Scotch has never really been my cup of tea. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, being Irish. When I do pick up a bottle of whiskey, which generally only happens when the weather turns and there’s a threat of flu on the horizon, it’s always Jameson. And even then, it’s hot, with ginger or not at all.
It is a sunny, blue sky Saturday morning and the living room window is open out so wide that from where I sit on our giant sofa, I have a bird’s eye view of passers-by three floors below, reflected on glass which is mottled now after weeks without a decent rain shower to clean it. It feels like the first Saturday morning in forever that I have had the time and luxury of sitting down with a pot of tea and an avocado something, Saturday Morning Kitchen in the background.
When it came to choosing a poem for the month of May I wondered if I should seek out something Portuguese to compliment the ramble to Lisbon, and I did spend quite some time pondering over a bilingual collection of poetry in Ler Devagar, an utterly wonderful bookshop to be found in Lisbon’s LX Factory.