It was in the half-light of an Italian restaurant in Bairro Alto that I first told my friends that I was going to start the Lisbon Tailor. One of the them laughed at the idea, another, frowning, asked me why the hell would someone want to do that, a third one called me a faggot and the remaining 2 or 3 thought that ignoring me would be the best way to let me know how stupid my idea was. From all of those reactions two consensus emerged: stupid idea, cute name.
I don’t buy tailor-made jackets. Not that I wouldn’t like that. But that would mean having to give up on some trips and of my drunkenness moments, which I consider far more significant to my happiness than the added value of having a coat measured to fit or going to San Giorgio, choose a pattern that best describes what goes on in my mind and ask Mr. Horácio to fit the sleeves so that I can feel comfortable inside a lousy jacket. What Mr. Horácio doesn’t know is that it was in one of those days, when he was busy trying to correct in a jacket what I cannot correct in my own body, that I thought about a name for this blog. The cute name for the stupid idea that I could not stop thinking about. The name of Mr. Horácio’s craft