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YO TAMBIÉN ESTOY EN LA LISTA. 🍒

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Tengo cierta facilidad para ayudar a los demás. Escucho, pienso, busco soluciones. Si hace falta, hago una llamada. Tengo una lista mental de personas por las que haría cualquier cosa. Está bastante actualizada. Yo entré hace poco. Cuando el problema es mío, en cambio, cierro por dentro y reduzco considerablemente el horario de atención. «¿Cómo estás?» «Bien.» Una respuesta muy práctica. Evita explicaciones y garantiza que nadie se entere de absolutamente nada. Después, en algún momento, me pregunto dónde está todo el mundo. Hay una pequeña dificultad: no siempre informé de que necesitaba a alguien. Me cuesta pedir ayuda. Cuando algo me preocupa, me quedo más callada. Necesito entender qué me pasa antes de intentar explicarlo, como si para hablar con una amiga tuviera que llevar el asunto resuelto y una conclusión razonablemente elegante. A veces consigo hablar. Otras veces pasa el tiempo y el problema pierde fuerza. Algunos hasta se resuelven solos, una iniciativa que agr...
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THE CALENDAR HAS BECOME RATHER DEMANDING. 🍒

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There are seven weeks and four days left until 2027. I know this because the internet has begun counting at me. "A lot can happen." Yes. I've noticed. That has rather been the problem. Apparently, I should give the rest of this year everything I've got. An ambitious request from a year that has already helped itself quite extensively. There is still time, I'm told, to transform my life. Finish the book. Find the opportunity. Become disciplined. Wake up earlier. The waking up earlier keeps appearing, as though nothing worthwhile has ever happened after lunch. I'm writing a novel. Some of my characters are having an absolutely dreadful time, but at least I know what happens next. In my own case, information remains somewhat limited. Still, I have plans. I would like to finish things I care about. Have some good news that doesn't require me to download an attachment. Drink a coffee while it is still recognisably hot. Kasper would like me to stop...
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HOJE NÃO ME APETECE SER A ADULTA. 🍒

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Tenho saudades de quando o meu pai tratava das coisas. Não necessariamente melhor do que eu. Mas sem precisar de ser eu. Há uma diferença considerável. Ser adulta parecia-me uma excelente ideia quando consistia em escolher a hora de deitar e não ter de explicar por que motivo ainda estava acordada. Não li a parte em que passava a ser responsável por todos os departamentos. Agora sou eu que telefono, marco, confirmo, reclamo e volto a telefonar porque, aparentemente, a primeira chamada foi uma experiência artística sem consequências práticas. E decido o jantar. Todos os dias. Uma insistência que considero excessiva. Vou tratando. Umas vezes bem, outras com café e uma linguagem que não consta do meu currículo. Mas há dias em que me apetecia ter onde pousar tudo. Sentar-me ao pé de alguém sem precisar de começar por explicar o problema, apresentar três soluções e assegurar que estou perfeitamente capaz. Estou capaz. Também estou cansada. As duas coisas coexistem com bastante f...
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HE DID SAY HE DIDN'T DESERVE IT. 🍒

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" I don't deserve anything," he said. Naturally, I bought him an expensive perfume. I was raised to contradict people when they speak poorly of themselves. Occasionally, this interferes with the collection of accurate information. In retrospect, I should have thanked him for his honesty. It was a limited appearance. I thought we were friends. We had conversations. I worried about him. There were presents, favours, and the sort of generosity you don't keep a record of, because you assume you're dealing with a friend. Rather awkwardly, friendship was the one detail I hadn't thought to verify. Other details emerged later. A wife, for instance. Quite a substantial omission for someone otherwise capable of discussing himself at length. We were very different people. I knew that. I rather liked the idea that friendship could accommodate different worlds. I hadn't realised we were also accommodating different versions of the facts. Now, I don't e...
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SOME WORDS COME WITH A POSTCODE. 🍒

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I have been conducting research into my own tribe. The findings are not flattering. The English have been playing this game longer than anyone, and there is a famous list from the fifties of the words that quietly sort people into boxes. Lavatory, not toilet. Napkin, not serviette. Pudding, not dessert. And the great one: What? rather than Pardon? None of the forbidden words are wrong. They are simply audible. We play the same game in Portugal, with our own words. Cortinado , never cortina . Café curto , never bica . Giro , never fixe . Rapariga , never menina . And nobody, under any circumstances, announces that they are going to the bathroom. They say "just a moment" and leave the room. Nobody objects to bica on grammatical grounds. They object because you can hear the counter behind it. As for menina , there is a test I rather like, and it takes place in maternity wards. One kind of person asks é rapaz ou rapariga? The other asks é menino ou menina? Sam...
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