against the forces of evil. Main message of the tale is: Don't Look Into His Eyes!
December 2nd; Monday. Lunch with Tim. Snowy streets. Apparently coral makes a sound, and is encouraged if you play that sound back to it.
December 1st; Sunday. One of those articles claiming hot baths are as good as exercise. Looking forward to professional athletes abandoning training for hot baths. Could this be any link to zero gravity killing cancer cells?
Recent weblog entries
Who can translate the next 300 words into
us and there will be revelry.
Languages dying out each week
- who cares?
We do - otherlanguages.org is gradually building a reference resource for over five thousand linguistic minorities and stateless languages worldwide.
Thousands of unique language communities are becoming extinct. Out of the world's five to six thousand languages, we hardly know what we're losing, what literatures, philosophies, ways of thinking, are disappearing right now.
We may soon regret the extinction of thousands of entire linguistic cultures even more than we regret the needless extinction of many animals and plants.
The planet is increasingly dominated by a handful of major-language monocultures like Mandarin
Chinese, Hindi, Arabic, Indonesian, Urdu, Spanish, Portuguese,
English, Swahili, Russian, Cantonese Chinese, Japanese, Bengali - all
beautiful and fascinating languages.
But so are the 5,000 others.
These are groups of people?
Linguistic minorities are communities of ordinary people whose native tongue is not their country's main official language. Swedish speakers in Finland, French speakers in Canada, Hungarian speakers in Slovakia - and hundreds more - are linguistic minorities.
And totally stateless languages are the native languages of some of the world's most intriguing, little-known, cultures. Like the Lapps inside the Arctic Circle, the Sards in Sardinia, Ainus in Japan. Cherokee in the US, Scots
Gaelic in Britain, Friesian in the Netherlands, Zulu in South Africa.
There are only a couple of hundred recognised sovereign states and territories, so 5,000 languages - more depending on how you count - are the native tongues of linguistically stateless people.
How could I help?
You don't need to learn an endangered
language - any more than go to live in the rainforest to help slow its destruction.
A good start is to just tell friends
about websites like this.
Broader public interest makes it easier
for linguists to raise funds and organise people to learn these languages while there's time.
That's right. There are people who love languages and are happy to learn them on behalf of the rest of us, but they need support, just like zoologists, botanists, or historians.
Fewer languages still sounds good to me
Depends what you think languages are for. They're not just a tool for business. We never said you should learn three or four thousand rare languages - or even one. And which ones we make children learn in school, or whether we should force children to learn languages at all, is another question.
Typical scene in a European city;
Chances are, folk here speak some sort of foreign
A century ago - before we understood ecology, and when we cared less about wilderness, most educated people would have laughed at the idea of worrying about plants or animals going extinct. Now we understand how important species diversity is for our own futures, we are more humble, and more worried.
In the same way, linguistic triumphalism by English-speakers who hated studying foreign grammar at school is dangerously ignorant as well as arrogant. Few of us know what we are losing, week by week.
How many people realise these languages have scientific value?
You can think of these languages across the planet as beautiful cathedrals or precious archeological sites we are watching being destroyed. That should be motive enough.
But these five thousand languages may also hold clues to the structure of the human mind. Subtle differences and similarities
between languages are helping archeologists and anthropologists to understand what happened in the hundreds of centuries of human history before written history. And that is one of our best chances of understanding how human brains developed over the thousands of centuries leading up to that.
Wireless radio can be a great comfort to those unable
to leave the textbooks in which they live *6
Study of the mind and study of language go hand in hand these days. The world's most marginal languages are actually precious jigsaw pieces from an overall picture of who we are and how our species thinks and evolves. Every tiny language adds another brightly-coloured clue to this academic detective story.
Yet researchers have hardly started sifting through this
tantalising evidence, and language extinction is washing it away right in
front of us.
And worst of all, most people have no idea that there is this
fantastic profusion of cultures across our world, let alone that
they are in danger of extinction. Even just more people learning that
there are still five thousand living languages in the world today (most
of us would answer five hundred or fifty) is already a huge help.
We English-speakers hardly notice English - it's like air for us.
But every other language is also an atmosphere for an entire cultural world,
and each of these worlds has people whose home it is. Each language encapsulates a unique way of talking and thinking about life. Just try some time in a foreign prison, being forced to cope in another language, and you'll realise how much your own language is your identity. That's true for everyone.
Minority languages are a
One of the most basic.
Dozens of millions of people worldwide suffer persecution from national governments for speaking their mother tongue - in their own motherland.
Many 'ethnic' feuds puzzling to
outsiders had as their basis an attempt to destroy a linguistic community.
Would the Northern Ireland dispute be quite so bitter if we
English had not so nearly stamped out the Irish Gaelic language, for
example? Almost nowhere in the world does a language community as
small as the few thousand Rheto-Romanic speakers - the fourth
official language of Switzerland - get the protection of a national
government. Next time you see some Swiss Francs, check both sides of the
But outside exceptional countries like
Switzerland or the Netherlands, speakers of non-official
languages have a much less protected experience.
Speakers of minority languages are often seen as a threat by both the governments and the other residents of the countries where they were born, grew up, and try to live ordinary lives.
They experience discrimination in the job and education markets of their homelands, often having no choice but to pursue education in the major language of the host state: a deliberate government policy usually aimed at gradually absorbing them into the majority culture of that country.
Mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, of course *7
Most governments are privately gleeful each time another small
separate culture within their borders is snuffed out by a dwindling
population or a deliberately centralising education system.
The United Nations is no help. It is an association of a couple of hundred sovereign states based on exclusive control of territory, almost all of them anxious to smother any distinct group or tradition that in any way might blur or smudge the hard-won borders around those pieces of territory.
The usual approach by sovereign states is to deny their linguistic minorities even exist.
Mark Griffith, site administrator /
*1 image from , with thanks
back up to top of page
*2 "Al-Araby" in written
*3 "What?" in American Sign
Language; image from , with thanks
*4 "Big" in written
(read more); image from , with
*5 image from , with
*6 image from , with
*7 image from
'B?ume', with thanks to
Bruno P. Kramer,
and Franckh-Kosmos Verlag
November 30th; Saturday. Historian suggests the origins of Islam were different than we believe. Late in the evening, finish 'Meetings With Remarkable Men' by Gurdjeff, which I've been meaning to read since school. That was after enjoying Colin Wilson's account of him (I think called 'The War Against Sleep') from the public library. There are many warnings about this book, claiming it's an invented autobiography filled with fairy stories, and so on, but it's loosely plausible. For one thing, none of the men are really that remarkable. There are signs that this is a storyteller spinning yarns (the account of crossing the Gobi Desert during a sandstorm on stilts is sweet), but also that Gurdjeff wasn't really a writer. I got more the impression of a gifted talker and raconteur fairly randomly writing down some of his more successful tales. The spell in a monastery somewhere in Central Asia run by the "World Brotherhood" is left hanging oddly, as if it cannot be resolved because the prewar cult leader's own project (codenamed 'The Work') needs to be seen to follow from it. One of Gurdjeff's followers in his growing private sect at this time was P.J. Travers, creator of Mary Poppins. 'The Work' involved a quasi-religious fusion of dance & movement therapy. In the closing pages, this is casually prefigured at that mysterious monastery's "dancing priestess" training, as if to make the guru's own 1920s venture at Fontainebleau a live epilogue to this vague, open-ended book. Towards the end, started wondering how much Paulo Coelho was trying for something similar.
November 29th; Friday. Interesting article about luxury viewpoints. The idea is that political opinions are often a form of status display.
November 28th; Thursday. List of folk songs written by pre-WW1 'Wobblies' union organiser Joe Hill.
November 27th; Wednesday. An intriguing pair of articles one and two about the little-discussed White Helmets group, and now-dead MP Jo Cox's involvement with them.
November 26th; Tuesday. Electric cars will create a battery-waste problem? Seems there were near-crashes in the new Boeing's simulator. Some cheering work on a virus to kill cancer tumours. Curious study says queens were more warlike than kings. Adorable little animation showing cuts to make triangles into squares, squares into hexagons, and hexagons into triangles.
November 25th; Monday. Finish 'Supernormal' by Dean Radin, more thought-provoking stuff about his experiments with quantum-anomalies and what he calls "micro-telekinesis".
November 24th; Sunday. Robin and I stroll around after dark and drop into a Protestant church built in 1913, and chat with the organ master. Afterwards, we have a night-time coffee on the stretch of Andrassy street near his flat, and we see the eerie sight of a small van moving from lamp-post to lamp-post mounting strings of white Christmas lights and switching them on, one set at a time. I suddenly recall one of Travers' Mary Poppins stories about a man in suburban London with a ladder into the sky whose secret job it was to put the stars up into the firmament each night.
November 23rd; Saturday. A 'Fresnel-Prism' lens seen in Labour leader Mr Corbyn's spectacles suggest he might in recent months have suffered a minor stroke.
November 22nd; Friday. In the quiet flat, when I sleep on the floor I can feel, not hear, a very faint distinct throbbing coming from the floor into my head - around two beats a second. I think it must be a pump a few floors down in the building's heating system moving water or oil through all its radiators. In other news, there's a horse so lazy it plays dead when someone wants to ride it.
November 21st; Thursday. Provocative set of short films alleges that Sumerians knew of the planets Uranus, Neptune, & Pluto only discovered by modern Europeans after the 1780s. Enjoyably, the film has lots of attractive close-up images of cuneiform-script tablets.
November 20th; Wednesday. Finish the third of three astrology books borrowed from Esoteric Veronica: 'Aspect Pattern Astrology' by Bruno Huber, Louise Huber, & Michael Huber. This is all about trines, squares, and all the other traditional geometrical relations between houses and planets in birth charts.
November 19th; Tuesday. Steady yourselves, citizens: Terence McKenna's darling yet also alarming "DMT elves" want the elite to kill us all?
November 18th; Monday. Late evening, at the all-night shop on Kiraly street, a group of two males and three brunettes, all speaking Russian, are roaming the shelves of the crowded store buying potato crisps and drinks on the way to some party. All three girls wear skin-tight glossy black leggings showing pert bottoms in perfect detail, and all three are pretty with doe-like eyes, but they're not sisters. Earlier, in the late afternoon at the hairdresser I was telling a couple of Russian-girl anecdotes, and a Hungarian male colleague of my barber Istvan lounging exhausted in a nearby chair (while Istvan snips away at my locks), remarks that Russian lasses reliably have lovely legs and beautiful eyes. Perhaps this was the conversation that conjured the group at midnight. Meanwhile, things seem to be kicking off
November 17th; Sunday. Russian professor who routinely dresses as Napoleon found in river with severed limbs of ex-girlfriend in his knapsack.
November 16th; Saturday. Albanian drug gang in Italy has hidden cocaine stash snaffled by wild, furry, forest boars. Oink!
November 15th; Friday. Swedish bombings in 2019 pass 100 explosions. Apparently gang wars between, er -- recent arrivals in the Scandinavian nation.
November 14th; Thursday. Poignant glimpse of 1967 futurists talking about now. What is genuinely refreshing is that they seem quite clever, serious people who mostly emphasise we can choose what kinds of futures we create.
November 13th; Wednesday. At the cafe Art Dealer Tony introduced me to, the outdoor stretch of tables with the fat, arsey pigeons somehow a fortnight back became shorter. A single line of tables along the pavement extends between a large potted shrub and a cylindrical poster stand, and for a few seconds I couldn't work out what had changed. Then I realised the shrub had been moved to bring 6 or 7 tables down to just 4. Smoothly adapting to the cooler weather.
November 12th; Tuesday. Finish a book Esoteric Veronica lent me: 'The Planets' by Bruno and Louise Huber: good overview of the effects astrologers conventionally say nearby planets (a term that includes sun & moon) have on birth charts.
November 11th; Monday. Exciting test of my logistical skills. I catch the early bus from Tiszainoka (there are 3 or 4 a day only) to the next village, meet Seamstress Aranka who has done her stitching just as well but faster this time, get into the "centre" of Tiszakurt and follow directions from two affable locals to get a bus to Kecskemet, from where I get a train to Budapest's West Bahnhof, right by Dr D.'s office at the Supreme Court for our 11.30 lesson. Using the train loo to change into the government-office-compatible trousers that Aranka had mended felt vaguely bank-heist caper-ish in a low-budget sort of way.
November 10th; Sunday. Gloomy, rainy day at Robin's in countryside. Is the EU a menace to freedom?
November 9th; Saturday. Journey out to the Great Plain by train. Spend three hours consuming cider, coffee, and slices of Margharita in the pizzeria at Lakitelek station until darkness falls. After some explanation of what has gone wrong, the curvy barmaid's boyfriend Christopher kindly drives me across the plains where it mainly rains (at least tonight) to Robin's house at one end of Tiszainoka.
November 8th; Friday. Discomfortingly effective Moscow-based study makes progress in using computers to see into minds.
November 7th; Thursday. Policemen packing heat seal off Andrassy street for a visit by Turkey's Mr Erdogan (once described by Boris Johnson as the "wankerer from Ankara"). They try to stop me entering a building where I temporarily have a key to an apartment. I persuade them I'm actually sleeping there.
November 6th; Wednesday. Article about hybristophilia (sexual attraction to violent people) tiptoes around discussing whether women are more prone to this.
November 5th; Tuesday. Turns out that degree-educated pensioners are more gullible and easily defrauded than the rest. Suggests standards for access into higher education fell at least fifty years ago, roughly dated by the creation of that swathe of new universities like Essex, Sussex, Warwick, Southamption, Exeter etc.
November 4th; Monday. Meet Marion for major natter while she's stuck indoors waiting for electric-meter men. Weather chillier now. You ask: what might superhappiness be?
November 3rd; Sunday. Meet Andras. We drive around after dark looking for the Vietnamese soup he likes. Then we find an Indochinese place close to Keleti railway station with an extraordinary bottled drink tasting of roses. Apparently he just spent three days in a Benedictine monastery.
November 2nd; Saturday. Interesting piece about how the 2nd attempt to impeach El Trumpo goes down in some US swing states.
November 1st; Friday. At the EU shell campaign to reverse the referendum result by doing it again & again & again until we get it right: trouble brews.
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