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I’m borrowing an apartment in Lisbon, fabulously glamorous city in a wonderfully frayed and tattered, ever-so-slightly seedy sort of a way, perfect belle époque, faded, a little down-at-heel, a courtesan of a certain age, irresistible!
And I’m getting some writing done; for some reason my imagination is being fed raw meat here, even though I’m writing about London and a so far totally imaginary Moscow. So I get up, take a stroll through the Cémiterio dos Prazeres (Cemetery of the Pleasures, although it’s a real cemetery), come back to the apartment, work, zone out, work some more, end up with a small beer on a leafy street corner…

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