Cadeira velha

Old chair.

I've clocked this decrepit article for a few weeks and wanted to capture it. There's always been a security guard loitering near it, almost as gnarly as the chair, and I have held off lest he think that I've finally gone off my rocker. It's a wonder of tattiness and character.

I dealt with a few meetings and issues before my journey to the UK began. Adeus for now, Moçambique, and olá Inglaterra, where I hope to have smooth visa negotiations with the Mozambican High Commission in London.

I'm travelling with South African Airways. 'The cabin crew will now pass through the cabin, collecting all outstanding catering items including tablecloths and linen napkins.' Why would they announce this to those of us in steerage, choking down a dry cheese roll and using our sick bags to wipe up spilt lukewarm tea?

I laughed out loud on the plane, watching Bohemian Rhapsody, the film about Queen. The record label guy hears their album and is unimpressed at the randomness of the eponymous track. 'Scaramouche? Fandango? What's that?'

Egg. On. His. Face.