“La più bella parola è l’amore”, I listen to say Cecília Bartoli this morning in the classical music channel. I know what that means at my age. Because, you see, it deeply hurts when someone ask your age and then in a kind of word association chain, concludes: «what a waste of time!». No, it is not malice, this person is not playing around with you, it is someone trying to call you to reason. Another example, Helena is hoping to get promoted at the end of the year, but she lacks mastering of English grammar and punctuation. What she writes (BTW, like myself) doesn’t look professional. When returning home from the beach last Sunday (nice hot weather), I stopped in a nearby kiosk to buy a newspaper. But all is said resumes to debt and the murmur about the real intentions of the so-called political class (impregnated with an exquisite attraction to the corrupted hell).
Another day a nosy friend asked me: «Why do you write now in English?». This was an awkward question and I said: «I dislike when Portuguese talk like they had a language of their own». That’s why. So, I desire to write and talk in English, the Lingua Franca. I tried before to learn and speak German, but, you see, they made a strange contortion on their faces when I pronounced some words and since that day I knew that they too have their “own” language. I mean, they “own” their language. I find out that there are Aliens in this world that either reward or punish persons depending on the language they talk. Uf!
At the end of the day we feel like a camel drive desperately trying to get fifty reluctant camels to the market of Ramallah. Then I recalled of Cecilia Bartoli. One hour later she gave me a good reason to start my day.

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