I’m a great believer in pushing the envelope, and so this week I am performing a dramatic experiment with the form of the blog post. Consider this a post-modernist expression, exploring the limits of the medium.
Due to circumstances more or less completely beyond my control, I am not in a position to write a post this week. Nothing sinister; don’t panic. I have it on good authority that the sun will rise tomorrow. It just isn’t possible for me to produce a post today. The sausage factory has simply run out of you-really-don’t-want-to-know-what-we-put-in-them.
So, I would like you all just to take a moment to reflect on what you imagine I might have chosen to write about this week, and then to allow your mind to explore the nooks and crannies of what you imagine I might have said.
This is, I admit, something of a calculated risk. The golden rule of blog-writing, all the self-help manuals insist, is consistency. With the exception of one calendar hiccough, I have produced the goods, every Tuesday, week in, week out, for the last 267 weeks. That’s about 400,000 words. Mostly drivel, it’s true; but never mind the quality, feel the width. And now, here I am, risking the entire edifice crashing down on me.
Even more risky is the fact that you may conclude that your imagined version of my post is a lot better than what you usually read, and, from now on, you’re going to cut out the middle man, and just go straight to imagining what I have written about every week.
Still, for better or worse, I’m not in a position to do anything about it. Here’s 300 words and change; if you want any more this week, I’m afraid you’re going to have to write them yourself.
As far as I am in control of this monster, I undertake to rectify the situation next week, when normal service should be resumed. Meanwhile, it’s over to you.
Blogger’s Note: No animals were harmed in the writing of this post: one ego, but no animals.
Here’s a blog inspired by that style:
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Modern Marvels and Penamacor Preparations
Posted on January 28, 2025
Next month, I’ll be visiting Penamacor to see two of my three grandchildren, and the thought of it already fills me with equal parts joy and trepidation. Joy, because there’s nothing quite like watching a two-year-old discover the art of storytelling through interpretive pasta throwing, or the sheer magic of reading “The Gruffalo” for the 47th time. Trepidation, because there’s also the reality of long flights, unpredictable weather, and the Herculean task of packing for such an adventure.
Packing, of course, has evolved—or devolved, depending on your point of view. Once upon a time, you simply folded a few shirts, counted out socks, and left space for a good book. Now, it feels as if packing is less about what you’ll need and more about ensuring all your chargers, adapters, and various technological marvels make the journey unscathed. I used to laugh at the idea of a “smart suitcase.” Now I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before my luggage asks me to update its firmware before allowing me to zip it shut.
Speaking of modern marvels, I recently made the mistake of asking my phone to recommend restaurants in the Penamacor area. While it did provide some options, I’m now being bombarded with ads for everything from “farm-to-table” experiences to what appears to be a highly suspicious roadside cart specializing in vegan bacalhau. The level of precision—or lack thereof—is oddly comforting. It’s nice to know that even in an age of machine learning and neural networks, my phone still assumes I’d consider ordering tofu versions of Portuguese classics.
Of course, these are minor irritations, easily outweighed by the anticipation of seeing family. My eldest grandchild, five going on 15, has assured me that he’ll teach me how to play his favorite video game, which, from his description, involves an alarming amount of pirates and dinosaurs. I suspect this will end with me button-mashing in desperation while he offers increasingly exasperated advice.
And then there’s Penamacor itself. There’s something magical about the village—the cobbled streets, the sense of history, the slower pace of life. Each visit feels like a step back in time and, simultaneously, a reminder of what really matters. Life in Penamacor is all about connections—whether it’s a chat with the café owner over a pastel de nata or the simple act of watching your grandchildren chase pigeons in the square.
So, as I sit here trying to decide whether I need one or two pairs of walking shoes (knowing full well I’ll forget something far more important, like toothpaste), I can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful for the chance to spend time with family, for the quiet beauty of Penamacor, and, yes, even for the quirks of modern technology, which will no doubt remind me of this trip long after I’ve returned home.
Here’s to next month, to small villages and big adventures, and to whatever the modern world decides to throw at me next.
(editors note, something to. Consider next time.. 😉)
Well, that would appear to be me sorted for next week’s post , then.
Apart from the disregarding of kashrut, this is a frighteningly good imitation. Bernice (Mum) says it would definitely have fooled her, and I can’t find fault with it. You may have just taken all the stress out of my Mondays, Micha’el.