It’s only the river

Did I forget to mention, to mention Memphis
Home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks
Do I smell? I smell home cooking
It's only the river, it's only the river.

Matt and Steve deliver the Cucumber and Raspberries workshop first thing. I sit in and watch, emitting emails across the flurrying western world.

Later, the three of us head downtown. We play the comedy tourists trying to buy metro tickets, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.

We drink a bottle of Douro on a pedestrian street, before walking along the river for another. This establishment brings us, unasked, a plate of crisps and then another - for which they charge us €2.50 per plate. From there to some pub in the centre of town to hang out with other conference folk. There’s more wine and a fine selection of meats, cheese, and warped humour. Matt goes to pay the bill and returns with a glass of port each.

I walk home via Matt and Steve’s place. We play knockout whist and cribbage, while sipping Japanese whisky. Eventually I head home. A guy is also going into the apartment block. He lets me in, locking the front door behind him. On the second floor, I ring the bell repeatedly, but no one answers. I can’t get out through the locked front door and I can’t get into the flat. Eventually the same man lets me back out onto the street. I’ve been stuck in the next door block (297) while at my apartment (277), the keys languish under the semicircular matting. All’s well that ends well.