It must be the heat

I am feeling so lazy. Well I am lazy, so nothing new there, but my brain seems to have gone soggy with the heat, I'm finding it hard to concentrate on anything and frequently have to re-read the same paragraph several times as I'm not taking things in. I'm not doing anything worth blogging about, so here is my favourite Brussels mural - which I have to re-shoot on a day/at a time when the streetlamp doesn't throw such an ugly shadow over it. I was reminded of it by the cover of today's "The Bulletin" which features an illustration by Philippe Joisson (google asks me if I don't mean Philippe POISSON!!) that reminds me of this mural - though perhaps only because there is a tram in it! In fact it would seem there often is, I don't think I'd better show the illustration from The Bulletin for copyright reasons, but it's not unlike this other drawing of his, if not quite as colourful. Anyway, this mural in rue des Bogards, off rue du Midi, isn't by him, but by Dupuy & Berberian, and the subject is "Monsieur Jean", who I take to be the chappy in the pink jacket. I'm not very well up on Belgian comic-strips but I do like coming across these murals in unexpected places all over the city.

Evocative sentence of the day

"I was in Luxor on one of those summer days when the tarmac goes soft and brains go softer".
From "The Pharaoh's Shadow: Travels in Ancient and Modern Egypt" by Anthony Sattin.

No smoking, please!

Last night we had some excitement in my building: at around 11, the fire alarms all started shrieking and I eventually decided I had better leave the building. I went down the stairs - 10 floors - in some trepidation, but didn't actually see or smell smoke until I got to the ground floor. It seems something was on fire in the garage but we were allowed back into the building after about an hour, and there is little sign of damage this morning. Luckily!

Giulietta

Anyone for barbecued cat? Makes a change from hot dogs, anyway!

Who are we?

"I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities that I have visited, all my ancestors..."
Jorge Luis Borges, quoted in "Mishima's Sword" by Christopher Ross

Deep dreams

Dreamt last night of a boy repeatedly telling me "My name is Ahndeep". How come the dreams they interpret in magazines are always so obvious, and mine make no sense whatsoever?