Once I figured out what I had done -- ie. not posting yesterday's entry -- I went ahead and did so, adjusting the date and time to what they would have been had my brain not taken off for a bit of a ramble without me. It was easier to do it that way than to change all the temporal references and whatnot. If you haven't read it yet, you can click here.

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So. Yesterday felt like a Friday. Today (which is, of course, Friday) does not. I'm not sure what it does feel like. One of those nondescript days in the middle of the week. Possibly Tuesday. Whatever the case, it means that I'm not having that Friday feeling two days in a row, which is somewhat disappointing. It's hardly the end of the world or anything, but tomorrow damn well better feel like a Saturday or I shall be most upset.

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Last night, I threw a ton-eighty, and then closed with a 147 out.

Shame about all those 26s, though. And the 24s. And the seven. And, God help me, that two. Still. Ton-eighty. 147 finish. That's more like it.

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Is it just me, or does this loaf of bread look like, um... something else?

The (ahem) item in question is called p�o de Mafra, and Mafra is a town just to the north of us known for its bread, as well as its stunning palace/monastery. The standard loaf of Mafra bread is the same shape, only quite a bit bigger, hence the one I'm holding here is called a "mafrinha", or "little mafra." It's a great size for sandwiches, which is fortunate because p�o de Mafra makes great sandwiches. I buy it at a shop just down the street from me, where this morning's floor show was provided by an English couple of indeterminate age.

Picture the scene, if you will: I am waiting in line at the bread counter of a small combination bakery, pastry shop and caf�. Because it's on a corner, the seating area is L-shaped. The windows behind me are lined with a row of small tables. To my left is the pastry counter, and beyond that is additional seating that continues around the corner. Ahead of me in line is a pair of English tourists. (Disclaimer: I am not sure if they were tourists, but they had that whole lobster-red tourist skin color thing down pat, so I would guess that they were, in fact, tourists of the self-catering variety.) They've almost reached the counter when the woman pokes her companion.

Her: I need to use the loo. You get the bread.
Him: The kind we had yesterday?
Her: (walking away) No, no, no. The day before.
Him: The round one?
Her: No! The other one. You know. (She's reached the end of the pastry counter at this point, and is about to round the corner.)
Him: Which one was that?
Her: (bellowing) The one that looks like a willy! (She disappears around the corner)

Caf�: (falls into startled silence.)
Him: (turns red.) Ah. Right.

A nice person would have stepped forward to help the poor fellow out. Alas for Him, I am not always a nice person. Also, believe it or not, there are several types of bread that are more or less penis-shaped. And let's not forget the amusement factor, shall we?

I admit it. It was fun to watch him explain what he was after, especially since the baker's English skills are only fractionally better than his (non-existent) Portuguese. He got his bread in the end, after much pointing and self-conscious gesturing and sketching tentative shapes in the air. Priceless.

Betcha next time, he sends his wife into the bakery by herself.