carneval

The chicken in Vasco de Gama takes an age to arrive. The four of us sit there, chomping at the bit, looking at placemats of Madeira to identify our other selves. We slip in and out of work mode. The telly, as ever, plays too loud. At one point Doctors is on, and smoke comes out of the Tise's ears. Then the channel's switched to something Portuguese. Images flicker. Broad thighed dusky maidens arrayed in feathers and white boots, dancing with sustained vigour. The picture pulls back to show a stadium with a road running through it. The road is lit up with fire and colour and movement. The chicken arrives. It was worth the wait.