I received a package of books today and two of them had the same Esfahan mosque on the front cover. OK, one is called ‘Islamic Art and Architecture’ and the other is titled ‘After the Jihad’ but the odds were still astronomical, I would guess. It’s obviously not just my favourite building. A truly stupendous edifice, whose dome changes from light blue to pink in the setting sun.

Actually, I received two packages, one in the morning and one in the evening. The morning postwoman said I could enter my identity number if I could remember it, so I didn’t. The evening postman insisted on a number, so I again fabricated one. Got this bureaucracy thing cracked now.

Stimulated by the events of Friday, I’ve been musing today about Spanish women. In this I was assisted by the fact it was another very hot day here in Pontevedra. I do hope I don’t live to regret saying this but it’s hard to imagine there are women elsewhere more feminine, more willing to chat, more responsive to even the mildest compliment and more tactile in their conversation. All of this would be hard enough for an Anglo-Saxon male to deal with if Spanish women dressed like Eskimos. But, of course, they don’t. Or not like the ones outside the igloo anyway. So it’s hardly surprising that my young English friend is very disconcerted by what has hit him since Friday. He has a rendezvous tomorrow with the lady in question and hopes to clarify a few things. I am not optimistic on his behalf. But we will see.