I was wandering through the streets of old Lisbon down by the docks one day. Though many of the buildings had been renovated and their walls covered with brand new tiles that shone in the sun, there was one derelict old building that made me stop and think.
I hadn't been feeling too good for some while, and as I looked at the old battered door, as green and sickly as I felt, I sort of identified with it, hanging on its rusty hinges, and with the whole derelict structure behind it, as empty as I was, except for the ghosts of the past. I touched the door, ran my fingers over the rough broken paint, and a voice in my head was tempting me to step in, to give up my walk along the river's edge, just to go in and lie down amongst the debris and the rats, and give in.
The door was the door to my tomb.
My hand was on the handle when I noticed an election poster, stuck on the wall next to the door. 'PCP' it said, 'The Portuguese Communist Party - The Struggle Goes On!'
I snatched my hand away from thedoor handle.
'Too right, Comrade!' I said, 'The struggle goes on!'
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