quinta-feira, 26 de setembro de 2013


Harrods.jpgHigh-end department stores are devoted to one idea. Their customers must enter a different world: a parallel universe, ten times better than the real one. “Enter a different world” also happened to be the advertising line for Harrods, the Knightsbridge department store, from the 1970s to the 1990s.
Today Harrods is certainly a different world—but one that arouses sharply mixed feelings. Though it still sells itself as quintessentially English, with a lot of PR flim-flam about its Victorian roots and building, and its Establishment-supplier role of “Everything London”, Harrods today belongs to the Middle East. Since 1985, when Mohamed Al Fayed bought the place, there’s been a Middle Eastern sensibility at the helm, with a Middle Eastern market much in mind. This meant that long before Harrods lost its Royal warrants, its traditional, local customers—toffs and Sloanes—started leaving in droves, to be replaced by tourists and new money from Essex and Egypt. And although it’s now two years since Fayed sold up to the Qatari royal family, this target market is, if anything, more entrenched.

Walk through womenswear on the first floor, and you pass rails of international designers, both fashion-editor approved (Céline) and elderly kaftan-glam (Roberto Cavalli). But many brands seem heavily curated by Harrods buyers, sticking to a safely middle-aged colour palette of navy, red and peach. This is not a place to go for edgy looks; and if you want to see the full range of a designer’s vision, many have fully stocked, own-name stores only a tube-ride away. The same goes for menswear—apart from the high-street “Denim Lab” section, where a teenage boy with not too much money or fashion savvy could nonetheless leave with a well-edited look from Topman or Superdry.

The main plus is that, on a Wednesday lunchtime, while the pavements outside pullulated with office workers and day-trippers, the shopfloor was deserted. You’d have the changing rooms all to yourself.
The Food Hall used to be a thing of glory—a place where countesses would order a slice of something from a grocer with immaculate manners—and it still has some nostalgic appeal. The ornate paint’n’plaster Edwardian ceiling, the smell of sweet-cured ham, the decorative pastries (cream slices with an edible Harrods logo; doughnuts iced with Union Jack-red glitter) achieve the right sense of cornucopia. But the British food is pedestrian (a basket of Red Delicious apples is apparently the best local orchards have to offer) and easily outshone by a Lebanese deli counter, a rack of heavily loaded prawn-and-salami pizzas and luscious-looking bowls of heat-and-serve curries.

Elsewhere, there’s an emphasis on trinketisation—crystal-studded chessboards, crystal-studded handbags, crystal-studded candles—at the expense of investment in new or niche British products. The only two truly modern-Brit moments in the whole store are a single rail of (rather good) clothes by Victoria Beckham, and the accurately sentimental entrance-hall memorial to Dodi Fayed and Princess Di.

Yet Harrods is only echoing the reality of modern Knightsbridge—where, according to its managing director, the vast majority of its customers still come from, and where homes are overwhelmingly bought by non-doms. And despite the apparent lack of footfall, the post-Fayed books show it’s doing more than something right. Turnover last year was around £1 billion—bolstered, perhaps, by “International Lifestyle Furniture” on the third floor, an expressive boardroom collection of zebra wood, macassar ebony and silver-gilt. Or by the own-brand gift shop, a presence both on the second floor and at most British airports.

Harrods, like everyone, is now setting out its stall for the Chinese: it has hired 60 Mandarin-speaking assistants. In the first quarter of 2011, its sales to this community were up year on year by 40%: it seems they’re as happy as the rest of the world to buy global bling wrapped in the signifiers of tourist-board Old England. A bit of posh, with a bit of Posh. 

Illustration Richard Rockwood


*** Wonder Woman ***

Wonder Woman  is a superhero comic books and cartoons of DC Comics . She is the princess of Themyscira ( sometimes called Paradise Island ), daughter of the Queen of the Amazons , Hippolyta . Her mother created from a clay image , to which five goddesses of Olympus gave life and presented him with superpowers . As an adult , was sent to the " world of men " to spread a peace mission and fight the god of war , Ares. Became a member of the Justice League , as well as Superman and Batman . It was the first heroine to be created in 1941 by DC Comics . Debuted in All Star Comics # 8 ( Dec. 1941) .
In an interview dated October 25, 1940 , conducted by his student Olive Byrne ( under the pseudonym ' Olive Richard " ) and published by Family Circle with the title" Do not laugh at the Comics " , William Moulton Marston described what he saw as the educational potential of comic books ( an article gave the following interview and was published two years later in 1942 ) .1 This article caught the attention of Max Gaines , who hired Marston as an educational consultant of the National Periodicals and All- American Publications, two of the companies that would merge to form the future DC Comics . It was at this time that Marston decided to create a new superhero .
In the early 1940s , DC Comics was dominated by superpowered male characters such as Green Lantern , Batman , and the main one , Superman . Is attributed to the wife of Marston , Elizabeth Holloway Marston , the idea of creating a super -heroine :
Cquote1.svg William Moulton Marston , a psychologist already famous for inventing the polygraph ( forerunner mechanical magic lasso ) , had the idea for a new kind of superhero , one who would triumph not with fists or powers , but with love. " Good ," said Elizabeth . " But do you a mulher.2 " Cquote2.svg
Marston introduced the idea to Max Gaines , cofounder ( along with Jack Liebowitz ) of All- American Publications. Marston developed Wonder Woman with Elizabeth.2 For creating Wonder Woman , Marston was also inspired by Olive Byrne Charles , a woman who lived with him in situations of poligamia3 To write the comic adventures of the new superhero , Marston used the pseudonym Charles Moulton , combined his middle name with Olive .
Hence , " Wonder Woman is psychological propaganda for the new type of woman who should rule the world," Marston escreveu.4 Although Gloria Steinem had placed Wonder Woman on the first standalone cover of Ms. in 1972 , Marston , writing well before , designed Wonder Woman to represent a particular model of female power . Feminism argues that women are equal to men and should be treated as they are.

Basically , Wonder Woman is a Caucasian woman with black hair ( which have been short, long , curly , straight ) , using a golden tiara with a star, a costume that combines red bustier with a golden eagle as a symbol ( being replaced by a double " W " in the 1980s by then) , blue shorts with white stars and long boots vermelhas.6 After the civil war in which his mother was deposed from the throne of the Amazons , Wonder Woman stopped wearing the tiara .
Powers and abilities
The powers of Wonder Woman are huge :Physical Strength : Wonder Woman is considered the strongest female character in the comics , she having a huge physical strength ( comparable to Superman ) , so that she can , with ease , lift tons .Ability to Fly: The character is still able to fly , and can currently reach supersonic speed .Superhuman agility : Wonder Woman possess a level of agility extremely high , much higher levels of human , causing it to catch a bullet in the air , for example.
It is said to have the strength of Hercules , the wisdom of Athena , the beauty of Aphrodite and Hermes speed . In the Pre -Crisis era , it was only the gift of planar (a few feet off the ground ) , this ability being replaced years later by the ability to fly itself ( given in current versions ) .
Is also trained in all the fighting skills of armed and unarmed ancient Greece . Foreign languages ​​Themysciriana , ancient and modern Greek , English, Portuguese , Spanish, French , Japanese, Chinese , German, Russian , Italian, Korean , Hindi , among others .
Weapons and equipment
Wonder Woman , beyond the powers of the gods received gifts that help increase your skills : two indestructible bracelets , which uses to deflect projectiles and lightning , a tiara that can be used as a boomerang , and a unbreakable magic lasso that makes people touched tell the truth. The loop also made the god Ares see the folly of their actions , because they destroy all humans would have no more worshipers . In later stories , written by Joe Kelly ( the bow " Imperfect Paradise " , the comic book / comic book Justice League ) explained that this tie (sometimes nicknamed the lasso of truth ) is a symbol of truth in our world , leaving Wonder Woman , so the role of guardian of the truth . Wonder Woman had a kind of radio receiver / transmitter telepathic waves , with whom he could communicate with the Amazons who were Themiscyra .
In the original Wonder Woman had an invisible plane made ​​of metal dummy Amazonium ( because it did not fly ) , because of many jokes ( in MAD magazine , for example) and it was gradually being withdrawn from the stories . But its use highlighted in the TV series of the 1970s and the drawings of the Super Friends , caused him to be reused a few times during this period . With the release of Wonder Woman by George Perez , it was established that she can fly with his own powers and the aircraft was discarded . Recently, the plane was reinstated the chronology , with a dowry of lansiranianos race of aliens .
The Paradise Island was inhabited by the ancient Amazons of mythology , and there were no men on the island . Wonder Woman came into the world on Paradise Island as a girl statue created by Hippolyta , queen of the Amazons . So in love with his sculpture , the queen asked the gods to give life figure , and was met ( similar to the Greek myth of Pygmalion ) . Named Diana . Along with life , the gods also gave various skills the little girl , who was already at an early age strongest able to boot a tree bare hands and outrun a gazelle .
When Diana was an adult, Steve Trevor , U.S. Air Force pilot with his plane crashed on Paradise Island . The Queen Hippolyta decreed that the rider who won several competitions including the commission would have to take Steve back to the United States , and become a champion on behalf of the Amazons on American soil . Prohibited from participating by his mother , Diana disguised herself and won the contest , which included gunfights on Kangoos ( native species of Kangaroo Island Paradise) , racing competition , and trim bullets with her ​​bracelets .
Wonder Woman adopted the secret identity of Diana Prince , a nurse from the U.S. Air Force . He was in love with Steve Trevor . In this version she really did not fly ( glide on air currents ) and wore a telepathic wave radio . In the story published in Sensation Comics # 1 , January 1942 , had a nurse named Diana Prince , which helped Wonder Woman . This Diana agreed to let the superhero , who wished to be on the side of the patient Steve Trevor , assume his identity while she went to be with her ​​soldier boyfriend , who was in South America One of the supporting characters was the most successful chubby Etta Candy , one of the fans of Wonder Woman called " Girls Hollyday " ( as translated into Portuguese in the Brazilian magazine " Collection # 3 DC 70 years " , the Panini Publishing , July 2008 ) .
As opponents , Wonder Woman had many classic villains from the Golden Age of Comics ( Evil ( originally from Saturn) , Giganta , Cheetah , Queen Clea ( Atlantis ) , Dr. Poison , the priestess Zara ) , some was reformulated in Silver and still appearing in modern stories .
In 1969 , the Amazons reached its 10,000 th year on earth , and it had to be deported to another dimension in order to renew their powers . Wonder Woman refused to accompany them , as Steve Trevor , her lover, had been guilty of high treason by the United States , and she wanted to meet him and help clear his name . As a result , Diana lost her powers and requested removal of the Justice League .
Diana abandoned traditional clothing and glasses , and began to adopt a new look , to call the attention of Steve and make him forget Wonder Woman and began using the name Diana Prince . She , in this state , he starred in a series whose title in Portuguese was The Adventures of Diana ( published in Brazilian Who Was ? 's Ebal8 with some stories reprinted by April) , which was a kind of secret agent , assisted by I - Ching , a master oriental .
The absence of powers lasted until 1972 when Gloria Steinem , publisher of real feminist magazine Ms. Magazine (mentioned above ) , offended by the fact that most superhero being powerless to put on the cover of Ms. Magazine # 1 with his original costume . This sparked controversy , and DC quickly in February 1972 , restored Wonder Woman with her ​​costume and powers clássicos.9
" Death "
At the end of Crisis on Infinite Earths , Wonder Woman received a flurry of Anti-Monitor , which disappeared so that your body back in time , back to clay of Paradise Island . A final tribute to Wonder Woman Pre -Crisis was seen in Legend of Wonder Woman, miniseries written by Kurt Busiek , 1986. In this saga, the Amazons gather before Hippolyta , an adventure that tells Diana that was before his " death " . At the end , the goddess Aphrodite appears and says that he was using his power to keep this pre -crisis version of Paradise Island and its inhabitants part of the changes caused by the Crisis on Infinite Earths , Hippolyta says he does not want it . Aphrodite then meets his application , eliminating the shields on the mystical island. The island and the amazons pre -crisis begin to dissolve , as if they never existed . As a final punishment , Aphrodite turns them into stars . All memories and existence of this version of the island - Paradise , like Wonder Woman 's Pre - Crisis, cease to exist ...
Post- crisis The first appearance of Wonder Woman at DC post- Crisis timeline , is Wonder Woman vol . 2 , No. 1 ( Feb. 1987). As super -heroine acting with other heroes , she appeared in the miniseries Legends .
According to the last reset of the chronology of Wonder Woman by George Perez made ​​after the Crisis on Infinite Earths , Hippolyta and the rest of the Amazons would be the reincarnation of women throughout history have died as a result of hatred and misunderstanding of men. In case, Hippolyta was the first woman killed by a man ; Princess Diana ( Wonder Woman ) was the embodiment of unborn daughter of this woman . Before being exiled on Paradise Island , the Amazons lived in Greece , where they were banned after a conflict with Heracles ( Hercules ) and his armies . Wonder Woman would only come to the world of men after crisis , which also caused it not to have participated in the founding of the Justice League . Currently she has no secret identity . Wonder Woman won Gaia , the Earth Goddess , the power of telepathy and also the power of the bracelets , which when touched unleash bursts capable of hurting cosmic super- beings , besides, of course , any telepath can invade your mind , thanks to the tiara. Etta Candy would marry an old man Steve Trevor , reintroduced in the current adventures .


It must have been in 1980 that my wife, Lucinda, and I made our first visit to Paris, a delayed honeymoon, the two nights in Brighton’s Royal Crescent Hotel immediately after our wedding being something of a stop-gap measure, all we could then afford. We were drawn to Paris by a combination of things. Lucinda was a wholehearted Francophile, a consumer of French novels, and a fearless, if not faultless, French speaker. As an actress, she had taken a course at Jacques Lecoq’s Ecole Internationale de Théâtre. She knew where to find inexpensive but perfectly acceptable oysters and champagne. So she led the way. 

Brancusi 3.jpgWhat attracted me was the promise of setting my eyes on the works of Manet, Degas, Cézanne and Bonnard, and exploring the great museums and galleries, newest of which was the Pompidou. Its revolutionary exoskeletal—or should that be extravisceral?—structure had been celebrated in all the Sunday colour supplements. So we had to go there. And we did—delighting more, it must be said, in what it revealed of the city’s gorgeous, variegatedly grey roofscape, visible from its upper storeys, than in the provocations and titillations of its own design. If the colour supplements had mentioned the Atelier Brancusi it had escaped us; but we soon noticed the incongruous little building, stepped into it, and were amazed. 

Until then, Constantin Brancusi had been barely known to me. I now revere him as a wholly original genius, in sculpture and drawing, and as a key figure in that paradoxically non-parochial movement, the Ecole de Paris. If he had been only a minor associate of the movement, of questionable artistic stature, there would still have been an aura of legend about him. The feats of his youth alone would have singled him out. 

Born in rural Romania in 1876, Brancusi left home at the age of ten or 11, on an impulse that seems almost to have been a prophetic calling. He was not heard of for the next six years. In his gadabout teens, challenged to make a violin, he did just that, examining another instrument, puzzling out how to align the grain of the wood to achieve a classical richness of tone. After several years of menial employment, he enrolled at art school, and as a graduate student modelled a life-size, écorché human figure sufficiently accurate to be of use to medical students. In his early 20s, he set off on foot for Paris, with his flute for company. 

He reached the capital city of art in 1904, for a while contemplated apprenticing himself to the great Auguste Rodin, but at last decided against it on the grounds that “nothing of significance grows under the shade of a large tree.” A fund of folksy wisdom, reinforced by steely independence of purpose, seems to have been part of his natural equipment. Rodin, he opined, sculpted “in beefsteak”—that is, in the decadent Renaissance manner, lavishing undue care on the virtuoso treatment of musculature and flesh. He himself was on a quest for something purer, truer, stronger; both of the earth and spiritually fulfilling...


Os superlativos

tall = alto
tallest = o mais alto
The tallest boy in the room.
O menino mais alto na sala.
simple = simples
simplest = o mais simples
The simplest form.
A forma mais simples.
thin = fino
thinnest = o mais fino
The thinnest skin of the body.
A pele mais fina no corpo.
hot = quente
hottest = o mais quente
Summer os the hottest season.
O verão é a estação mais quente.
heavy = pesado
heaviest = o mais pesado
The heaviest box.
A caixa mais pesada.
easy = fácil
easiest = o mais fácil
The easiest problem.
O problema mais fácil


GAME Mass Effect 3
Mass Effect 3.jpg

It’s a space-faring trilogy that combines galactic conflict with wrenching personal choices. If that sounds like the original “Star Wars” films, it’s deliberate: “Mass Effect” is an ambitious bid to show and extend the storytelling power of gaming. This third chapter, which also works as a stand-alone, rounds off a series that has been innovative in many ways. Your choices from earlier games carry over into later ones; the gameplay mixes role-playing and run-and-gun action; the romantic subplots (and sex scenes, including same-sex relationships) caused a stir, but why should such a staple of movies not be found in games too? The game is morally ambiguous, requiring you to make hard choices and live with the consequences.

In “ME3” Commander Shepard (male or female, it’s up to you) scours the galaxy for allies to take on the Reapers, a mysterious race of alien machines set on wiping out all organic life. The visuals, writing and voice-acting are all top-notch, and the controls and navigation have been steadily refined. But the rather incoherent ending, featuring the well-known intergalactic hub of, er, London, has been hugely controversial. When choices affect the game in so many ways, it’s a pity this doesn’t apply to the very end. The series may not have quite lived up to its lofty goals. but it’s still a milestone in gaming, and all the fuss highlights the devotion of its fans.

Mass Effect 3 around £40 (Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, PC)

GADGET Samsung Galaxy Note

As you may have noticed, the third version of the iPad recently went on sale, extending Apple’s dominance of tablet computing still further. What can its rivals do in response? With the Galaxy Note, a thin-but-wide smartphone with a 5.3-inch screen, Samsung is pushing the idea of a device that is bigger than a phone but smaller than a tablet. The size of a Moleskine notebook, the Note offers two things the all-conquering iPad does not: the option of writing and drawing with a built-in stylus, and the ability to fit in your pocket. Web pages look great on its roomy and vibrant OLED screen, and the stylus lets you sketch and jot with surprising precision. (It’s also brilliant for playing “Draw Something”, the addictive social-sketching game.) True, the Note looks a bit odd when held up to your ear, but voice calls are just a minor feature of phones these days. And it seems to be setting a trend: HTC, LG, Huawei and others are launching hybrid phone-tablets (or “phablets”) too. Apple may respond with a larger iPhone or an iPad mini later this year. But, for the moment, the Galaxy Note is the phablet to beat.

Galaxy Note phone  £0-£600, depending on contract

APP Flipboard for iPhone

The best realisation of the “Daily Me” personalised newspaper is Flipboard, an iPad app that takes stories from around the web in a variety of categories, plus items posted by your friends on Facebook and Twitter, and compiles and formats them like a magazine. It’s a lovely way to browse your social networks that feels less frenetic than scrolling through an endless list of updates, and it’s now available on the iPhone too. The simple, flippable layout had to be completely rejigged to work on the smaller screen, but it provides the same appealing mixture of personal and global news in the palm of your hand. Alas, there’s no sign of an Android version.

Flipboard for iPad, iPhone and iPod Touch: free
Tom Standage is digital editor of The Economist and author of "An Edible History of Humanity"


'' Aprenda advérbio ou adjetivo em Inglês* ''

Adjectives- Adjetivos

Adjectives Modify Nouns- Adjetivos modificam os substantivos
Adjetivos são colocados diretamente antes de um substantivo
Tom is an excellent singer.
I bought a comfortable chair.
She’s thinking about buying a new house.
Adjectives are also used in simple sentences with the verb ‘to be’. In this case, the adjective describes the subject of the sentence:
Jack is happy.
Peter was very tired.
Mary’ll be excited when you tell her.
Os adjetivos são usados com os verbos sentido ou verbos ou aparência (sentir, gostar, cheirar, som, aparecer e parecer)
para modificar o substantivo que vem antes do verbo:
The fish tasted awful.
Did you see Peter? He seemed very upset.
I’m afraid the meat smelled rotten.
Adverbs- Advérbios

Advérbios modifica os verbos, adjetivos e outros advérbios
Advérbios são facilmente reconhecidos, pois termina em ‘-ly’ (com algumas exceções!):
Adjective -> careful / Adverb -> carefully
Adjective -> quick / Adverb -> quickly
Adverbs are often used at the end of a sentence to modify the verb:
Jack drove carelessly.
Tom played the match effortlessly.
Jason complained about his classes constantly.
Adverbs are used to modify adjectives:
They seemed extremely satisfied.
She paid increasingly high prices.
I was suddenly surprised by Alice.
Adverbs are also used to modify other adverbs:
The people in the line moved incredibly quickly.
She wrote the report unusually neatly.

segunda-feira, 23 de setembro de 2013


0312ILIN_wine_72.jpgNamed after Bernard Loiseau, the celebrated French chef who committed suicide in 2003, and opened by his widow, Dominique, Loiseau des Vignes is the best place to eat in Beaune—or even Burgundy. The food is a creative, if pricey, post-nouvelle-cuisine take on traditional local dishes—émulsion à l’ail doux meets escargots de Bourgogne—but for a wine lover, what makes this place special are the Enomatic machines that occupy one and a half walls of the restaurant.
Or rather not the machines, as such, but the bottles they contain, all sold fresh by the glass. Loiseau des Vignes claims to have been the first restaurant in Europe to offer most of its wine list as 8cl and 12cl pours as well as by the bottle.

This may or may not be true, but it’s a welcome innovation. Even in Burgundy, the best local wines are expensive, so having the chance to sample, say, a 2008 Raveneau Chablis Premier Cru (€8 for a small pour) or a 2007 Roumier Morey-St-Denis Clos de la Bussière (€24, ditto) makes them a lot more affordable.

In total there are 134 wines by the glass, although not all are available at any one time. These are divided into 51 whites, 51 reds and 32 “from elsewhere”—which basically means the rest of France. The prices are reasonable and the selection includes some of Burgundy’s great domains, from Sauzet to Coche-Dury, Rousseau to Méo-Camuzet.
There’s a separate list of 75cl bottles, including a few “myths” such as Leflaive Bienvenues-Bâtard-Montrachet and Domaine de la Romanée-Conti La Tâche. For a Michelin-starred restaurant, even these look comparatively cheap. A bottle of 2005 La Tâche (yours for €2,500) would cost 25% more at auction.

With the excellent dégustation menu, we drank a selection of wines suggested by the sommelier. These were mostly spot-on, complementing the dishes with grace and style, and didn’t force us to trade up to the stratosphere. The minerally Hubert Lamy St Aubin, La Princée (€10 for 12cl), the citrus-tinged Christophe Buisson St Romain (€9), the fleshy Humbert Frères Gevrey-Chambertin Premier Cru (€23) and the more restrained Tollot-Beaut Aloxe-Corton (€15) were all good—the latter particularly successful with some of the ripest, smelliest cheeses I’ve had in Burgundy. It was like the region coming alive in my glass.

loiseau-des-vignes.com; €300 for two
If you want to rub shoulders with winemakers, importers and Pinot Noir lovers, Caves Madeleine is a convivial shop-cum-bistro that serves some of the tastiest food in Beaune. There’s no wine list (or website) here, but sit at the long middle table and you are—literally—surrounded by 900 choices, all selected by the owner, Lolo Brelin. More than a third come from outside Burgundy, but stick with the local wines. You can bring your own (corkage is €6), though Brelin’s prices are attractive. Call +33 3 80 22 93 30 for a reservation and be prepared to speak French.

Situated on the pretty main square in Puligny-Montrachet, no more than a stagger from the gates of the legendary Domaine Leflaive, Le Montrachet is an excellent place for lunch for anyone visiting the Côte de Beaune. The food is stylish, modern French fare and the wine list is one of the best in the region, specialising in the wines of Puligny- and Chassagne-Montrachet. The top end is well represented (including a palate-watering line up of 41 Montrachets), but you can drink inexpensively, too. Try the €57 set menu with a bottle of St Aubin.

Tim Atkin is a Master of Wine and co-chairman of the International Wine Challenge. He has won more than 20 awards for wine writing

Illustration Chris Price



DadsClub.jpgWhen I tell people that for the past ten years I have belonged to an exclusive, all-male dining club of London-based friends, most of whom have known each other since childhood, and all of whom attended well-known English universities, I know what they are thinking. And it’s not good. There’s a look they get—a look that says: what, like the Bullingdon? Tailcoats and broken glass? Bankers?
But it isn’t like that. Let me explain.

Like so many great plans, it started with a curry. Six months after my son was born, I met an old university friend, M, another newish father—a publisher, not a banker—for dinner at Malabar in Notting Hill. One of the first places to take a modern, even minimalist approach to Indian food, Malabar was a staple of west-London life. We had celebrated birthdays there; taken girlfriends and, later, wives there; toasted good news with sparkling Omar Khayyam there. We had even seen our mutual hero, Elvis Costello, pop in for a takeaway. But it was all a long time ago.

This was the first time either of us had been out in months. (The supermarket and the baby-aisle at the chemist’s don’t count.) Not that we were complaining. M and I were 21st-century fathers, would-be parental paragons, committed to cheerful nappy-changing, stalwart through sleepless nights. Time was when real men didn’t turn up for their children’s births, let alone read Gina Ford. But not any more. Oh no. Still—we agreed over prawn philouries and the tandoori mixed grill—fatherhood had changed our lives; almost, but not quite entirely for the good. Some things had gone missing—and one of the first things to go had been dinners, like this, with old friends.

Suddenly, it became clear—between the first and second bottle of fizz—that even modern dads need a break now and then.

The next month, at Joe Allen in Covent Garden, two became four. We’d known J and P—manager of a charity and owner of a recording studio, still no tailcoats—for 20 years. Now they too had children. And they too admitted to occasionally feeling adrift on an ocean of parental responsibility. We agreed we could all do with rescuing from time to time.

And so the Dads’ Club was born. The rules were simple. We would meet on the last Thursday of each month. We would avoid anywhere too expensive. And we would never go anywhere twice—a rule broken only once, when the club succumbed to an urge to check if the crisp pork belly at Fino on Charlotte Street (Dads’ Club rating: 17/20) really was that astonishing. It was.

Over the years we’ve travelled the world, without going farther than a taxi-ride home. We’ve tried tacos in Bethnal Green (Green and Red; 11/20) and blinis on Gloucester Road (Wodka; 12/20). We’ve gone Far Eastern in Hoxton (Viet Grill; 14/20) and Szechuan in the City (My Old Place; 13/20). We’ve chomped T-bone in W14 (Popeseye; 12/20) and supped with trannies in Soho (21 Romilly Street; 16/20). We’ve eaten more Italian than you could shake a salame di cinghiale at (Tinello in Pimlico, Latium near Selfridges, and Como Lario in Chelsea—all 17/20—spring to mind). There have even been attempts to branch out: an evening cookery class, though it was hard not to giggle, and we soon retreated to the pub (3/20).

Along the way, our numbers have grown—four became six when S1 and S2, an advertising director and a digital marketer, joined us four years ago. Six seems about right. Any more and you wouldn’t be able to hear yourself think: conversation would splinter; we would become not one group but two or three—and that’s important. For what has become clear is that it’s not about the food. Or at least, not just about the food. At the risk of sounding all “Eat, Pray, Love”, it’s the six people around the table who really count.

There have been serious matters to discuss. One of us has a daughter with a disability; two of us no longer live full-time with our children; one of us was unemployed for a year—these are big subjects. When my mother developed cancer, three years ago, I walked down Queensway to Le Café Anglais (15/20) in a daze. But the support and the friendship I received over the following months—two of the Dads had been through something similar—helped me at a desperate time.
When we started we were young. Well, relatively. Ten years on, we’re deep into our 40s. Our children are growing up. J’s daughter is now at the same university that J and I went to a quarter-century ago. Makes you think. Then, of course, there’s football, music, travel and, er, football to talk about. Chelsea have had eight different managers since 2002. The past ten years haven’t all been easy, you know.

Did we have Dads’ Club in lieu of a mid-life crisis? And does that explain why our partners have been so strangely encouraging? I asked around.
According to my anonymous survey (thanks, Maria): it gets us out of the house, it doesn’t involve infidelity—waitresses’ sweet-talk aside—and you can eat a lot of tapas for the price of a Harley Davidson. Yes, it’s ironic that the male reaction to new fatherhood is to organise a regular boys’ night out while the women mind the babies. But don’t women have support networks too? Isn’t that what book clubs are for?

I’d say we’ve learned a lot, talked a lot, grown a lot; we’ve certainly eaten a lot. I am 15-17% fatter. (Though I’m still not a banker, something about which my wife may have mixed feelings.) Fish stocks have been eroded. Pigs now fear for their bellies. And top scientists estimate that if you laid the breadsticks we’ve eaten end to end, they’d reach the moon.
So, have our appetites been sated?

The other night, at our latest discovery, the wilfully and wonderfully eccentric Brunswick House Café in Vauxhall (17/20), S1 told us about the pills he’s taking to ease the pain in his joints. To be honest, I was reading the menu (deep-fried pig’s head, smoked eel with rhubarb, lamb chop, veal rosette) and only half-listening. But even I could tell this may all go on for some time. Maybe for ever? 

Laurence Earle is executive editor of the Independent on Sunday and editor of its New Review magazine

Illustration Pete Gamlen


dnacomputer_Web.jpgAs a gadget to plug into a USB port, the “MinION” recently unveiled by Oxford Nanopore lacks the touch-me buy-me pizazz of Jonathan Ive’s designs. And since it’s a prototype that no one outside the company and a few partner organisations has yet been able to see in action, it is hard to say how well it actually works. But as an embodiment of technological cool it strikes me as pretty much beyond compare.

Inside the MinION is a little chip with 512 holes in it. Put some DNA into the MinION, and it will pull individual DNA molecules through those pores. DNA molecules carry genetic information in the form of four different chemical bases, like slightly different knots on a piece of string. As a DNA molecule goes through one of the MinION’s pores, the different knots on it are sensed electronically; the signals produced this way are processed inside the MinION and sent through the USB port to your computer, where the string of bases is reassembled as a genome sequence. How long are the pieces of string? The system can read individual strings tens of thousands of bases long—far longer than most sequencing technologies. A MinION should be able to read about a billion bases before its pores run out. That’s a third the length of a human genome. All in a device the size of a matchbox.

There’s no good way of putting a cost on the production of the first human genome sequence in the early 2000s, but the number people tend to quote is $3 billion. The technology in the MinION will apparently do it for well under $3,000. Getting a million times cheaper in ten years is quite a feat even by the standards of…well, by any standards at all. As a byword for head-spinning progress, we’re accustomed to thinking of Moore’s Law, which says (more or less) that the computing power available for a given price doubles every two years. But that gives you only a thousandfold improvement every 20 years. A millionfold in just ten really is something else.

The sheer sequencing power of the MinION by no means exhausts its claim to coolness. This summer sees the 100th anniversary of the birth of the great mathematician Alan Turing, and to understand anything of Turing’s work is to understand the fundamental importance of the ability to read what’s written on a piece of string. In the 1930s Turing tackled a fundamental problem in mathematics: whether it is possible to work out from first principles what things can be calculated, and what cannot. The tool he used was an imaginary machine that read numbers off a string and interpreted them as rules telling it how to write numbers back onto the same string. This simple idea allowed him to answer the question he was working on: no, it is not always possible to tell whether something is calculable. And the imaginary machine—the Turing machine—became the basis of computer science. A new book by George Dyson, “Turing’s Cathedral”, describes in detail how these insights were laboriously turned into primitive electronic hardware. But Dyson also sums up the big picture with almost gnomic elegance—information in computing “can take two forms: patterns in space that are transmitted across time, termed memory; or patterns in time that are transmitted across space, called code.” Both memories and actions can be represented by a simple string of numbers. Both cells and computers are Turing machines.

The way that the MinION reads the sequence data off single molecules letter by letter as they are ratcheted through its pores is a powerful evocation of Turing’s idea. It is not a Turing machine itself, it can only read, not write. But writing does play a crucial role in the creation of its all-important pores.

The pores are made of proteins inspired by nature but redesigned in computers. Those designs are then written on to DNA molecules. A DNA molecule is a memory, transmitting a pattern of information from one time to another. It is also a code, telling the machinery inside cells the sequence of steps that has to be taken to build a particular protein. If Oxford Nanopore could not write the DNA programs that tell bacteria to make the pores it needs, it could not build the devices that allow it to read DNA and thus decipher nature’s own programming.

The technology in the MinION may make Oxford Nanopore a lot of money. Then again, it may not. It is not fully proven as yet, and has a lot of competition, some of it making use of pores, some of it bringing the biological and the computational together in other ways. But integrating the biotechnology needed to make the pores with the computer technology that turns tiny electrical signals from those pores into DNA sequences on a computer screen is a tour de force. And it is also as cool an illustration as you could ask for of the deepest insight to flow from Turing’s work; that both biology and computer technology derive their power from nothing more, or less, miraculous than a string of numbers.

Oliver Morton is the briefings editor of The Economist and author of "Eating the Sun". He is a former editor of Wired (UK) and features editor of Nature

Illustration Gary Taxali



Os advérbios estão ligados aos adjetivos. Por exemplo:
quick = rápido
quicly = rapidamente
Note que o acréscimo das letras ly transformou o adjetivo em advérbio. Observe mais exemplos:
serious = sério
seriously = seriamente
fluent = fluente
fluently = fluentemente
happy = feliz
happily = felizmente
nervous = nervoso
nervously = nervosamente
Mas nem todas as palavras terminadas com ly são advérbios. Há alguns adjetivos que terminam com ly também, veja:
friendly = amigável
lonely = sozinho
lovely = amável
lively = vivo
silly = tolo
elderly = idoso
Como saber, então, quando usar adjetivo ou advérbio?
  • Adjetivos que se referem ao substantivo:
Beth is a careful driver. (Beth é uma motorista cuidadosa.)
  • Advérbios que se referem ao verbo:
Beth drove carefully. (Beth dirigiu cuidadosamente.)
Agora, compare este outro exemplo:
adjetivo + substantivo
  • He speaks perfect Portuguese. (Ele fala Português perfeito.)
verbo + objeto + advérbio
  • He speaks Portuguese perfectly. (Ele fala Português perfeitamente.)
Note que o adjetivo e o verbo precisam de atenção nesses casos para que não haja confusão!
Os advérbios de tempo (today, yesterday, etc.) e os de lugar (here, there) são escritos geralmente no final das frases. Exemplos:
She was studying yesterday. (Ela estava estudando ontem.)
I live there. (Eu moro .)
Já os advérbios de frequência (always, often, never, sometimes, already, etc.) são escritos antes do verbo principal, mas sempre após o verbo auxiliar. Exemplos:
He is sometimes smiling. (Ele está algumas vezes sorrindo.)
They don´t usually sleep early. (Eles(as) normalmente não dormem cedo.)
Quando há vários advérbios numa mesma frase, geralmente são escritos no final dela, mas obedecem uma ordem: modo – lugar – tempo. Exemplos:
She walked slowly to school last week. (Ela andou vagarosamente para a escola na semana passada.)
Mas se houver vários advérbios de tempo ou de lugar na frase, a unidade menor vem primeiro:
I live in a small village in Arizona. (Eu moro numa pequena vila no Arizona.)


I like a recipe to remain as close to its creator’s intentions as possible. It’s not that I’m interested in historical cookery; nor do I mind cooks tweaking recipes—“I always like to add my personal touch, Margery, don’t you?”—as long as I don’t have to eat the result. Replacing the lemon juice in a hollandaise sauce with, for instance, lime juice. Or using anything other than gin, vermouth and lemon in a Martini.

But when published recipes for classic dishes are simply incorrect—whether due to ignorance or arrogance—I get rather cross. Particularly when these recipes come from popular, respected sources, as many readers will never know what they’ve been missing. So it is with the glorious Pavlova cake, often misrepresented as a “big meringue”.

A true Pavlova is not simply a big meringue, but a particularly special bit of baking. Cooked egg white emerges from the oven as a soft, marshmallowy cake with a delicately golden, crusted exterior, a magic transformation that only occurs with the help of two crucial ingredients: cornflour and vinegar. I’m not exactly sure of the science, but I believe the vinegar’s acidity quickly denatures—or sets—the protein of the egg white, while the starchy cornflour adds the necessary squishy, cake-like body. To omit these negates the whole point of the recipe; to omit them and still call the thing a Pavlova is tantamount to heresy.

I think I may have been about 15 when I first saw a picture of a Pavlova, lusciously photographed in a 1970s issue of Cordon Bleu magazine. Well, it certainly caught this keen teenager’s eye: crusted meringue, very gently gilded by the lowest heat of an oven, topped with folds of whipped cream and a layer of scented soft fruits. Quite simply, it demanded to be made. The method here is close to the one that I followed that first time.

Firstly, the oven needs to be low. Whereas an ordinary meringue can be heated at a temperature so low it’s more dried than cooked, a Pavlova’s marshmallowy interior requires actual cooking, albeit slowly; 150?C/gas mark 2 is about right. Choose a loose-bottomed, deep and, preferably, non-stick cake tin—if it has slightly sloping sides, all the better for the final look of the cake, but no matter if it doesn’t. Line the base of the tin with a circle of dampened greaseproof paper. Generously butter the sides of the tin, then dust this with caster sugar, shaking off any excess. Whip four large egg-whites together with a pinch of salt, using an electric mixer—nobody’s going to whip by hand these days, though you’ll get a better, airier texture if you do—until they’ve formed soft, satin-like peaks. With the motor still running, introduce, in heaped tablespoonfuls, 250g of caster sugar, and keep whipping until the meringue is stiff and shiny. Finally, quickly—but thoroughly —beat in two heaped teaspoons of cornflour, one dessertspoon of cider or white-spirit vinegar and one teaspoon of pure vanilla extract.

Carefully pile the mixture into the cake tin and smooth the surface with a dampened spatula. Strew it lightly with caster sugar and then bake for an hour to an hour and a quarter, until the cake has risen somewhat, developed a golden, cracked crust, and is springy when prodded with a finger. If you’re satisfied, close the oven door and switch off the heat. Leave it there until completely cold; this is important, to make sure it doesn’t sink.

Once it’s cool, run a small, sharp knife around the inside of the tin, unmould the cake and turn it out onto a presentable plate. Peel off the circle of greaseproof paper, then pile onto the soft surface some lightly whipped and sweetened cream in thick folds. For me, the only further decoration needed is a very generous slewing of freshly scooped passionfruit pulp: about a dozen well-wizened fruits should do the trick.

Some say that this recipe originated in Wellington, New Zealand, in the mid-1920s, created by a chef for the ballerina Anna Pavlova while she stayed at his hotel. It’s also claimed that it was created in a hotel kitchen in Perth, Australia, in 1935—presumably while Miss Pavlova was there, too. Who really knows? Either way, I hope what she ate was this meringue confection. Cornflour and vinegar included. 

Egg whites These will keep in the fridge for at least a month, in a sealed container — if you have a stash, for this recipe you need 120g of whites.
Passionfruit Try to find fruit that look entirely shrivelled; the scent will be immeasurably more intense.
Cream Do not be tempted to use whipping cream for covering your Pavlova. Only double (aka heavy) cream will be thick enough for the purpose.
Simon Hopkinson is the author of "Roast Chicken and Other Stories". He is "The Good Cook" on BBC1
Illustration Cath Riley


quinta-feira, 19 de setembro de 2013


Hotels with boats.jpg
Turkey Sumahan on the Water, Istanbul
As a trainee architect, the daughter of the Turkish-American owners of Sumahan drew up plans to convert their old Ottoman raki distillery into a 20-room hotel. The result is contemporary and cosy: most rooms have wood-burning stoves or open fires. It is perched on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, in the village of Cengelkoy, with stupendous views across the water from every room (binoculars are provided). Since it’s a long trek into the parts of the city most visitors want to see, the hotel operates a smart motor launch, which shuttles for no charge, morning and evening, to and from the Kabatas quay in Beyoglu on the European shore.
Doubles from €195, room only; sumahan.com

 Villa Dubrovnik
A kilometre or so south of the medieval walled Old City, Villa Dubrovnik is a long, low Modernist building cantilevered out of a cliff overlooking the Adriatic. It was overhauled in 2010, and now every room has a large balcony with a view towards the city or to Lokrum—a wooded island that contains the world’s smallest sea, the Mrtvo More (Dead Sea). There is a lift that takes guests down to a man-made beach, or to the hotel’s handsome Venetian motoscafo (water taxi), which makes 11 daily complimentary round trips across the bay to the Old Harbour.
Doubles from €150, room only; villa-dubrovnik.hr
Italy Palazzina Grassi, Venice
Philippe Starck’s verging-on-surreal transformation of a 16th-century palace on the Grand Canal is a lesson on how to merge the contemporary with classic Venetian style. There are expanses of decorative bevelled mirrors, Murano chandeliers, and mask motifs on the lampshades redolent of Carnevale. The result is eccentric, romantic and glamorous—especially if you arrive from the airport in the hotel’s mahogany motor boat, built in 1962 in the Celli boatyard on Sant’Elena island in the lagoon.
Doubles from €385, room only; palazzinagrassi.it
Russia Grand Hotel Europe, St Petersburg
Built on 101 islands and crosshatched by canals, St Petersburg is as watery as Venice. Since 2009 Orient-Express’s Grand Hotel Europe on Nevsky Prospekt has kept an elegant €180,000 speedboat, Katarina. It is moored by the nearby Anichkov bridge on the Fontanka river, and available for guests to charter in order to explore the city’s web of waterways. It’s also the fastest way to travel to the imperial palace complex at Peterhof on the Gulf of Finland, which is otherwise at least an hour away by metro or road.
Doubles from 11,682 roubles (£246); boat charter from 7,000 roubles an hour);
Vietnam An Lam Saigon River, Ho Chi Minh City
This small resort hotel, which opened last winter, is set in tropical gardens on the banks of the muddy Saigon river on the edge of the city. Most of its 15 rooms and villas have river views and some have their own pools, though there’s also a large main pool, as well as a spa. If that speaks of sloth, the hotel is an equally good base from which to explore Ho Chi Minh City, thanks to its powerboat, which whisks guests to the Bach Dang pier in the heart of District 1 in just 15 minutes.
Doubles from $300 including breakfast; epikurean.ws
Claire Wrathall writes about travel for the Financial Times and the Guardian, and blogs at Arbitrix.net
Illustration Neil Gower


Olivier1.jpgIn the early 1930s my father and stepmother set up a theatre in Bolton. Built on a former graveyard next to the Hanover Street gasworks, it was one of the chain of “Little Theatres” that formed the backbone of pre-war English amateur drama and it was here, in 1937, at the age of seven, that I saw my first show—“Fifinella”, a children’s play by the multimedia mogul Basil Dean. It began with two ladies in bearskins guarding the palace gates, but hardly had they sloped halberds than my cousin Robin and a girl two seats away started whispering about the performance. They were saying it was rubbish. They then said so again more loudly, and when people began shushing them they got up and barged their way to the end of the row, then down the aisle and onto the stage, at which point the penny finally dropped that they were part of the entertainment.
That was my first taste of how the theatre works. You could film Robin’s trick, but the result would be stone dead compared with the physical thrill of being there and tasting the disruption. Although I couldn’t have explained this at the time, I understood that as soon as the dramatic pretence begins, it generates a force field that becomes as tangible as barbed wire if anyone tries to walk through it.
I remember that moment perfectly, but have long forgotten what happened after it. Much the same goes for my memory of 40-odd years of theatre reviewing, which left the impression that most productions chug along on the safe old rails, but from time to time something happens, like the dazzling reflection from a cat’s eyes, that opens up the inner workings of the stage. Whether it’s a good idea for the public to pry into these secrets is a matter of dispute. But for me, the matter was settled from the moment of witnessing the collapse of the palace guard, and I have been on the lookout for “Fifinella” moments ever since.
As a teenager in the 1940s I was well placed to find them. Nearby Manchester was a prime touring date, and even the Bolton Grand attracted big names like Edith Evans. My father and his wife Norma both had freelance acting jobs at the BBC’s Manchester studios. One of their BBC acquaintances, who sometimes stayed at our house, was a documentary-maker, Joan Littlewood, who was said to do a bit of theatre on the side. When she was there they used to have spirited late-night discussions about the commedia dell’arte (whatever that was), and when she’d gone they were apt to chortle over the double entendres in her countryside commentaries (“with a sigh of relief, I grasped the end of his shepherd’s crook”) and mock her eccentric theatrical taste. They both believed in the primacy of the voice, and so far as radio was concerned it was easy to agree with that. Beyond radio, though, it meant that star actors were divinely appointed to rule the roost. Littlewood, it seemed, had other ideas.
One night during the war they took me along to a show of hers at the Miners’ Hall. The piece, by Littlewood’s partner, the folk singer Ewan MacColl, was “Johnny Noble”, a heroic fable of the war at sea, showing a merchant convoy under attack from German U-boats. There was a cast of six, and the set consisted of a piece of rope. MacColl and Littlewood, spotlit in matching black raincoats, delivered a bardic commentary on the action from either flank. Between them, in near darkness, the rope was strung with port and starboard lights that heaved and dipped with the rhythm of the waves. It made me seasick to look at. Then the bombardment began, and the crew went into combat with a Bofors gun—which consisted of four actors, three of them playing the gun with full recoil mechanism and the fourth loading and firing. It was unutterably thrilling. I had never imagined the possibility of such a thing, and the illusion was total. At the same time, I remained fully aware of sitting in this seedy hall watching some actors tying themselves up in knots. My parents admired the lighting, but thought the show coarsely propagandist. For me it triggered the idea that theatre consists of two simultaneous realities—the reality of the actor’s performance and the reality of the spectator’s presence in his seat—with attention continually switching from one to the other.
Picture: “Seducing everyone in the house”—Laurence Olivier as Richard III in the Old Vic’s 1944-45 production, with Joyce Redman as Lady Anne


Os últimos serão os primeiros.The last will be the first.
A ocasião faz o ladrão.Opportunity makes thieves.
Achado não é roubado.Finders keepers, losers weepers.
Quem vai ao ar, perde o lugar.If you snooze, you lose.
Cuida do teu nariz que do meu cuido eu.
Não se meta onde não é chamado.
Mind your own business.
Cada um (louco) com sua mania.To each his own.
Different strokes for different folks.
Não julgues para não seres julgado.Judge not that you be not judged.
Em boca fechada não entra mosca.A close mouth catches no flies.
Águas paradas são profundas.Still waters run deep.
Deus ajuda quem cedo madruga.The early bird catches the worm.
Deus ajuda àqueles que ajudam a si mesmos.God helps those who help themselves.
A galinha do vizinho sempre é mais gorda.The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Não julgue pelas aparências.
As aparências enganam.
Do not judge by appearances.
Looks can be deceiving.
Em casa de ferreiro, o espeto é de pau.Who is worse shod than the shoemaker's wife?
Não se pode julgar um livro pela capa.You can't tell a book by its cover.
You can't judge a book by its cover.
Dize-me com que andas, que dir-te-ei quem és.A man is known by the company he keeps.
Birds of a feather flock together.
De mal a pior.From worse to worse/worst.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Mais vale um passarinho na gaiola do que dois voando.
Mais vale um pássaro na mão do que dois voando.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Nem tudo que reluz é ouro.Not all that glitters is gold.
Nem tudo na vida são flores.Life is not a bed of roses.
É uma faca de dois gumes.It's a double-edged sword.
O barato sai caro.You get what you pay for.
Em terra de cego, quem tem um olho é rei.Among the blind a one-eyed man is king.
A gota que faltava.The last drop makes the cup run over.
The straw that breaks the camel's back.
Matar dois coelhos de uma cajadada só.Kill two birds with one stone.
Não adianta chorar sobre o leite derramado.No use crying over spilt milk.
De pequenino é que se torce o pepino.Best to bend while it is a twig.
Pau que nasce torto, morre torto.As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.
Tal pai, tal filho.Like father, like son.
A chip off the old block.
A fruta nunca cai longe do pé.The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Criança mimada, criança estragada.
Criança muito acariciada nunca foi bem educada.
Criaste, não castigaste, mal criaste.
Spare the rod and spoil the child.
Nem só de pão vive o homem.
Ninguém é de ferro.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
Quando um não quer, dois não brigam.It takes two to tango.
It takes two to begin a fight.
Roupa suja se lava em casa.Don't wash your dirty linen in public.
Longe dos olhos, perto do coração.Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Quem não é visto, não é lembrado.
O que os olhos não vêem, o coração não sente.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Quem cala consente.Silence implies (means) consent.
Santo de casa não faz milagre.No one is a prophet in his own country.
Quando a esmola é demais o santo desconfia.
Isto é bom demais para ser verdade.
It s too good to be true.
Onde há fumaça, há fogo.There's no smoke without fire.
Toda brincadeira tem um fundo de verdade.When a thing is funny, search it carefully for a hidden truth.
Quem desdenha, quer comprar.It is only at the tree loaded with fruit that people throw stones.
Seguro morreu de velho.Better safe than sorry.
Gato escaldado tem medo de água fria.A burnt child dreads the fire.
A burnt child fears the fire.
Ver para crer.Seeing is believing.
Uma imagem vale por mil palavrasA picture is worth a thousand words
Antes tarde do que nunca.Better late than never.
Quando em Roma, faça como os romanos.When in Rome, do like the Romans.
Quem vê cara, não vê coração.Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.
The face is no index to the heart.
Beleza não bota a mesa.Beauty is only skin deep.
Quem ama o feio, bonito lhe parece.Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
In the eyes of the lover, pock-marks are dimples.
Love sees no faults.
O amor é cego.Love is blind.
Quem espera sempre alcança.Good things come to those who wait.
A esperança é a última que morre.While there's life, there's hope.
Querer é poder.Where there's a will there's a way.
Para o bom entendedor, meia palavra basta.A word to the wise is enough.
Melhor do que nada.
Antes pouco do que nada.
Better than nothing.
Half a loaf is better than none.
Uma mão lava a outra.You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.
É dando que se recebe.It is in giving that we receive.
Não mordas a mão que te alimenta.You should not bite the hand that feeds you.
Cavalo dado, não se olha os dentes.Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
A corda sempre arrebenta do lado mais fraco.A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
Quando dois elefantes brigam, quem sofre é a grama.When two elephants fight it is the grass that gets trampled.
A união faz a força.There is strength in numbers.
United we stand, divided we fall.
Por trás de um grande homem, há sempre uma grande mulher.Behind every great man there is a great woman.
Não ponhas todos os ovos no mesmo cesto.Don't put all your eggs in one basket.
Não contes os pintos senão depois de nascidos.Don't count your chickens before they've hatched.
Antes prevenir do que remediar.An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Um homem prevenido vale por dois.Forewarned is forearmed.
Quem não arrisca não petisca.Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Quem não chora, não mama.The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
Quem não trabalha, não come/ganha.No work, no money.
À noite todos os gatos são pardos.All cats are gray in the dark (night).
Há males que vêm para o bem.A blessing in disguise.
O fim justifica os meios.The end justifies the means.
Um é pouco, dois é bom e três é demais.Two's company three's a crowd.
Vale mais o exemplo do que o preceito.Practice what you preach.
De grão em grão a galinha enche o papo.Grain by grain, the hen fills her belly.
Água mole em pedra dura, tanto bate até que fura.Water dropping day by day wears the hardest rock away.
Many little strokes fell great oaks.
A drop hollows out a stone.
Devagar se vai ao longe.He who treads softly goes far.
Make haste slowly.
Slow and steady wins the race.
A pressa é inimiga da perfeição.Haste makes waste.
Haste is the enemy of perfection.
He who takes his time does not fall.
A mentira tem perna curta.Lies have short legs.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.
O feitiço virou contra o feiticeiro.He was caught in his own web/trap.
It backfired.
A justiça tarda, mas não falha.God stays long, but strikes at last.
Justice delays, but it does not fail.
Quem com ferro fere, com ferro será ferido.He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword.
Olho por olho, dente por dente.An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.
Amanhã é outro dia.Tomorrow's a new day.
Águas passadas não movem moinhos.Let bygones be bygones.
It's just water under the bridge.
Quando o gato sai, os ratos tomam conta.When the cat's away, the mice will play.
Uma coisa de cada vez.One thing at a time.
Tudo que é bom dura pouco.
Acabou-se o que era doce.
All good things must come to an end.
Quem ri por último, ri melhor.He who laughs last, laughs best.
Alegria de uns, tristeza de outros.One man's happiness is another man's sadness.
Um dia é da caça, outro do caçador.Every dog has his day.
Tempo é dinheiro.Time is money.
O dinheiro fala mais alto.
O dinheiro é que manda.
Quando o dinheiro fala, tudo cala.
Money talks.
Todo homem tem seu preço.Every man has a price.
Negócios em primeiro lugar.Business before pleasure.
Amigos, amigos, negócios a parte.Business is business.
Quem não tem cão, caça com gato.Make do with what you have.
A drowning man will clutch at a straw.
Fazer tempestade em copo d'água.Make a storm in a teacup.
Make a mountain out of a mole hill.
Cão que ladra não morde.Barking dogs seldom bite.
His bark is worse that his bite.
Antes só do que mal acompanhado.Better alone than in bad company.
A emenda ficou pior do que o soneto.The remedy is worse than the disease.
Nascido em berço de ouro.Born with a silver spoon in your mouth.
Quem tem boca vai a Roma.Better to ask the way than go astray.
Quem semeia colhe.
Quem semeia vento, colhe tempestade.
You reap what you sow.
You made your bed, now lie on it.
Um osso duro de roer.A hard nut to crack.
Dos males o menor.Choose the lesser of two evils.
A prática leva à perfeição.Practice makes perfect.
É errando que se aprende.The road to success is paved with failure.
Os melhores perfumes vêm nos menores frascos.
Tamanho não é documento.
Good things come in small packages.
A estrada para o inferno é feita de boas intenções.The road to hell is paved with good intentions