Summer Diary: Part 2

 6 min. read

Tues. 5 July: I bump into Guy-the-Braggard again at a language exchange. It's my first time at said event. We lock eyes as he speaks to another guest. I pretend not to know him. Not very Christian, I'm aware. Strange, as I had planned to be honest with him about the bad impression he left a few days ago. Perhaps nobody has called him up on it. Or he surrounds himself with like-minded egos. Try to make amends on leaving but he’s long gone. Otherwise, a good night. Get some French practice and a little Portuguese with a Brazilian woman whose attention Guy has been commandeering earlier. A Scot with whom I recently became acquainted, breaks the news that Rishi Sunak and Sajid Javid have walked out on Boris Johnson’s cabinet.
By the end of the week, coordinated mass resignations force BoJo to quit as PM.

Fri. 8 July: Another rewarding afternoon at the Red Cross PSA Centre. Even at my lowest, it always picks me up. Just to be able to meet, in some small way, the momentary needs of those who have suffered – and continue to suffer – more than I can imagine. I understand it’s only temporary relief and not systemic change. But when that merciless system continues to treat certain migrants and refugees with contempt, I like to believe we play our part in affirming their dignity. Besides, meeting short term needs doesn't mean one can't have their eye on long term transformation.

Today, a healthy café chain has donated posh salads and sandwiches. Warmly received by the beneficiaries. 

Irresistibly cute sisters, Rachel and Celestina are scampering about, very happy with themselves. They're the youngest children of one of the regulars, originally from Albania. There are six older siblings. Their mother is so slight, a strong bowel movement might split her in half, let alone bearing eight children. We're all amazed by this feat.

Rachel insists she’s 7. I'm not buying it. She calls her mum over to confirm. I smile but still not convinced. Rachel is feisty and definitely as sharp as an older child but still...The petite family trait aside, I’d say 4-5 years old, tops.  They have their reasons for concealing her real age.

The RC Centre is en route to my therapist, Sandrine. Recently given to booking sessions the same day I’m in the vicinity. Always an emotional commute. Obligated to pass the neighbourhood of my former Italian friend. Involuntarily stirs all those complex feelings.

The hour flies by. So busy catching up Sandrine on my latest mood dips, don’t get round to the childhood stuff. Still, I’m relieved and grateful to be able to discuss my issues with a professional.

Sat. 9 July: Arranged to meet with Albertina, an acquaintance of Karin who’s involved in disability rights’ campaigns. I'm interested in volunteering opportunities.  It's not as ‘sexy’ as other issues despite the huge number of people living with disabilities worldwide. Often at the back of the queue, even amongst so-called progressives. If the voices of those living with disabilities were at the centre of policymaking, everybody would benefit. Been challenged by an interview I watched not too long ago with advocate Amanda Leduc, where she criticises mere lip service to disability rights without doing the ground work.

Lovely afternoon at a Colombian café with Albertina. Let’s me know the lay of the land vis-à-vis disability campaigning in Belgium. Also an opportunity to hear her own story; her early years in Italy, of how she came to work in human rights, her multilingualism and why she and her Togolese husband relocated to Belgium.

After chat with Albertina, I pass by a funk workshop at Parc Royale. Part of a summer festival. Participants are mainly maladroit Caucasians, excited about discovering rhythm. Tutors are an older African-American and a young Belgian woman. She has a better all-round groove but his popping game is sharper. DJ spins some old school Hip-Hop Funk, including Redhead Kingpin & The FBI's Do The Right Thing. Feels as if I haven’t heard it since Spike Lee’s film of the same name was released. I’m so old, I bemoan.

One of the maladroit Caucasians approaches me for a dance. Apparently, he’s been watching me groove on the sly in my deck chair. I politely refuse. He wonders if I’m shy.  He'd usually be, he confesses. It’s not a question of shyness. What I don’t say is that his over-zealous relationship with rhythm would make for a cringe-inducing dance partnership. I don't burst his bubble, though.

Another dance-related event awaits, at the elaborate beach-themed pop-up bar, Terrasse 02; near Bois-de-la-Cambre. It’s heaving. Most are dressed to the nines. In my usual smart-casual gear and still feel slightly-underdressed. By sheer fortune, I stumble across the activity organiser and a few other guests. Neglectful host... Abandons us to hang out with some mates he knows from Facebook. That’s his style, I'm told. 

A couple of us admire a petite brunette dancing solo, wearing a resplendent coral mini-dress and golden stiletto sandals. 

Seems very content on her own, sipping from her glass of Moet between puffs of successive cigarettes. She warms the dancefloor long before anyone else joins her. She's prematurely aged by sun damage. From the distance, it gives the false impression that she's a much older woman showing the youngsters how to do it.  

She coaxes other ladies on to the floor, doing some suggestive girl-on-girl dancing (clearly for the hetero males in the vicinity). 

I eventually make my way towards the DJ for Daft Punk’s Get Lucky. Speak to Miss Coral-Dress. She confirms she's by herself. Joined by others from our group. We compliment her élan and carefree attitude. It’s for the love of the music. You have to…

...I agree. 

 If Miss Coral-Dress came alone, she doesn’t leave alone; vanishing with an apparent suitor, significantly larger in both height and girth. 

I dance some more and make conversation with a couple of affable guests. A good end to what threatened to be an underwhelming night.

Sun. 10 July: Attend the afternoon service at Trinity Anglican Church for a change of scene. Appreciate the Pan-African style of Praise & Worship. Led by a young woman with a crystalline, baby-doll voice. Gives me a rush of nostalgia as they dust off choruses I haven’t heard in forever. A good break from the Bethel/Hillsongs/Redman Hegemony. Feels as if I interact with God differently, too.

That evening, to stave off the solitary Sunday evening blues, head to Parc Royale for the Kiosk Radio live broadcast. Have Jens to thank for the idea, even though I decide to go without him. 

 Most guests are too busy chatting or poisoning the air with fag and weed smoke to pay attention to music. Whilst waiting for a dance-worthy track, I use the opportunity to practise mindfulness. In the end, I take a leaf out of Miss-Coral-Solo-Dancer’s book and let the rhythm carry me.

Text Jens to thank him for the culture tip. Replies that he’s recovering from COVID. Symptoms began a day after we met at the Brosella festival. Uh-oh.

Terrasse 02 (La Capitale- Sudinfo

Mon. 11 July: After usual morning Zumba and Pilates classes, I catch up with dear friend from Strasbourg days, Gustavo. He asks how I am. I burst into tears. Just received news of another unsuccessful job application. Didn’t realise I was that upset about it. Feeling generally overwhelmed. Gustavo is a man of strong faith and preternaturally easygoing. Says he considers it a privilege that I would cry in his presence. Well, if I had to breakdown in front of somebody...

Some positive news today: I test negative for COVID.

Tues. 12 July: After requesting a GP referral to physio for some tension in my back, have first appointment this afternoon. Expecting a mature gentleman, slightly world-weary (for some reason); stereotypical pale Belgian features. Instead, physiotherapist is an enthusiastic swarthy young gentleman, who happens to be fit in every sense of the word. Great quality skin. Smooth, firm biceps. No tattoos. On one hand, delighted at the thought of a pretty man in his prime giving me a massage. On the other, it’s a heatwave. I’m sweaty. Make-up is running. Worse still, there’s to be no massage. Just strengthening exercises to be practised at home. The kind I’d do in Pilates. Except I’m not appropriately dressed in T-shirt and joggers. Forced to test out exercises in a Baby-T and elaborate summer skirt.

Evening ends more propitiously, thank goodness. Invited round for dinner at Sylvia and Steve’s. Some friends old and new are visiting. In attendance: Charlie, who will be house-sitting whilst Steve, Sylvia and the tribe are on summer hols; the similarly-named Charlene, Steve’s Franco-Belgian language exchange partner (it's the first time they’re meeting offline); Brandon – a childhood friend of Steve’s – and his girlfriend Hannah. Both international school teachers, just moved from Indonesia. Passing through Europe before starting new jobs, somewhere else in East Asia.

The food is sumptuous. A collective effort by the clan. Steve and Sylvia’s eldest, Shireen won’t let us forget it. (Going through the sarcastic insecure phase of adolescence.)

Weather is lovely. The company is great. Meal is healthy. Ideal for my no-meat-on-weekdays policy. Wasn't previously a fan of Indian food but Sylvia could well convert me.

Practise some French with Charlene. Since most of us have a Brit connection, conversation often returns to what’s going on across the Channel; reminiscing about Routemasters and Bendy Buses; lamenting the encroachment of gentrification in big cities, spiralling rent costs and political chaos.

I have to make it work in Brussels, somehow. I think out loud.

Yes you do, chimes in Sylvia.

Soundtrack: My JT Mix, Estrela Acesa by Sessa

Summer Diary: Part 1

 5 min. read

Weds. 29 June 2022: Gloria from Internations organises after-work drinks at a new bar in Flagey called The Gatsby. Turns out to be an alcohol-free establishment (although shisha smoking is indulged). For obvious reasons, I'm fine sans alcool, although it causes some consternation amongst a number of guests.  

Inside, it's all emerald green décor. Love the commitment to replicating the aesthetic of Fitzgerald’s literary classic – a personal favourite. Lovely ambiance; large flatscreen footage of dream tropical destinations. Speakers spill out calming and familiar Bossa Nova covers of Pop and Soul. The tee-total cocktails and smoothies are inviting, although price tag is comparatively high. Order a cheaper but still overpriced Lipton Ice. Strike up conversation with a genial half-Belgian, half-Brazilian polyglot, Emmanuella who has just moved back after a long stint in Spain. We’re joined later by Rik; an older, acerbic Englishman. He’s lived in Belgium for roughly the same time I’ve been alive. The sarcasm is too readily dispensed, though. Reminds me of the Oscar Wilde quip about the lowest form of wit... In hindsight, feel I’m too cordial about it. Maybe it’s because it’s our first proper conversation. I do protest when he takes a swipe at Sade whilst an interpretation of Your Love is King plays in the background.

Gloria – a fellow non-drinker herself – heeds her alcohol-deprived public and heads out to look for somewhere that sells booze and food. That’s my cue to head home. 

Thurs. 30 June:

A rude awakening. This month’s unemployment benefit comes through, significantly lower than expected. Was anticipating a drop but thought it started from late July. Once the essentials are paid, for the first time since this bout of joblessness, I wonder how I’m going to make ends meet the following month. Have a bit of a meltdown, prayers between tears. Job market is already sluggish. Slows down even more with the impending summer lull. Thankfully, much of my non-gratis summer activities have been paid in advance- when things weren't as constrained. Back then, I believed I’d already be back in work by early summer.

Herbie Hancock at Arena5 in the evening. An outdoor gig on the one day of the week when the weather is awful. Gloria is somewhere in the audience, as are a number of other Internations regulars. Hear word that they’re disgruntled about the venue’s poor organisation. Staff confiscate large umbrellas and there are not enough windbreakers to go round. Herbie deserves better, they say. The man himself is good-humoured about it all. Shame about disappointing weather but grateful to have caught an elderly living legend in action.

Fri. 1 July: Officially entered my birthday month. Hopefulness I felt after returning from the UK in June is slipping away. Not enough substantial change in my material circumstances, despite best efforts. Heavy blow to morale. Speak to mum about it on the phone. She shares my frustrations but her faith is robust.  Her prayers are very welcome.

Spend afternoon with Stéphanie; a transwoman I befriended last year. Been hesitant to put thoughts down on paper about our friendship, due to the sensitive nature of conversations. Stéphanie is often in extreme distress. More optimistic today however, looking forward to another round surgery. Over the weekend Stéphanie will call on the verge of tears. No family members willing or available to help with drop off and pick up from hospital in deep Wallonia. I don’t drive and Stéphanie insists it’s too difficult a journey by public transport. My morning prayer group suggest pooling resources together for a cab. Very proud of their kind gesture but by then, Stéphanie has already gone under the knife. We stay in touch during the recovery period, which proves even more complicated on a physical and psychological level.

Friday night: Invited round for dinner by Ludwig. Guest list is comprised of polyglots and/or linguaphiles, according to him. Assume he’s exaggerating.  He's not. Most in attendance speak at least four languages, with the host himself a hyper-polyglot (10 and counting). My linguistic tally is three-ish, if I’m being generous. Oh well. Already made my peace with leaving behind childhood dream to speak five languages to a high standard. Too many variables in the way. Only so much time and natural talent. I’ll be content to speak those I already know well.

French is the default for the evening. Would usually welcome the practice but super-tired and not on top form. I enjoy talking about language. I have a Masters in Linguistics. But this lot take it to another level.

Vegetarian meal is good; amazing starter. Ludwig has been customarily modest about his culinary skills. Modesty could not be attributed to one of his guests, Guy. A chronic braggard if I've ever had the misfortune to meet one. (Find out later from Ludwig that it’s an invitation he comes to regret.)

Can’t work out if it’s natural arrogance or the reverse side of insecurity. A few tell-tale signs suggests it's the latter. Much of a muchness, anyway. Never cease to be amazed by the extent to which some lack self-awareness. Mr Cocky will use any pretext to self-aggrandise. He's also a sanctimonious vegan – the worst kind. Boasts about his ‘gluten-free, no-waste, vegan-friendly’ brownies. He offers them long after everyone has eaten. I have a bona fide excuse. I’m stuffed. I could take some home, though I figure it would be cheeky, given my low opinion of their baker. His behaviour is a stark contrast to the other males in the room; namely Ludwig and younger guest Ramón. Also a gifted multi-linguist, the difference in behaviour is night and day. Ramón is kind enough to give a few of us a lift home.

Appreciate Ludwig opening up his home but have mixed feelings about a mentally exhausting evening. 

Sun. 3 July: Efforts to keep a low profile at church don’t quite work out. End up being sandwiched between two acquaintances; one of whom keeps disturbing me during the sermon to ask questions. Sundays take more emotional and psychological exertion these days than I can muster. Firm believer in fellowship but this season in particular, prefer smaller gatherings.

On the way back, Jake from my house group stops for a chat on the metro. Genuinely pleased to see him, ironically. Relieved even. It’s one-to-one, away from the (perceived) pressure to be upbeat after service. Jake is a gentle soul. He gets it. I leave the conversation refreshed.

Sunday night. I’m back again in the locality of the Atomium, a stone’s throw from where Herbie and his band have played a few days prior.  For the Brosella music festival, this time. Weather is much better. I realise at the last minute that Jazz-Harpist Brandee Younger is on the line up. Decide to hang around for her pre-finale set.

The whole event is class. The ‘children’s stage’ for example, is no watered-down substitute. More intimate but no less sophisticated.

A Flemish fellow named Jens randomly strikes up conversation. Sense some romantic interest on his end that I’m not willing to humour. However, happy to discuss music with someone who has a sound and broad knowledge. Sorely missed since moving to Brussels. For a city with its musical reputation,  met too few aficionados. 

Jens and I get so carried away, we're shushed by others in audience. I try to be quiet for Brandee's set.

Exchange some details with Jens (no more than an email address from me at this point). Not sure how willing I am to follow through. Generally cagey about making new acquaintances whilst I’m still healing from past disappointments. Head home after Brandee Younger wraps up.

Jens takes a break from the show to walk me to the tram stop and waits until it arrives.

Soundtrack: Gifts & Sacrifices by Heidi Martin

A Different Lens

 

Allaboutvision.com

8 min. read

Late June marks exactly two years since I relocated to Belgium. Earlier that month, I return from my latest UK excursion with a deepened resolve to improve my morale. If my circumstances haven’t materially changed, there’s been a notable shift in my perspective. I still feel low and am wont to tearful interludes. My melancholy has nonetheless taken on a different flavour. I come to realise how much despondency had camped outside my door. That’s no longer the case. I feel less spiritually adrift. I endeavour to be even more conscientious about my well-being. My visits to the gym are now as much about the mental benefits as the physical. By chance – or AI interference – I stumble across an incredibly helpful YouTube channel on psychological health and start putting into action some of the practical pointers. God has been at work in the algorithm, I joke to loved ones. These tutorials are not however, a replacement for my therapy sessions, which I continue with renewed energy.

In addition, there are several external boosts to my morale. The longer days and (mostly) good weather are always a plus. The Brussels cultural calendar continues to be full to overflowing. Great for staying busy, not so good for early nights and solid rest; another important factor for well-being. I’ll eventually have to revise the density of activity. Easier said than done, especially when I don’t have to be in the office first thing. 

 My job hunt is ongoing. It becomes apparent that I’m unlikely to find a role that starts before September. I make my peace with this development and I’m all the better for it. 

I have another interview in late June at the same trade union organisation that has previously invited me on a number of occasions. Fourth-time-not-so-lucky. It’s disappointing news in the short-term but overall a positive experience. As usual, they provide detailed and constructive feedback. I nevertheless don’t plan to make a fifth application. At least not any time soon.

In mid-June, I am pleasantly surprised by the return of my honorary Jamaican auntie, Carol, for a fortnight’s visit to Belgium. It’s all touch-and-go, I’ll later find out, after the Belgian embassy in Jamaica messed up her application. Owing to the delay, she just about reaches the airport in time to catch her flight. I learn of her visit through Internations and email her straight away. Little do I know we’re destined to attend the same early summer cocktail party the following evening. 

When I arrive, the DJ is playing some enticing 80s soul, auguring well for the night’s proceedings. I approach a group with whom I’m familiar only to take my leave – politely, if hurriedly – when I see Carol in the distance. She’s already surrounded by a posse of acquaintances old and new, one of whom is an ethnically-ambiguous gentleman who aims a vaguely seductive grin in my direction. I pay him little mind until it becomes overtly discourteous not to make conversation with him. 

(courtesy of Pickpic)

My interest perks up when I discover he’s from Brazil. I couldn’t tell from his very English sounding name – Roger – or the Anglo-Caribbean inflection when he speaks English. We switch to French and Portuguese, for which I’m glad for the practice. Roger is very affirming of my linguistic skills, although I’m suspicious of his motives. He makes an early - not to mention tactile - exit. Carol and I continue to work the room; or rather the terrace. It feels as if the whole of Internations Brussels is in attendance – or close enough. There are few known faces that I don’t see that evening. Internations regular Aurélien introduces me to Annabelle, a young Nigerian woman settled in the Low-Countries with a Flemish husband. She's decked out in a gold lamé dress, with bling hanging off her very eyelashes. She’ll spend much of the night streaming her activities to her Instagram followers. 

Whilst much of the sizeable crowd are content to remain on the veranda, Auntie Carol and I are itching to hit the dancefloor. We like what we’ve heard from the DJ so far. In the end, his latter selection isn’t as classy as his initial repertoire but it’ll suffice. Mostly. Some 90s Pop-R&B and Europop, guilty-pleasures, a little Afrobeats and a healthy dollop of salsa. Carol and I hold the fort for much of the time with some synchronised fail-safe moves. At last, I properly learn the steps to Jerusalema. Aurélien angles for a dance but I'm not having it.

I watch in awe the artful salsa steps executed by Diego - a very recent acquaintance - and his most graceful female dance partner. She's a natural mover whose effortless groove has caught my attention earlier that evening. Another recent acquaintance, Ludwig – a German hyper-polyglot I meet at a previous Internations shin-dig - miraculously throws aside his habitual crutches to join the salsa fun. He puts more able-bodied men to shame, like erstwhile suitor and errant ‘friend’, Simon-Pierre, who makes an appearance towards the end of the night. I’d planned to leave before 10pm. Famous last words. Carol and I are having such a blast, it’s close enough to midnight before we make earnest attempts to exit. Thankfully, I am assured a lift by kindly Ludwig, who lives in the same neighbourhood.

I’ll bump into Ludwig, Diego, Carol, Aurélien and co again that weekend at the O Melhor de Portugal (Best of Portugal) festival in Parc Cinquantenaire. The month is chock-full with festivals. That weekend, the annual Fête de la Musique celebrations also take place.

It’ll be my first O Melhor de Portugal experience. It was postponed twice because of the unstable pandemic conditions. There are numerous stalls flogging food or membership to Lusophone associations. A fully-clothed man commandeers the stage, flanked by two scantily-dressed brunettes in tangas doing mirrored choreography. I’m not impressed.

Our contingent of Internations guests move to a pop-up bar for refreshments to take the edge off the heatwave. Annabelle will join us later, sporting the colours of the Nigerian flag, including bright green box braids. En route, Diego comments on how well I speak English.

I grew up in the UK, I reply I had no choice.

It’s not the first time someone has made this observation in Belgium.  It strikes me as odd. As if there’s some dissonance between my accent and my ethnicity. Diego has visited the UK. He’d be aware that there are Afrodescendants who’ve grown up with English as a first language. Not to mention the migration engendered after the British Empire colonised a substantial part of the African continent.

I can’t hold it against Diego too much. He generously offers me a drink. Plus, his is not the worst cultural gaff of the afternoon, believe it or not. That dubious honour goes to another Caucasian acquaintance, who is shocked to learn that Nigeria and Niger are not one and the same country. Good grief.

After a tasty virgin, strawberry-laced Mojito and some light conversation, I head to a Fête de la Musique concert around the corner. The yearly music festival will dominate my weekend plans, with me traversing the city to catch various shows. The night before I head to Anderlecht for a gig. On arriving, I discover there are two venues in the area with exactly the same name. I am at the wrong one. It’s only down to the kindly intervention of a local resident that I locate the correct venue. I manage to catch the best part of a lively set by Belgian MC Onha, whom I’ve seen on stage before. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll stay local for some Bossa Nova covers of Brazilian classics and pop hits – some more credible than others. That Sunday, I also become familiar with the Funk/Soul/Hip-Hop influenced oeuvre of bassist and producer Gabriel Massa in my own neighbourhood. The only thing to mar proceedings is the creepy presence of one of Simon-Pierre’s friends, whom I run into far more than I’d appreciate. 

The same could be said for another mutual acquaintance - Rob. Our paths cross again on my way back from a concert in Merode. He’s keen as ever to pick my brain about politics. I humour him, albeit with my usual air of exasperation. It’s the same ol’ dynamic. He’s prone to making excuses and gaslight and I’m prone to calling him out on his crap, if a little readily. The current fits-and-bursts nature of our interactions is thus for the best. I don’t miss the frustration of our past, more regular exchanges.

The following week my activities will be more cerebral in nature. I attend an excellent Saturday morning training session on Belgian asylum law and the geopolitical crises - in which the country is also complicit - that provoke refugee flows. It’s a grim but eye-opening event. I learn of the fragrantly callous methods employed by the Belgian state to circumnavigate its duties under international law. (It takes a lot to compete with the UK's dreadful immigration track record.) It helps me understand much better why I meet so many migrants stuck in a merciless bureaucratic limbo, whilst volunteering at the Red Cross. The second session is taken by Nabil Boukili, a member of parliament for the Workers’ Party of Belgium (PTB) who co-organised the event with Amitié Sans Frontières (Friendship without Borders). I’ve recently joined the PTB as a basic member, after some convincing by Augustin, also part of Rob’s wider circle.

Earlier that week, I attend a couple of summer farewells. My church home group organise a bring-and-share before what is likely to be a 3-4 month aestival hiatus. Monica regales us with her adventures as an extra on the set of the popular US-based bible adaptation, The Chosen. Karin formally announces her third pregnancy to the group, having let a handful of us already in on the news. She’ll be away for a number of weeks, the thought of which fills me at first with mild panic. Thankfully, I’ve been doing a lot better at reclaiming time spent in my own company. I’m therefore not out to sea whilst Karin is indisposed.

A few days later, I’m delighted to be re-joining Bruno and Miguel at the RoSa feminist library for their gender-deconstructing book club. That week, the focus of discussion is Sam Mills’ Chauvo-Feminism. I come to adore this set text -enough to blog about it - and I happily wax-lyrical. Given the learned constitution of the Book Group, it’s another buoyant and enriching conversation. This time, Lorenzo is also about. Before the session starts, he says hello and asks how I am. His tone and demeanour are so quiet and solemn, he could be offering me condolences. There’s a delayed reaction as I realise it’s a simple greeting. I’m also still very ambiguous about our relationship. We’re so far from the easy rapport we once had, it’s as if it never existed. 

We have been in touch by text a handful of times in the few months since things disintegrated. Mostly, I've been the one to initiate contact, usually on special occasions (although after a while, even that starts to feel like too much.) I send him a heartfelt message on his birthday. He responds with gratitude and kindness.

I still care deeply for my one-time friend but feel irate about the current state of affairs. We are where we are because of his inexplicable decisions. Trust has been broken that I can't see being restored any time soon. Neither has he been very proactive in making amends.

Instinctively, I reply to Lorenzo’s question with a whispered ‘hot’, fanning myself and walking past him rather imperiously to find a seat. His compatriot, Marcello sits between us, unaware of any tension. I relent, speaking across Cello to ask Lorenzo how work is going.

There is no job, he responds. It shows how little we know about each other’s lives nowadays. What I thought was a steady new role, turned out to be only freelance and intermittent.

It’s a brief interaction and the sole time we’ll talk for the whole evening. At least I feel less of a hypocrite when I extol Sam Mills for her generosity of spirit towards those who have hurt her.

It’ll be my last time with the book group before the Summer holidays. I won’t be able to make the final session. I do stumble upon Miguel once again that weekend, whilst meandering through Bois de la Cambre with Brenda. Compared to aforementioned surprise encounters, it's definitely one of the more pleasing. Once Miguel is out of earshot, I gush about how handsome and genuinely sweet he seems to be. A far too rare combination. Men don't need beauty as an excuse to misbehave. It's admirable that, rather than exploit both his male and pretty privilege, Miguel is actively resisting the poisoned perks of patriarchy. I can’t hardcore crush on him, however. He's too young for me. So much the better. I can save my emotional energy for worthier pursuits. Brenda is tickled by my reaction. She’s in a good place. On the spiritual, professional and personal front she’s found a healthy equilibrium. I’m glad for my younger friend.

In the distance some bass lines are calling me. Brenda is wary of the crowds (and, I suspect, anything that could be classified as 'urban' music). She makes her way home. My curiosity leads me to discover the sounds are emanating from the Afrodisiac festival. It's been poorly publicised. If I'd known, I'd have made more time for it over an already busy weekend. I stay for a bit of live entertainment -partly out of sympathy for the act trying to liven up a tepid crowd - before heading home for some dinner and Sunday night rest.

Soundtrack: Mahel by Toro Y Moi, Three Dimensions Deep by Amber Mark