I even filled the sink and washed some cups and silverware and stuff while making his tea. I just bought some Fairy Liquid, on the basis of "when in doubt, go for the one with the most amusing name." Also, it's lemon-scented, and when it comes to cleaning products I generally approve of lemon.

I realize that Fairy is part of the fabric of British lives, but we don't have it in America-- or at least we didn't when I lived there. And I'm not sure the American public would go for a product called Fairy, to be honest. In the US, I used Dawn, because my mother did and when it comes to cleaning products, my mother knows her shit. Which just goes to show that every neurosis has it's good points, I suppose.

I had a couple of Hobnobs for breakfast, which I've been doing a lot lately. Doesn't sound like much, but once I've finished tarting them up (crunchy peanut butter on one, cream cheese on the other, a spoonful of nutella on both), they are premenstrual food of the gods.

I had my breakfast shortly after I got up, around two. Elvis is eating his now, at five. You might, therefore, infer that we had another late-night, early morning sort of thing going on, and you would be correct. We got home this morning at half-past six, which is, ironically, a full hour later than the time we've been getting up this week.

It was for a good cause, though. The Chef and The Barmaid are leaving us, and moving to Barcelona. We intend to go visit them, once we've recovered our strength. Probably, that will be in a couple of months, which will give them time to get settled in.

I rather envy them. A few years here, a few months there, then it's time to move on. They're true nomads, not like us who just go where we're told, when we're told. I don't envy them their low salaries, though, or their pitbull. Now, I love animals, all animals. Adore them. Except pitbulls, which terrify me. This one is an albino, which gives him creepy red eyes that combine with his other pitbull looks to totally freak me out.

And the pitbull likes me. If he's taking one of his owners for a walk, and I'm sitting outside, he always wants to flop his heavy front half in my lap, and I am forced to think happy thoughts and remain calm so the damn dog has no idea that I'm paralyzed with fear and he won't tear my left breast off or maim me in some other way.

In any case, it was their last night here, and thus was deserving of a true pub crawl. Or that was the intention, anyway. How many pubs does it take to make a crawl? In the end, we only managed four, provided you count the restaurant where we started. And it should count. Chef and I got through a liter of red wine before the food even arrived, and another one after, minus the one small glass Elvis consumed when he ran out of beer.

We went to Ponto Final for dinner. We had a giant shrimp each for a first, then four of us had swordfish for a main. Elvis and my shrimps were a bit tough and overcooked-- Paulo splits them and grills them. Tasted good, though, especially when I drowned mine in melted lemon butter. To make up for this, perhaps, my swordfish was as big as my plate: I managed to eat half. Should have skipped the shrimp, I suppose. Elvis had the largest sole I have ever seen. Paulo was rather proud of it, when he told Elvis that he'd found one for him. "It looks like a shark! Or a whale!" Sadly, the big ones don't taste as good, but he could hardly stick with the cherne when Paulo had seemingly gone to so much effort. Navy-boy had the garlic steak, which is always good.

Then on to our Standard Pub for what was supposed to be a quick one, but turned into a longer several. Then to another bar that has kareoke. Luckily, though drunk, Elvis and Chef can actually sing, which certainly beats the non-drunken Portuguese that were already there. Worse, the Portuguese thought they could sing, which is always dangerous. I, on the other hand, just said no. I cannot sing, I know it, and being drunk does not convince me that I can. And after that, our now-traditional trip to Ferdi's, where there was much drinking and dancing and singing along to the music. That I'll do, especially if the music is loud and everyone else sings too.

Which brings us to around 6 in the morning, when we started the long stumble home.

I was dying for Denny's. Or, even better, J's, which is a 24 hour place we used to frequent in Dallas, as we were frequently out late and there is nothing better than breakfast at 2:30 am. But there is no late-night-slash-early-morning place in Cascais, so I had to remain breakfastless.

I'm thinking it might be a business opportunity. On the other hand, it would mean me serving the breakfast to drunks, instead of being one of the drunks being served.