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  • I prefer to live somewhere than go on holiday there.

    Holidays have a time scale, an end, time to go home again.

    On holiday I feel obliged to 'Visit the monument!', 'Tour the city by bus/boat/tram/cable-car/amphibian!', See the temple/castle/cathedral!, Visit the rock!

    No...

    The right chair outside a busy cafe, with my feet in the sun and head in the shade.

    A tall cappuccino (Italian blend) and an open book (just to pretend),

    sit back with my shades, my barrier up, incognito, watch people and dream up a story for them.

    A busy market, as early as possible,

    not racing the European traders at the boot-fair with their whispers "any jewelery?"

    No...

    I'll stop and smell the musty stamp collection 40 years in a loft, I must find a carving knife, Sheffield Steel, I'll salvage a few racing cars for the kids, fresh strawberry's all wonky shapes, a loaf of bread (mind the wasps at the cake stall), try on that purple feathery hat, and back home as the family are rising and memory's of distant market places and a different life are back on their shelf.

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