If I travelled under a cloud, under terrible pressure, weighed down by terrible worry last month, this time I travel with a wind beneath my wings. Flying high, easily, relaxed. But, still, nervous. Something must be about to go wrong. The barmaid is what I think of as a typical Brussels girl: curvy, slightly overweight even in most people’s eyes, but really, really pretty. A sweetness about her. Already I wish I could stay for 20 days instead of 2. I will have to do that soon. I have never done that: stayed in a city for more than 5 or 6 days. That would be an experience. And it will have to be Brussels or Vienna. I don’t think I have ever slept with a Belgian girl I now realise; the girls of 5th Avenue and Rue des Commercants and Gare du Nord are every nationality under the sun except Belgian of course. I think I will save the Dome for tomorrow—their Stella just makes me soporific; the Orient Express Jupiler livens me up. Oh, but it is just the black barmaid at the Dome that preys on my mind.