Yes, it is the weekend. It should be a time to relax from ones labours during the week.

My question is, why isn’t it?

Why do we work more and harder on the weekend at home than at work during the week?

Between blogging, reading the news and emails, I have managed to clean my room, have breakfast, tidy a little of the backyard, annoy Lixo, feed Lixo, pet Lixo and have a nap with Lixo attached to my big toe again. In my grogginess he got to understand the meaning of a ‘kick-in-the-head’. Quite involuntary of course, it was done without malice. He’s got the pip now, and is outside somewhere.

My vision - Picanha

During my nap I had a vision…

Picanha, BBQed on a spit.

I am a person who believes that dreams can foretell the future.

Far be it that I should avoid the future, in fact I believe one should do everything in ones power to see that a particular future come to fruition.

I have the taxi card out, ready to call at the appointed hour. I should leave about 18:30 (that’s 6:30 for our American cousins, their watches only go to 12) which gives me ample time to arrive, even if the taxi is late, be seated, have leisurely wander around the salad bar, be back at my seat and have sipped my ice-cold handle of beer all before the news starts.

Now all this leads me to question. What part of the cow (okay steer) is picanha? You see if you look up picanha in the dictionary, you won’t find it. Picanha is a cut that you won’t find in a butchers oustide South America, unless one happens to have a Brazilian açougueiro (butcher). Brazilians have different cuts. Picanha is actually the rump cover, a part of the top sirloin. In America and England they cut the layer of fat off, but here that layer of fat is the trademark of picanha. Sliced off the spit in almost paper thin slices, rare to the point of bloody, it melts in your mouth.

Aren’t dreams wonderful?

Perfect, almost Lixo's colouring too...

I shall spend a good two hours, dining slowly, watching the news and ‘my’ novelas (soaps) and when that stupid Big Brother Brazil 12 starts its inane presentation around 10pm, I shall return to my abode. Where I will be greeted at the gate by Lixo, he will race me to the front door, doing his level best to trip me up in the process, and wait patiently for me to fumble with the key. Then, as has become his custom, he will sit in the middle of the doorway barring any ingress. I will remonstrate with him, he will look at me blankly and blink “What’s your problem?” and not budge until I utter the magic words… “nom noms.” Then the race and the tripping up begins again as we head for the fridge. All this has become his routine. He learns quick.

Now earlier today, I discovered something rather startling about cats. I mean, I always knew that cats controlled their masters staff effectively, but I was amazed, shocked and appalled all at once to find out how. Have a look at this post on Tomus Arcanum. Tell me that you aren’t amazed, shocked and appalled too?

I have one more blog to post for. Shit Happens, that shouldn’t be too difficult, it’s happening everywhere, all the time. I have a wonderful choice, Syria, Falkland Islands, Libya (again), Mitt Romney being sat on his ass (Geez, that was funny, he looked like a stunned mullet), or I could look at something serious like the new concentration camps being built around the US for ‘domestic terrorists’, Iran’s nuclear announcement next week, corruption everywhere. It’s a blog that never really lacks something or someone or somewhere to sling off about.



Lixo has forgiven me, he’s asleep on my our his bed.