The usual INNUMERABLE beautiful nubile young Brussels girls, both of white European and Moroccan stock, on the way from the station to the hotel (Max). Just curvy curvy girls, everywhere. I am more aware of the CURVACEOUSNESS of a woman’s body here than in any other city I ever go to; and that is a recurrent strong impression, not just a one-off. The drinks machine in the Max was once more warm! Warm beer! What is this nonsense? One stay it is warm, next ice cold, next warm. I didn’t bother to complain on this occasion, as I had just arrived, and the duty manager seemed to be hiding from me out of sight. Went up to Dome and had to wait a couple of minutes at the bar unattended, before, from the kitchen, there she appeared—my Rubenesque black girl. Have I ever asked her name? Probably, every time I come here, never remembered though. Belgian beer (indeed European beer) is just that bit stronger than the beer I drink in London and blanks my brain quicker than I expect.