View from Brussels

ON ONE OF MY increasingly rare trips to England, I did something I never did when I lived here: I visited a fish and chip shop. Just something to write on the postcard. It was North London, and the Cypriot owner wrapped up the delicious haddock doused in the finest vinegar before apologising that he would have to refuse my proffered Visa payment card. Cash only, he said. I had none on me. He admitted a lot of the European tourist trade from the hotel opposite came up equally short. There was, however, a cash machine a ten-minute walk away. Seven minutes if I walked really fast.