Gone with the dead leaves

Autumn is so sadly ephemeral. Bare trees remind me of how subtly seasons change without time waiting for people to catch up with the weather forecast, temperature drop and festive spirit. Life is a fading metamorphosis and I've been spending it cocooning in bed like some sloth-otter hybrid, surrounded by cups of coffee, Calvin Klein candles and intensive Tumblr scrolling. My bed becomes a comfortable prison as I say farewell to my favourite season. It's so cold and dark outside, it almost makes me miss Portugal. Almost. There was a sneaky fox exploring my front yard a few nights ago and I wondered if he or she was okay with the Winterfell-esque nocturnal negative degrees. 

November has been hectic: my best friend Cláudia visited Dublin for the first time - she was staying at my place for one week and we ended up eating so much that we had to crawl back to bed in order to digest properly (she basically ate her weight in oysters; and don't even get me started on that colossal wild boar burger with fried apple that we shared after some potted crab and veggie scotch eggs and before this majestic white chocolate mousse with lemon curd and blackberry coulis...!). Money and time are never enough so I hope she comes back when the weather gets less hostile. After all, we managed to witness 2 storms (Abigail and Barney), both of them a bit overrated and not Biblical at all, in my humble opinion - I can't take a storm seriously if there's no sign of thunder.

The other day I went to IMMA for the first time and got lost in Dublin 8 (yes, I live in Dublin for 11 months and still get lost sometimes - how cool is that?), ended up in a real-deal-kinda-pub and got some strange looks as I convinced myself that The Angelus was just a Christmassy Guinness commercial - classic Nancy, the heathen mouthy foreigner.

My immune system has seen better days so I'm staying away from processed foods, nights out and so on for the next few days. Meanwhile, I spend my day off dancing to Missy Elliott (her lyrics = gospel), playing with a direwolf german shepherd by the fireplace while he fearlessly farts like there's no tomorrow (falafel farts, the ones that smell like chickpea fermentation, if there is such a thing), trying to decide what to cook for dinner, based on my current appetite for comfort food with a Mediterranean twist.