Eventually we got cabin fever and decided to take an invalid's tour once slowly round the block, just as far as the Post Office. Come! Join us! You saw enough the last time? Surely not. Did these guys put you off?
Now, I love Brussels. Really. But nowhere does grey wintry and depressing quite as well as my corner of Brussels. You would never in a million years think you were in a European capital, the veritable nerve centre of the European Union. It could be, um, Darlington. You know that Morrissey song "Every day is like Sunday"? That's how it feels round here. Every day is like a grey Sunday in the provinces. In the 1970s before Sunday trading. You need proof?
First, get your outfit right.
Got your trolley, your headscarf and your sensible coat on? Ok! Let's go!
The butchers - those feet! Perhaps one day I will have shoes that sensible.
La Frite Dorée, with its vibrant orange frontage, scenting the street with pre-war cooking fat. Here, if you are very good, you can have a cold sausage made out of BRAIN with your chips. Really, does life get much better than this? No, it doesn't.
Just very occasionally as I walk around, I think of our flat in Spitalfields market, with the 24 hour supermarket, the delis, the bars, the evil cappucino pushers. The clothes. Hmm.
Anyway, Fingers and I completed our totter round the block, bought me a giant flan and retired to the sofa. Really, there is a limit to how much excitement it is possible to cram in to one short day.