4 and a half sketches

No pictures for me this time. I left it to others to comply with your visual appetite. I am sure they'll show you plenty to entertain you for most of the winter.

As for me, I am a man of words. So here are 4 (and a half) sketches with highlights from our last adventures.

It all started with a trip to the Belgian capital, where I was soon introduced to the wonderful world of Belgian social innovation. To be perfectly honest, I think they should probably start with genetic innovation before moving onto to more complex tasks. On a short detour to the countryside, in fact, we managed to catch the wrong train back to Brussels, and found ourselves stranded in a small village outside Liege, where we were immediately transported to a world of basement horrors and man-beast intercourse. As I picked nervously at some fat-dripping chips, my eyes moved nervously from one obese figure to another obese figure, either related or soon-to-be related to the first. Catching the evening train to Paris made me sigh with relief. I can see why they sleep with their children, when the adults look like that.

Next, Tuscany (after a brief stopover in Paris). Not much to say about that, to be honest, except large amounts of cooking, eating and some occasional hill-stomping, usually camouflaged as running. I am afraid I might have to install internet connection there soon, to allow me to spend more time pretending to work while watching old classics (Irma La Douce the absolutely highlight, although there might have been yet another screening of some of our old favourites, such as Mr & Mrs Smith and - yes, Le Duc - Black Sheep, that Kiwi masterpiece of comedic horror). Discovery of the week: the valley harbours a Brasilian-like soap opera, the likes of which have not been seen since Slave Isaura. Marcella is of course at the centre of it all.

On a night train from Grosseto to Syracuse, where we went to spend a few days in the African sun, we had two extraordinary surprises: a chamber pot, which offered hours of entertainment to Tot T, whose bladder appeared to contain the equivalent amount of water of 3 swimming pools, and a throat-singer, who performed enthusiastically for us from Messina all the way to our final destination. Our holiday resort was drenched with sun, sand and babies, both born and yet-to-be-born. Not offputting in the list, Lady V, if that's what you are thinking. Palermo glittered in its own decay, an ageing prostitute who still knows how to please. Tot T was naturally blown away.

Then, of course, the summer's highlight. Mr Vestibule's 60th shenanigans. Spared the indignity of having to drive tanks/shoot at immigrants, we managed to hide amongst the gin-drenched ladies until sunset, when the males returned from the manly activities looking sufficiently mud-covered. As the level of alcohol raised in our blood like a tsunami, the Von Trapp family broke into spontaneous singing and dancing, alternated with ghastly games, such as arm-wrestling and infant-murdering. Tot V, A and T thus hid inside the conservatory, refusing to engage in such execrable activities, only to be followed suit by the entire crowd. Viewing of teenage videos about saucy Cinderellas by the Vestibule sisters, led by the oldest and possibly naughtiest of them all, ensued. Some of us might have fallen from the chair laughing.

The return journey through Northern lesbian enclaves and post-industrial estates was somewhat both hilarious and terrifying. A perfect contradiction that appropriately sums up these wonderful last 2 weeks.