On the ICE to Brussels. A much more spacious train than the Nuremberg to Frankfurt one! Sitting in the Caribic videokabins last night I was thinking when I get to Brussels Fifth Avenue I’m going to f—k the first half-decent girl there I see, don’t care who she is; but of course that feeling has passed, and my old reticence will no doubt still be in force when I get there. And that I realise (again, re-realise) is why Vienna so often does disappoint. To really find a place erotic, to be able to really release the erotic fly from the amber, raise the woolly mammoth from the ice, there needs first of all to be a really good source of pornography.