I found a wonderful market yesterday after I got off the plane, full of fruit, vegetables, flowers and cheeky people who tried to sell me everything. Well, yes, but. . . My hotel, the Panorama on Double Super Street as I mentioned, is wonderful and bare with tall ceilings and great windows that open onto the street, only three stories below. I'm in a central location amidst cafes, bars, restaurants and shops, two of which sell the underwear that so plagues my mind. It seems I'm the only one.
Work is fine.
The usual succession of lawyers and suits and stuffy hand-shaking. The big guy here reminds me of McAllister. The guy here has pimples and laughs this huge, uninfectious laugh, and is given to spitting when he gets excited. He gave my pen back to me sweaty. That's all I want to say about work, which is the least interesting thing here.