I have a memory of a group of us dancing on a pontoon on the lake one Friday night that I think about if ever I need to reduce my blood pressure.
“You’re in the land of Zion,” now, he shouted, “you’re in the land of the Jews!” He was obviously a lunatic, but I didn’t want to back down.
At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
He sits back in his black, leather chair, makes a steeple with his fingers, and is definitely in charge, while I sit on the edge of my seat, lean forward and gibber like the monkey I really am.
We’re drunk and happy, and howl into the night, like wolves in the forest.
Israelis, in case you don’t know, aren’t great at customer relations.
Tim, infuriated by the sounds of a mother playing with her baby, who wouldn’t be, poured a glass of water onto them from his balcony.