San Fransisco

San Fransisco turned out to be a good place to recuperate from jet lag for it is a gentle and well mannered city. The houses are the colours of sugared almonds and the tourists can happily hang from the cable cars without fear of being sliced up by passing courier bikes or white van men. With the exception of the number 49 bus which left us stranded, the city works. Service is good, automatic and given with perk. Each neighbourhood has its own village atmosphere and we have chosen our multi-million pound house with bay views in Pacific Heights which is like Notting Hill on diazapan. Even the No 49 can be forgiven, as its absence forced a walk through a residential area containing sights the like of which we had never seen. Nor really want to again.

Even Haight-Ashbury now provides it's bong shops and Indian gauze scarfs with old lady-remembering grace and stature.

Although, I suspect that the old lady is wearing purple, as the cafe in which we ate excellent apple pie crepes was called Squat and Gobble. In English-English I suspect that means something very rude to say the least!