I am in Pisa. 

Even the roads near the station, where the tourists would not go, are beautiful and distinctive, their colours and shutters. It is mild enough for grockling, in January. 

Local beggars sit by the side of the shopping street, with a laminated sign with a message. Trafficked people hawk wooden ornamental trains, made to spell names or words. One sold selfie sticks which I thought were Nordic Walking poles. A man who proclaimed himself a former drug addict engaged us in conversation and asked for a contribution to their hostel,  costing €40 a night per resident. 

I am with Aspie friends. I love the way we are all careful of each others’ comfort and happiness. Two declared themselves a couple only last month. We sat in the cathedral and wandered along the streets. I cannot afford a holiday but want to enjoy it now I am here. 

The flat is lovely with varied art reproductions on the walls, and showers with a choice of three jets,  including one aimed at the crotch. As always you can see me here by what I find worthy of remark. 

Talk to me.

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