I spent a leisurely five hours dining on baby octopus and converting family members to the ways of the Aperol spritz. Afterward, the plan had been to convene with a friend in a damp old cave under the embankment, but the intense odour of cheese emanating from inside was so strong, and perplexing, that it forced us into a retreat. Over the bridge to the land of afternoon ballroom dancing, where I stood against the wall in the foyer watching my friend dance. I watched an eighty year old lady do the paso doble with her cardigan and tried to politely refuse waltzing with a young boy wearing a tux and fedora. He was insistent and apparently an expert. He then clutched me stiffly and jerkily pushed me around the floor like a mop, into pillars and other people waltzing past. Nothing to do but grin and bear it, try not to laugh hysterically until I was deposited with a thud back by the wall. Then a quick spilled drink at the film place - lightning fast reflexes rescuing iphones from death by prosecco. Home for a quick change and onto a real ballroom this time, but this time the ratio of cyclists to pedestrians was completely reversed and I found myself disappointed at the meagre sprinkling of "proper" transvestites.
I didn't take any photos and then Sunday was quite crap.