Yesterday’s Cuban sandwich was still good by the time I’d cycled down to the dock and found a bench looking over the boats. Pelicans perched on the rooftops and glowered at the fish and the people eating fish and the fish eating smaller fish, waiting for their opportunity.

Aware that I am departing this little corner of paradise tomorrow, I walked down Duval Street and allowed myself to be drawn into the key west Wine company. The temptation was to buy a couple of martini glasses – they had a couple of robust numbers with tiny fish cut into the glass. On every glass, one fish is swimming the wrong way. I decided against them because a) they wouldn’t last the journey and b) I’d drive myself crazy looking for the fish. So I opted for the easier option of a bottle of blueberry wine, surprisingly dry and even more surprisingly made of nothing but blueberries.

A bottle of wine in a shoulder bag is a heavy burden, and so I was forced to stop for a quick Margarita which arrived with the news that it was ‘buy one get one free,’ so if you’re pacing yourself, be aware of this possibility. Happily, I was able to take it in my stride, and returned to the Marquesa via the local supermarket for Cuban bread, roast beef, and shrimp salad for lunch.

Tomorrow I’m due to do a speech at the key west Toastmasters, and so a small gang of us went down to Solo, a bar near the harbour for yet more Margaritas before heading up to Pisces for dinner.

This is another restaurant that seems to have been carved out of someone’s house: there are more tables than first glance suggests, as they are all in different rooms. There are huge Warhol-style prints on the walls. I sat with Chairman Mao looking over my shoulder, and Mohammed Ali looking into my plate.

I kicked off with a salmon roulade and mozzarella roulade, and then launched into tuna with crab and lobster in the lightest and mildest and mangoiest curry sauce you can imagine and you almost certainly can’t so I think you should just quit reading this and go.

Another fabulous Riesling, and my work was done. The French couple at the next table made happy noises throughout their meal, while I took it slow and mused on the thought that I haven’t put a fork wrong all week.

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