Wish I could spend today Domingiando (Sundaying). Wish I could get up late, buy La Nación and read the horoscopes from the magazine over a big fat café con leche with freshly baked medialunas. Then maybe wander out to San Telmo to join the hordes at Plaza Dorrego and buy myself a useless piece of antique crapology from one of the stalls. Or maybe just stroll up to Congresso for a bit of sunshine, passing by Clara's to drag her out and make her watch the superclassico (the Boca-River match). Or go for the long-haul option, jet across the city and do the chichi thing, brunching at Olsen´s and pottering around Palermo. Instead, I´m in the Time Out office again, and all I can hear of the match is the occasional cheer or the manic clamour every time someone scores. But the great thing about Buenos Aires is that it doesn't matter what time I leave here. There'll still be something going on. Even if I wander out through Congresso, down San Jose to see if the greatest secret bread shop is open, turning onto Belgrano past the long police station where the flirty guards keep watch for passing chicas, meander down Cevallos and finally through the big iron gate of home. Even if, when I get home, I lie down on my big red bedspread for a little while to take the evening siesta, listening to the family downstairs bang pots around the kitchen. Even if I get up and shower (hot, cold, hot, cold gas powered shower), and play a little Be Good Tanyas on my guitar, even then, there'll still be something going on. There'll still be time to head out to the Gibraltar, the Sunday night regular destination, and, while I might miss the sushi, I'll still catch all the regulars shooting pool in the back room and holding fast to the weekend.