Temples, pigeons and cocktails.

"Blogging can become an onerous task", Clare Hammett, our naturally precise harpsichord tuner tells me as we make our second lap around the gargantuan Sands Hotel.  We're looking for another hotel altogether, one which promises cocktails and a sunset;  but which has successfully hidden its bulk for nearly an hour.  My ankles throb in the heat and the temptation to run back to the massage place we passed twenty minutes earlier is pressing.  The advertisement promising 'Pinch, Scrape Feet and Oil Push' is all I can think about; all that is except for The Blog and what on earth I'll write about next.  Ideas circle, but none land.  Clare is right.

Tours usually begin abruptly, as we cajole our flight-broken bodies into rehearsal, but this time we have time to swan around the city, exploring palaces, temples and gardens.  On our free day I suffer terribly with fear of missing out; it's a debilitating condition when there's a whole city to explore.  I'm saved by Nadja, our leader, who has arrived a day late, guide book in hand and a bleeding finger with a complicated story.  She's read the chapter on Macau twice and is now a fount of local culinary knowledge from African Spicy Chicken to Macanese Roasted Pigeon.

Back at the cocktail hunt,  we're in a large group which moves with all the haste of an elephant - a lovely, friendly elephant with all your friends aboard.  The hotel is eventually found hiding behind an oversized impression of an art deco building in sickly green.  The top floor terrace's walls are so high that when seated we can only see a sky which has turned thick grey with pollution.  But it's nice to be outside and we all take our shoes off at the same time and cool our heels on the marble.  Helicopters busily ply their trade; this is a town of gamblers on the move.

Earlier that day, I try to find a moment of peace in a temple.  Swirls of incense hang from the ceiling like sculptures, the dust from which occasionally drops onto my head.  The walls are banks of glass cases; black and white passport-like photographs of people who I assume to be dead stare back at me.  I settle in a courtyard where two trees struggle through an iron grate to the sky.  The sunlight picks out thick plumes of incense smoke and I take my cue to sit down and close my eyes.  A speedy Chinese man who I take to be the person in charge enters, glares at me and all-too-hastily I give up.

In the event, cocktails are sunk without a glimpse of setting sun. We split into two groups and, a taxi ride later, find ourselves in Nadja's Roast Pigeon joint.  Offering up a restaurant choice to a sizeable party of your colleagues is a risky business - get it right, and you're a darling for the night, get it wrong and guilt gobbles you up. Only two brave souls order the now-famous pigeon after someone has spotted the photograph of the dish: the neck and head (beak and all) are still attached and unreasonably we all feel afraid.  Carolyn points out that we eat fish with the head on.  She's right of course but I still can't manage it.

We eat together, telling sorry tales of BT and promised superfast broadband that never materialises. We share too much wine which encourages us on to the casino at the Grand Lisboa Hotel where Sarah, our orchestral manager, performs the most beautiful non sequitor, causing Harry to exclaim, "But what were the questions and who is Melissa?".  If I ever find out I'll be sure to let you know.