Yuka

How civilised is France? Very bloody civilised, that’s how civilised. At least in the South, everything revolves around friends and family and eating and drinking. Work happens but it’s kept in its proper place and proportion, and should a friend call round to say hello, which happens a lot, then work is told kindly but firmly to go away until later. In St Mandrier it seems that pretty much everyone knows everyone else so that leaves a lot of scope for interruption and a lot of time to drink pastis and wine (not in the same glass obviously, that’d be stupid.) So what have I done? Well I’ve drunk a lot of pastis and wine and the night before last I fell back in to the late night whisky trap with the usual results. Yesterday ended up being a stay-in-bed-for-12-hours kind of day, followed by a trip on the oh so civilised boat bus across the bay to Toulon to attempt a bit of Christmas shopping. Unfortunately my head wasn’t quite up to it and was not aided by walking around a shopping centre where they were playing the Smurfs Christmas album featuring their version of Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody (is that what it’s called? Well you know the one I mean, “are you hanging up your stocking on the wall” etc.) Hungover head with Smurfs singing in it is not a good place to be. Added to this was the fact that I’d managed in my dazed state in the morning to put my new contact lenses in the wrong way round (having managed to throw my old ones away last night somehow) leading to much seeing confusion which of course I blamed on my hangover only realising later, when it came time to take them out, why the world had become a very blurry place… Still not getting any cleverer…

Woman on boat thinks “what a lovely colour for a ferry”…

On the good side, my French has got to the point where changing my ticket to Bergerac for one that doesn’t involve a couchette was not a problem and even included getting a 15 Euro rebate and my new train arriving in Bergerac in time for Dinner on Friday as planned. Hallelujah! What can possibly go wrong? Well pretty much everything given SNCF’s fairly random train running ways but in theory I’m sorted and shouldn’t have to lose another nights sleep while in France.

It rained here this morning. Most disappointing as it doesn’t generally do much of that around these parts, at least in my experience, although he locals insist it rains a lot. I’m guessing that if they were to have to sit in an office in London watching 9 months of consistent drizzle out of the window they may shut the f—k up about the amount of rain they get, but I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Ok, maybe on my WORST enemy but not on my second worst. Doesn’t “worst” sound very German when it goes around your head a few times? In fact I wouldn’t wish it on my würst anemone. Jah das ist gut.

What happened to all the pictures? Well I can’t figure out how to post them from the internet café in St Mandrier so tough. There’ll be a bumper crop of lovely pictures when I get to lovely Bergerac and get on the lovely internet connection at lovely Geoff’s lovely old house. Enough with the “lovely” yet?

St Mandrier is lovely too…

Today it’s back to Toulon to try Christmas shopping again… I hate Christmas shopping.

Tubes suck. There’s no argument to be had, they just suck. Honestly, best thing for them is to make sure everyone’s out of them one night and just fill in the tunnels with quite a lot of wet concrete. Imagine if it happened, the bitter-sweet morning that would greet Londoners. The temptation to be grumpy because they were going to have to find a different way to get to work that day, battling against the slowly dawning knowledge that never again would they have to be stuck in a tunnel with the bile-yellow emergency lighting flickering, their heart beating faster as the engine makes that sounds-like-something’s-about-to-overload-or-the-train’s-going-to-move noise for the 8th time while they get intimately acquainted with someone’s one-man crusade against the evils of deodorant and general hygiene. I think sweet would outweigh the bitter and it wouldn’t be long before people could be seen sitting outside riverside pubs drinking cool lager’n’limes on sunny days with full bicycle racks everywhere, glowing with health (the people not the bicycle racks stooopid) and reminiscing about how they used to put up with underground trains.

Talking of pubs, I was on a tube on my way to one, covered in rucksacks, laptop bags and my trusty manbag to say a brief hello to some very nice people on my 4 day whistle-stop tour of Southeast England before staying with a very nice friend and getting off to Stansted airport. You could say that I was between countries. In fact I quite like that as a way to describe how those four days felt. Not that it wasn’t great to see everybody of course. It was. Ah I’ll shut up before my mouth gets me into trouble again.

Where catching a plane before would be a trauma, now, it’s as forgettable as taking a bus. Well the actual bit where I go through airports is. I love flying. I’ve probably said that before but I’m really pleased I do, so bear with me. (Run away! It’s a bear!) It used to be really scary for me back in old anxiety days but there was always the bit in the middle that I loved. It starts not long after you take off and it’s best on cloudy days. It’s the bit when you rise above the clouds for the first time and see the miles and miles of unblemished blue sky above a ground made of pure white cotton wool and flour and you can look at the sun glinting off the marshmallow-mountains in the distance. I think the moment that happens, I become 4 years old again and it’s all magic everywhere. Goosebumps every time. Click on the pic below and there’s a little video from out of my window. err well do it when I can figure out how to get the pics up here from a French internet cafe…

So a smiley face with rosy cheeks (two, one each side of his face, for ‘tis trés cold at Bergerac airport) greets me and off we go in a borrowed Smart Car. Always quite liked them, and am well up with the concept of smaller cars being good in cities and small towns (Think that’s something that shows that there are almost certainly 2 species of humanity living uncomfortably side by side on this planet. Some people think that saying they need a big car, (well lets call it what it is shall we? a monster-truck), because they have a child and a dog, or even just a dog, and not a big one at that, is in some way acceptable and doesn’t make them a shit-head destroying the planet for their own penis substituting pleasure. It does. So, yay for Smart Cars. If men have big cars as some kind of genitalia display replacement, what are the women who drive SUV’s replacing? And, more importantly, what bodily part am I replacing by writing all this crap? Online diary as brain substitute?). Anyway, we chug along (not chingaling) with Geoff being most hungover, the poor fella, and take it out on the rest of the drivers of Bergerac by turning the lights on full beam in their face. This is where blogs collide rather than drivers so we go back safely, in to lovely, very old Bergerac and up the stairs in to Geoff’s lovely 16th century rented abode. Drop off stuff, and head for lovely Michael and lovely Andre’s lovely restaurant. Everything’s lovely in Bergerac even the lovely drug addicts. It’s the lovely law. A couple of lovely liveners in the lovely restaurant and then back to the lovely old house for some lovely pasta and lovely wine, a lovely chat, and then some lovely and well needed sleep before a lovely day of lovely pottering about in lovely Bergerac and then off to the lovely station to get the lovely train to Bordeaux…

A Lovely Dog

The first thing that went wrong was there wasn’t a train to Bordeaux. Lucky I asked really since the woman behind the counter had just, in a very friendly manner, converted my internet-given booking number into a nice set of posh looking SNCF tickets. (SNCF tickets if you’ve never experienced them are more like plane tickets than the mundane and frankly mediocre British equivalent. The French like a bit of a sense of occasion and they’re no different when it comes to train tickets. (Worryingly, now as a thirty five year old I have to think hard about which version of “Their/ There/ They’re” I am about to use. That’ll be some important brain cells dead then.)(I bet you’ve missed my incontinence when it comes to brackets, yeah? Consider it a mental work out and I don’t even charge… everyone likes something for nothing right? That’s the McDonalds way)) (check if you like, all the brackets are closed). What she had neglected to say was that despite providing me with a ticket that said “Train parti Bergerac à 18:59 pour Bordeaux”, it wasn’t ever going to, the main reason being that it had been cancelled, and if I had not said, “So I get the train from here at just before 7 right?” only in better French than that, I would still be sitting in Bergerac, possibly in an uncomfortable silence. Instead I sat on a bus to Libourne in an uncomfortable silence and then waited for a train to Bordeaux from there on an uncomfortable sub zero platform, thinking “at least when I get to Bordeaux I can get on a train with my couchette reserved and sleep all the way to Toulon.

So what’s a couchette then? A couchette is every type of hell known to man put into a train. Invented by Dante in the 17th century but left out of his Inferno because he felt they were a bit strong and got a little queasy every time he thought of them, they were first used by the Spanish for dragging confessions of sorcerous behaviour out of mad old women who lived alone with cats (now known as actresses). They went out of fashion after a Ye Olde Amnestye International campaign swayed Spanish public opinion against the practice. Immediately snapped up by the SNCF (Société Nationale de Carriage de Foreigners), they have been used ever since for carting cheap non-nationals across France once, and once only. The number of couchettes in service is kept in a delicate balance by the number of first time couchette users willing to travel at any one time and once everyone has had a go they will be discontinued. I for one, am going to Toulon today to change my ticket back to a normal train and frankly I don’t care how much extra it costs. With regard to my night on a couchette I’ll just say I got no sleep and leave it at that… There may be children watching and it’s not 9 o’clock yet.

Ahhhh, If there were one place I’d like to be after a night of hell, it’s the Presqu’Isle de St Mandrier and fortunately that’s exactly where I got to. I feel much better now after a few pastis, some top food, and plenty of red wine that doesn’t make your head hurt. St Mandrier is lovely in a different, more earthy way to Bergerac, featuring gorgeous azure Mediterranean vistas and big, cream coloured, rugged mountains covered in sweet smelling pine forests. Last night in a jet black, diamond studded sky, I saw 2 shooting stars, one of which was so low that you could see flame and sparks trailing behind it as it streaked across the heavens.

“Temps pour le petit déjeuner.” said Zebedee (who was French).

Yuka been down for a couple of days as if anyone would notice and there’s a little fly crawling across my screen. Oh the corruption of everything!

Since I’m obviously no good at this I have handed the writing over to a guest writer (stealing Geoff’s idea of a few weeks ago. What? You mean you haven’t been reading his lovely erudite site? Shame on you! It’s far better written than this. See the link over on the left for details.)

Guest writer Sylvie says “Woof!”

So cetaceans. Better check the spelling on that one as I don’t often have reason to type it. “What’s that you say Flipper? We’re talking dolphins here?” Well there you have it right from the blue-grey fellas mouth. Went out on a (medium) speed boat on the Intercoastal Waterway on Saturday and verily, an hour or so into the trip (gently pottering up the river slowing down every now and then so as not to maim the Manatee’s, “oooh me Manatees are giving me gip”) out of the water a hundred feet or so behind the good ship Speedy, jumped a dolphin shaped object in that particular, “I’m really having a lot of fun” way that they seem to have. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I vaguely remember that their closest land relative is the cow. Something about their shared land ancestor deciding to return to the sea. Or did I dream that?

Anyway, check out the little video thingy here of me swearing and being impressed in a very embarrassing way when Flipper decided to suddenly turn up next to the boat five minutes later… Warning: Contains grownup language and hippy-like exclamations.

Then Monday back to Ann Arbor via a far less bumpy plane ride than the one to Florida and a couple of nice days chilling out after all this hard work then Wednesday, horror of horrors, the return journey begins. How the hell did 3 months go by so bleedin’ quick?

Flight from Detroit to Newark and then a taxi to a most depressing motel room near the airport featuring a pizza and a bit of TV before setting my alarm clock for 4:30 am ready to catch BA flight 106 (errr scary sounding one…) to London Heathrow. Excellently, although I was in economy, the flight was far less than full and so I had the dream ticket of a row of 3 seats to myself all the way home. Stretch out and relax in front of The Office Christmas special from last year (yup, cried like a big girl at the end, innit sweet?) and then watched a DVD of David Bowie’s last tour (pre heart op) on me laptop. I love my laptop like Father Jack loves his brick. Top live show anyway just as I remembered from Wembley.

At Heathrow I wished my phone still worked as I waited to get picked up by my lovely sister who had just moved into her first house that she owns. In my tired confusion I managed to tell her the wrong terminal number to pick me up from. STILL not getting any cleverer.

Friday was a day of tiredness jetlag style with added grumpiness for no apparent reason. Did manage to get the new Douglas Coupland book though and it’s signed which is kinda groovy. Did I mention that I love Douglas Coupland?

Saturday was a day of catching up with friends in a proper English style pub, followed by a short stint at a party and then back to a mates for a bit for a natter before falling like a dolphin from a particularly large leap into me big comfy bed and giving it ZZZZZZZzzzzzzz’s.

And now your up to date cos it’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting in me mum’s front room listening to an old Flesh 4 Lulu album and drinking a cup of tea.

So where next? France, that’s where. Off there for 2 weeks on Wednesday to catch up with my favourite person that I’ve ever spent a month in Manhattan with and then down to Toulon to say “‘ello” to some old friends and to see whether I can speak French still.

Berlimey it’s odd to be back in Eng-ger-land.

BBC NEWS | World | Asia-Pacific | Thais drop origami ‘peace bombs’

Good afternoon, it’s Monday (Well it isn’t necessarily Monday while you read this or indeed a good afternoon, but it was when I wrote it, OK?) and I’m on Delta Flight 276 out of Sarasota going to Atlanta for an hour long lay over. I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned this before but when ever I find out a flight number I’m going to be on, I try it out in sentences to see how comfortable it would sound to hear a news anchor type person saying it; so for instance I will try out, “The doomed Delta flight 276 out of Sarasota…”, “The ill-fated Delta flight 276 took off from Sarasota”, and various others to set my mind at rest that I have at least a slim chance of getting to my destination without the words “Plummet”,”Cornfield”,”Fireball”,”Tragedy” or “The Brave Pilots Wrestled With The Controls Of The Stricken Aircraft Narrowly Missing A Local School” becoming involved in a news type way. Now the last flight I was on was Delta flight 1120 out of Atlanta. That sounds eminently safe as it doesn’t fit into either of my test sentences comfortably, I mean it just doesn’t roll off the tongue right? On the other hand “Delta flight 276” is a bit more of a worry and to top it all we’ve got a nun on board. I’ve seen the movies OK? And every single one of them features one of these Brides of Chucky. If she pulls out a guitar, I’m getting off. Did I also fail to mention we haven’t taken off yet?

Let’s go back to Florida, not literally, as I’m back to Ann Arbor today, but let’s go there in our minds shall we? I’ll lead, you follow and for gawds sake, try to keep your feet off mine? This suede is a bugger to clean. Florida has great roadside billboard adverts which kind of give you a clue about many of the people who live there. There’s ads for hip replacements, dentures, arthritis treatments, mole removal, and of course funeral parlours. A significant segment of the population here is O-L-D as Daphne and Celeste might say, and they probably never ever needed an alibi because they are all pretty much retired accountants. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve known some really nice accountants in the past, Dave, Trevor, Rhodri, Kevin, and other’s, all of’em diamond geezers to a man in a sorting-your-money-out type of way and in a social let’s-get-drunk-and-have-a-laugh way. But a state populated largely by geriatric accountants seems to me in some way to be lacking a little variety. I’m sure even the elderly accountants would probably agree with me on this one. They’d probably like to have a conversation on the golf course or over a bowl of the local chowder with someone who did something different to what they did. You know, just to get the brain cells kicking along a bit? Maybe I’m wrong.

Also as I go through a day I often just note down a couple of words if I think of, or experience something, that I think would be good to put in this big page of rubbish. The next note in my little black book (Moleskine) seems to say “Gay Locals”… I have no idea. Instead, I’ll commend the last Divine Comedy album to you. It really is very very good.

More flying to do now… Back probably when I get back to Britainland with more pictures and working technology…

Beers Tuesday next? Red Lion about 6? Oh yes…

x

Last morning in Florida then before flying back to Ann Arbor for a couple of days then back to Britainland on Thursday… berlimey that were quick!

Technology has become a little issue as my phone has bitten the dust with pics from the last few days on it and I forgot to bring the lead to Florida for me little digicam thingy. Doh…

Should be able to get some pics up here in the next couple of days I think. Oh it’s all so tricky!

I’ll leave the stuff about hiring a boat until I get the images to go with it so what else? Yup, yesterday met up with Ken and his missus Yoim and a couple of their friends for a mellow lunch in a bar called Coasters by the intercoastal waterway. Very nice indeed and another ridiculously hot November day. Then back to Nigels condo for an evening of NFL watching. After a bit of explanation I can almost see why that’s exciting as a sport. It don’t ‘alf go on a bit though…

So here I am in late November sitting in a pair of shorts on a balcony overlooking a small lake. Life still not becoming too tough.

After the stunning success of my Moose safari up in Vermont, I’d been itching to get back on the wildlife trail. The primal human desire to hunt animal flesh in a vegetarian way has been eating away at me (not them) and so when presented with the chance to track down some new wildlife in Florida I jumped at the chance like a rubber spider attached by a short piece of piping with a bulb on the end of it that you squeeze to scare small children.

“Alligators are the new moose” is what they all say down here, so being easily led, I forgot all about my antlered friends and went off in a man-against-nature-way into the wilds with my good friend and host “Crocodile Nigel” in search of Alligatus Manytoothicus. In scenes reminiscent of Deliverance (well, I’m not from round here and I have it on good authority that I sure have a purdy mouth) we headed off alone into the swamp lair of the ancient and venerable beast in our trusty boat guided by a small bird, armed recklessly with only a camera phone and a can of coke…

Actually that wasn’t the boat we went on, and we kind of actually didn’t go quite as alone as I’m making out. This was the boat…

And these were the people we went with…

Anyway, supported by our brave geriatric troop we paid 8 dollars each for… OK it was a pleasure boat ride full of old people ably piloted by a retired biology teacher with a microphone and a love of birds.

So here we go… See if you can spot the alligators in these pictures…

Come on there’s not much time…

Yup, alligators are like moose in many ways, well mostly one way, they are very hard to spot. I do promise that there was a toothy reptile in each of those pictures though. They were just small and far away. Ah well, nearly Christmas…

Off to hire a proper boat today to go out on the intercoastal waterway for a few hours. See you after water danger…

La Floride, or the Flower as they say in Espagnol allegedly. Have you ever seen so many medical centres? There’s a lot of old people in Sarasota, some would say more so now that I have arrived, and they seem to need a lot of medical attention. Billboards advertising hip replacements are kinda funny though… Florida is the place where middle-management-and-above America retires to. They all wear identical clothes and, I’m guessing, have identical conversations, possibly comparing joint replacement deals.

Florida is also the place where some very nice people live ruled over by Princess Demi Del Monaco and her love of dancing, bubbles and jumping up and down.

These kind people took me in for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving (celebrating the help the Native Americans gave to the European settlers when they were close to starving back in the 1600’s I think) is just too easy a target for me so I’ll leave it alone… no I will… gmmmmph… I’m not saying anything… honest… you should hear the noise in my head now though.

I however give thanks for nice people who made me a vegetariananian version of their biggest meal of the year and provided good company throughout the day. That’s my Thanksgiving. Let’s try to hire a boat today shall we?

Right so where were we up to then? errrr… the last bits of Ann Arbor.

Well after I last spoke to you (how have you been by the way?) I had a bit of an odd day to say the least, which was started by the sound of moaning coming from the next door apartment. Being British, obviously I ignored it at first, in fact, knowing vaguely of the guy who lives next door, I assumed he was lying in a pool of his own vomit trying to work off the last of his hangover. The moaning, however, continued at increasingly high volume until I was forced into action. For action, read, forced to put on some trousers (or pants here) and go knock on his door. I really hope, by the way, that I have not managed to pick up an embarrassingly American accent by this point. It’s very difficult to know. Maybe I’ll record my voice and see if I can discern any difference.

Anyway, back to Moany. I knocked and “No Answer” came the stern reply. I knocked again and was rewarded with another most blood curdling moan so throwing caution to the wind I took a run up and barged open the door with my shoulder, shouting, “everyone down on the floor with your hands where I can see ’em, this is a raid.” Actually, no I didn’t. I called 911 (which is not a joke in Ann Arbor) and a few mins later some of the local “Bears” (as they called them in the song Convoy the sound of which reminds me of the first time I ate peanut butter as a kid while playing with me train set) arrived and took a run up and barged open the door with their shoulders, shouting, “everyone down on the floor with your hands where I can see ’em, this is a raid.” Actually, no they didn’t. They opened his window and went in to find him in a diabetic coma, so they called an Ambulance.

Call me old fashioned but I’m thinking the ambulance should have arrived before the cops, but what do I know? Well I do know that shortly afterwards, a big fire engine arrived too, packed with big, burly, US firemen (steady ladies) who presumably were there to cover him in water should the poor guy accidentally catch fire while being injected with adrenaline. They had a good look and seemed to think that he was not a fire risk so left shortly afterwards, but it’s best to be safe right?

Actually, I think this is possibly symptomatic of something that’s been bugging me during my time in Ann Arbor. You see, Ann Arbor thinks it’s a city. It’s not. It’s 1 main street and a few roads that branch off it. But I’m guessing that when anyone calls 911 in the lovely TOWN that is Ann Arbor, the emergency services feel duty bound to come over like they were dealing with a major incident on the streets of Manhattan, possibly one that has taken out three or four blocks and poses a threat to thousands of innocent civilian lives. In their minds eye I’m thinking they see “Godzilla trampling buildings” and are most upset to find “Bloke Moaning”. Anyway, that’s Ann Arbor, lovely town, NOT A CITY. Grrrr… rant… grumble…

Where was I? Ah yes. Bloke Moaning. So anyway, after a lot of injections of insulin and adrenaline and a fair bit of shouting as he came out of his coma, Bloke Moaning, became Bloke recovering and the cops, bears, ver filth, whatever you prefer, came by and thanked me very much for calling them and told me that the ambulance woman had said I’d saved his life. So that was nice.

That got me thinking about all that cause and effect business and consequences and stuff and how if I hadn’t ditched my job and then rented out my house and come to America and in the meantime met someone random online by accident that I ended up staying in Ann Arbor with, then Jason, for that is Moany’s name, would quite possibly be deaded by now. Then obviously, because it’s me, I worked way backwards via my parents meeting, their parents meeting, the pilgrims going to the US, The first humans evolving, the spark of life starting in the primordial soup (does that come with croutons?) on an infant earth, the forming of the solar system from the dust cloud that became our galaxy after the initial big bang where everything that makes up anything that ever was including you and me, existed in the form of an infinitely small dot, and how we are now part of a universe that is experiencing itself subjectively (thanks Bill) and then that there’s that really good poem about this stuff called In the Beginning by Primo Levi the Italian, Chemist, Partisan, Poet and Work Camp survivor, and how I always think that the title of that poem is The Black Stars, but it isn’t because that’s another poem by him that is much, much more depressing but also very good.

So are we all clear?

Anyway, Jason came round later and thanked me for saving his life and I mumbled “That’s fine” in an embarrassed way because, well, because it’s embarrassing to have someone thank you for saving his life. You try it. I suppose that we are now blood brothers in some way or is it that now having saved his life, I am now responsible for what he does with it? I can’t remember, but sod it all, I’m in Atlanta now anyway so he can’t hold me to it.

“Atlanta?” you say. “Isn’t that in Georgia in the South Of the US?”. “Why, yes it is” I reply and I’m here for but 2 hours on a stop over on the way to Florida. When I got on the plane this morning at Detroit airport, initially, not many people got on with me and I thought “Oh good, I can stretch out across the seats and have a nice relaxed flight, possibly watching a movie on my laptop or snoozing.” Oh dear no. The reason that the plane was near empty turned out to be that they had to get contractors in to widen the tunnel that gets you on the plane because the family, friends and doppelgangers of Augustus Gloop from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory had chartered the plane.

Now when they say, “Plane seats 80 passengers” in the manual that comes with it, I’m guessing that they are not assuming that 1 of those passengers is a skinny little bugger like me while the other 79 of them are Sumo wrestlers who frankly have let themselves go a bit, crowbarred into elastic wasted casual clothing. Jeez, the plane ended up taking off held together with bungee cords and sellotape. But it made it here, just, although I’m not convinced that they managed to get all the wheels off the ground for the journey… It were bumpy enough.

So Atlanta’s Jackson airport. What’s that about then? Well it’s full of Guys and Girls in full Desert Storm regalia or is it Operation Freedom nowadays? I forget, and don’t even get me started on those 21st century euphemistic mission names for going out on killing sprees… The fast food shops sell Polk Salad (Annie, gators got your granny – Great song) and Pork and Greens, and Mess Of Greens and all those other crazy deep south sounding food stuffs that they have in old blues songs. Bet you could get squirrel too if you asked nicely. I had a grilled cheese sandwich (no tomatoes) and a Sprite and sat down for a bit of a read. Damn, flying makes me want to smoke. Did I mention I’d given up? Well I have. So there. Stopped the Saturday before Chicago (back down there in the mists of the internet) and apart from a when I was sitting in the hot dog bar where I cracked a bit, nary a puff has passed my lips since. That’s 11 days today I’ll have you know. Methinks I may crack again in Florida, but hey, waddya do?

Hang on, got to get on a plane…

OK back from that tangent, Jackson airport, surrounded by infantry in desert fatigues, some bloke playing I Just Called To Say I Love You in the style of Richard Clayderman on the piano in the lounge, I sat down for a read of Carrie Fisher’s Delusions of Grandma, (very very good so far, possibly a bit camp for your average GI but full of excellent short observations as only Carrie can pull off), found a copy Soldier Of Fortune so started reading that instead. If you’ve never seen it, in theory it’s a magazine for military mercenaries (soldiers of fortune as they prosaically put it, hired killers as might make more sense.) In reality, it’s a mag who’s readership mostly consists of geeky computer programmer types who are looking for a cheap testosterone/ adrenaline thrill. Full of ads for big guns and articles comparing and road testing tanks rather than cars. Might get a subscription.

I had a point when I started writing that but lost it somewhere along the line in a mess of very very rocky turbulence. My laptop just floated in front of my eyes for a second or so and then landed softly onn thr tray in front ogr mre, (authentic turbulence typing!) and I left my stomach somewhere a few thousand feet up and my heart in Ann Arbor. Some people got nasty bumps on the head from flying luggage too. How dramatic. All seems nice now though and after having taken off in fog, and then ascended into cloud filled with concrete lumps and big bungee jumps, the plane has come out into clear air and a beautiful multicoloured sunset and I can see the sea below me which I assume is the Gulf Of Mexico. On the little TV on the plane it showed that Jackson was nearish to Memphis Tennessee which is nice in an Elvis-y way. I like Elvis. Even the bits where he got fat and played sad ballads at the end of his life. So sue me, as they say here. Soft Shoe me as I prefer. Now I’m on the plane, 20 minutes from Sarasota, several thousand feet up in the air, a bit like my life.

In closing, I’d just like to say, I really hope that John Stewart’s Daily Show is on TV every day when I get back to the UK as the man is a genius and could do more to make Europeans realise that Americans are not bad people than most people ever could and has helped me mantain my sanity here. He is also very funny.

I rest me case yer ‘onour and throw this extended edition of gobbledegook on the mercy of an unsuspecting public. Back to monosyllables and pictures next time I promise. Now get me that Orange Juice. Alvie says “Hello Florida… woof”