Good evening, my glorious little internet buboes!
You find me contentedly sighing and full of bubbling whimsy (I've always felt that whimsy should bubble, haven't you?), for I have returned from a simply magical weekend in London, previously one of my least favourite places on the planet. Yet now I find myself aching to return to the train station, throw my money at the grimacing little troll behind the filthy plastic windowpane and leap aboard the first train that can take me back there. Preferably without tripping over my own feet like that most graceful of creatures, the Redneckian Essex Moose.
But oh! most magnificently imposing and just master, I hear you cry, what could have happened to change your mind so quickly and thoroughly?
Well settle down, beloved minions, and I will tell you.
I took my leave of the workplace on Friday the 13th at approximately 15:30 by slamming my completed workload into the storage cupboard and with a cheerful bellow of "See ya next week!", stepped out of the office with a very real spring in my step. You see, my faithful toadies, I had been planning this trip for some time, with a very specific aim in mind. But more on that later.
I strolled to the bus stop and within a very reasonable amount of time found myself back in my lair, where I began plotting in earnest. There was a considerable amount of packing to do. Into my reliable bugout bag went the ablution gear, the shirts and jeans, the unmentionables and the various wires and chargers and anbaric gadgetry without which I would struggle to make it through a week. In went two bottles of adequately tasty booze. In went my miniature identikit, my passport, cashcard and train tickets. Soon enough, I was ready. A head-clearing shower and a thorough primping later, I shouldered my bags and set off to North Station. The evening was just settling down, a clear sky with the first twinkling of stars and a gentle breeze that helped to keep my constantly rambling brain relatively clear. The walk was an excellent start to the weekend - I was not accosted, every crossing turned green before I even had a chance to begin my usual inward grumbling at being forced to wait, and there were few people heading in the opposite direction, which made one of my least favourite games, Dodge-The-Elbows, a lot easier.
Once at North Station it was a simple matter of going to the fourth platform and waiting. Fifteen minutes flew by and my train arrived. I shall not bore you with the details of my train journey, suffice to say it felt surprisingly short and was otherwise wholly unremarkable.
However, when the faithful steel horse arrived at my destination, I begin to feel a twinge of trepidation. Fear, my minions, is a very real thing. Yes, even for I, your most beneficient and righteous master. As I disembarked at Stratford, amid gleaming glass and metal platforms, surrounded by the hurrying, scurrying packs of humans, I felt the chill hand of fear on my shoulder. What if I had arrived here for nothing but denial and heartbreak? Cease your bickering, minions. I am far from finished. I continued through the terminal, staring tactlessly at the myriad signs and notices arrayed on the walls, clearly lost. As though fate were taking a momentary interest in my movements, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was Amanda.
Minions! Stop your childish cheering or there will be no ice-cream! Now settle!
I spoke with her for mere moments, in which the fear began to dissipate, and was directed to the correct exit. A great, cold doorway flanked by security guards in dark blue uniforms, ushering the public through with cursory nods and hastily mumbled directions, stood between me and fate. I made my way through and took up what I hoped was a pose which would strike trepidation into the hearts of my enemies but show that I was not a villain waiting for some unsuspecting immigrant to badger for change. This was nothing more than a kind of utterly knackered slump moderated by shivering brought on by the chill wind of Stratford's open air. And suddenly the fear rushed back. The shivering worsened as my jumpstarted brain began drawing horrible conclusions for the coming encounter - but you need not worry yourselves with that.
And as it turned out, neither should I.
She arrived and strode towards me, eyes alight, garbed in a warm, black coat which was no doubt better protection than my tattered faux-leather jacket. We greeted each other with what I like to think was a tender kiss and a tight embrace, and all my ridiculous anxieties melted away like ice under the blazing sunlight. I felt a tugging at my heart, and suddenly the prospect of spending any amount of time with a creature as incredible as she spun from being a thing of terror to one of comfort, edged with that pleasant tingle of emotion which I had dared not anticipate.
Now, rather than completely saturate your tiny minds with epic prose detailing your master's unfathomable capacity for romance and dashing swashbuckle...y...ness... I will simply tell you of the fascinating and new experiences I was introduced to.
My Friday was spent in a pleasant haze of warmth and comfort, with hearty, filling food and talking well into the night. Truth be told this was a fantastic start to my weekend, with only each other for company and a wonderful (if shoddily captured) view of the financial district.
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Saturday creeped in and found me curled up in another of what was to become many close and comforting hugs, and drawing back the curtains revealed a clear, sunny sky over London, which was certainly a reassuring start to the day. A lazy start was planned, with plenty of fun to follow. Breakfast was one of my personal favourites; a cigarette and a cup of tea followed by slices of marmite on toast. Simple, but yeasty and delicious.
A quick trip to a vintage record store called The Beehive preceded our little jaunt to Greenwich Market, and I had a thorough browse while Amanda went about hunting for something through the vintage clothing section, and while I didn't purchase anything myself she was delighted with her acquisition of a suitably starry jumper. I wore the first of many genuine smiles while she expounded on the virtues of such an excellent choice.
Greenwich Market followed swiftly, and I have to say it certainly didn't disappoint.
A flurry of scents and sounds was the first thing that struck me, and the mass of humanity for once didn't annoy me. I have to say that the presence of a tall, graceful woman on my arm was undoubtedly the source of my contentment. We strolled around for a short time, and I couldn't help myself but purchase some fancy cheeses. Not too fancy, mind, just nice enough to make for a tasty table. I purchase a hundred grams of Formaggio Umbriaco, commonly known as "Drunk Cheese", and a nice bit of Goat's Brie!
With a bag of delicious cheese and a starry jumper for our trouble, we took a swift detour back home to get ready for an even grander adventure once Amanda saw how much I'd enjoyed myself in the market. So after a brief consultation we set off for Borough Market!
We headed down the road to Deptford Station to catch the train, nattering away at each other and enjoying the combination of sunlight and cold winter air, when we were halted by a tiny, obviously sozzled woman. "Excuse me love," she said to my companion in the sort of Irish accent I tend to associate with smoky rooms and stories about close family members who've buggered off for better places,"I couldn't help but notice you, 'cause you are very tall. But I don't suppose you could spare some change for..." She went on a bit and the pair of us gave the lady enough change to put towards a small drink. On my part this was an almost unseen gesture of generosity which I can only chalk up to the all-encompassing feeling that I can only describe as, "You know what? I'm having a great day, you should have one too!" But today, I didn't mind. Heck, I think if I was a wealthy man I would have given her a note. She asked me where I was from, bless her. My simple response of, "Essex!" didn't get the sneer I might've expected from London inhabitants, but rather a cheery smile which to be honest, looked good on her!
We carried on through to Deptford High Street, and as my lady friend pointed out, the change was dramatic. Now I don't know London, and I don't know Greenwich as well as I mean to, but the almost snap-change from clean (ish) pavements and new buildings of glass and steel to cramped and filthy old shops was remarkable. There was a definite atmosphere of, not poverty specifically, but definitely hard times. During the little dance around the Oyster card machines (which I believe are actually powered by tiny malevolent imps who delight in denying my newly-acquired card just to see the look of perplexed anger on my face) we were forced to carefully pass by two fellows arguing, well, one shouting at the other with palatable anger and the other protesting innocence, which was actually less tense than it should have been, considering there was about three inches between our faces and the angry gentleman's flailing elbows. But we made it to the platform and boarded the overground to London Bridge and Borough Market!
I thought Greenwich Market was fun - but bloody hell, the Borough Market was something else entirely. If I'd thought the smells and sounds earlier were intoxicating, the sheer cascade of scent and noise here was like a battering ram, albeit a distinctly pleasant one. We were surrounded on all sides by stalls and tables stuffed to bursting with people, all trying to get at the cornucopia of items on sale. I cannot begin to describe the variety of food, preservatives, drinks (though the delicious smell of hot cider remains with me even now - and I hate the stuff!) and sweets.
We managed to work our way through the throng of people with little difficulty, though once or twice the general ignorance of the creatures known as Mob, Rabble and Crowd did become a frustration. Nonetheless we procured a number of tasty items that would go into our table of picking food later in the evening, namely sundried tomatoes with garlic and herbs, pain de campagne bread and prosciutto toscana ham. ...NOM NOM NOM NOM.
I also managed to pick up a particularly excellent little bit of meat which I spotted and decided within the second to purchase. When was I going to get a chance to buy some fresh, skinned and gutted squirrel again?
YOU HEARD ME! Squirrel! The grey-furred meat! NUT RAT! What kind of incredible place was this that my lady had brought me, where I could purchase delicious tree-dwelling mammals to devour at my leisure? I'd been having an amazing weekend already, and now a kind of dead animal I've never sampled is made available to me, all because a pretty woman indulged my urge to go to a market! Brilliant!
My whim fulfilled, we decided to grab something to actually eat, and the giant sizzling pan of duck meat being pushed around by a talkative if incomprehensible woman of possible Eastern-European descent was Amanda's immediate choice. And an excellent choice at that! Succulent duck meat in a ciabatta roll with fresh roquette was probably the last thing I would expect to find myself eating as a midday meal outside a pub, but there I was, happily munching away and, quite frankly, really bloody enjoying myself.
A return home was on the cards at this point, but not before stopping at a cake stall on our way back and buying a slice of chocolate cake and german cheesecake! While I didn't think to take a picture of these delicious sweets, I can assure you that they were very, very good, though on reflection the chocolate was the better of the two - something about the cheesecake didn't quite sit right with my tastebuds.
Dinner was an excellent plate of all the nibbly bits we'd picked up in the markets, served with a bottle of red wine recommended by Marks and Sparks. It was actually top noshing:
A short while afterward, though, we came across a conundrum - each of us is quite fond of a drink, but there was no rum to be had! So, a quick look at the clock suddenly showed that it was too late to hit a supermarket but we might JUST make it to an off-licence or Costcutter's. We grabbed our coats and headed swiftly out into the chill London night, heading to the nearest booze seller - the Costcutter's. Somehow, they had managed to sell all the decent rum. This was not to be suffered, however, and at Amanda's urging we broke into a power-walk, which slowed when we linked arms once again. But then, out of nowhere, she decided that it would be far quicker and much more fun to swing each other along. We took it in turns, each swinging the other forward for a metre or two of increased speed, then swinging again and again, and, you know, I've never, ever been so amused by the simple act of going to get a drink. And if you're wondering, yes, I did have a song in my head as we went, laughing and twirling each other around.
And it was this:
We procured a bottle of rum from an off-licence at the edge of Deptford and headed back home for drinks and swapping music, and I am being utterly honest when I say that that little adventure made me feel like I was eighteen again. It was fucking glorious.
After a few hours more we settled in for a night of watching television and snuggling down together, and again, I have to say that this was one of my favourite things of the weekend. It had been so very very long since I'd spent any time with a girl, let alone a girl as passionate and honest as Amanda, and every second of contact felt so undeniably, intrinsically good that it seemed to turn the entire weekend into one long, fuzzy blur of sweetness and soft kisses. Even my innate paranoia spends most of its time quashed by her presence.
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When we woke on Sunday morning, the curtains were gingerly drawn back to reveal another gloriously sunny day. We had a wonderfully slow morning with the pair of us barely leaving the bed - MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER, MINIONS - which felt justified after the lively, busy, undeniably Saturdayish Saturday, and after a fortifying breakfast of smoked salmon sandwiches (I know, right? Smoked salmon sandwiches! I've never had one before! It was DELISHUS) Amanda booked us a table at a place called Tayyabs for our evening meal. A restaurant specialising in Pakistani Punjabi cuisine, which I for one have never even thought about, let alone tried, the website made it seem friendly and interesting, and more importantly, not massively expensive. Yes, I'm something of a skinflint, I've never denied this, but this place looked to have the right balance of price:pleasure for me and my ever-fearful wallet.
We had a couple of hours to pass before our meal, so I decided on requesting a trip to the nearest bookstore, which turned out to be well worth the wait - I'd been eyeing the place up since my arrival on Friday night, and was confidently reassured by Amanda's opinion of the place, which claimed to be open from 13:00 to 17:30 each day - although in the tradition of all truly excellent bookshops, this was entirely based upon the owner's decision. So after a bit of preparation and smartening up in advance of our evening meal, we headed over to the bookshop, a place simply called the Greenwich Book Place and Gallery, which, it turns out, has a very interesting history.
It was brilliant. Absolutely rammed with books old and new, though my favourite species of book, the ancient, cracked, leatherbound tome, was in abundance. Teetering piles of old novels and treatises on just about every subject one cares to think about were strewn about the place in a wonderfully haphazard fashion, with the spaces broken up by collections of real rarities, including, much to my delight and dismay (for the glass cases were each clearly marked NOT FOR SALE - oh woe!) a little chap called The Use and Misuse of Books by Frederic Harrison. Don't get me wrong, I'm by no means a true connoisseur of the written word, but I would have given someone else's right arm for a look at that one. The second back room was a treasure trove of Sociology books, and after consulting the signs outside, this seemed to be a speciality.
Amanda came through to find me guiltily brushing my fingers over the spines of terrible science fiction novels from the sixties and seventies (every last one of which I would have bought had I the money to spare), and gleefully showed me her purchase: a wrapped issue of an old magazine called Jackie she'd picked up for £2.50. Specifically THIS issue. Their hair looks... exciting.
She was incredibly pleased with the acquisition, which of course brought an empathic grin to my face. I finally decided on a book (also £2.50) which had the intriguing title of The Electric Crocodile (Although this was apparently an alternate title , the original being The Steel Crocodile) by David G. Compton. I had thought the back cover laughable, becau- oh hell, just read it:
In 1933, the physicist Kapitza ordered, for the facade of his new laboratory, a crocodile's head, in steel.
The crocodile of science.
The crocodile cannot turn its head. Like Science, it must always go forward with all-devouring jaws. The inevitable logic of discovery marches to inescapable conclusions.
But after reading the first page, I was desperate to know what would happen. I bought it and stroked the cover lovingly whenever I thought no-one was watching, and it currently sits patiently by my bedside, waiting for me to finish George Orwell's Shooting An Elephant (and other essays).
Brimming with the familiar joy that a new book purchase brings, I announced that I was done, and that I was ready for dinner. I offered my arm to Amanda, she took it with another adorable smile and we set off to Whitechapel, eagerly speculating over the evening ahead.
We managed to get to Tayyabs almost forty-five minutes earlier than arranged, but luckily there was a spare table. The smell of spices and meat wafted through the restaurant, and while I'm not one for salivating, I could definitely feel a tingling in my tongue at the prospect of new cuisine to try. The place was really busy, and we found ourselves sat at the window end of one long table, setting ourselves up and almost immediately cracking on with the little plate of poppadoms, salad and sauces provided to us. We chatted happily for a while, going through the menus, which had apparently gone up in price a bit but nevertheless looked reasonable to me. We ordered a couple of glasses of coke and, at Amanda's insistence, which I am very pleased to say was completely justified, we ordered four lamb chops, a garlic naan and a roti to start. The food arrived at surprising speed, and it smelled amazing. We'd only managed a chop each when the mains turned up, a dish of rice for us to share, a plate of Karahi Ghosht for the lady and an Allo Meat (consisting of lamb) for me!
We engaged in a playful bit of food-trading, which is one of my favourite things to do at a new restaurant, and decided that everything was lovely. We munched our way through the dinner, with Amanda looking momentarily concerned at her ability to finish the dish but coming back at it like a trooper (I do love a woman who appreciates food) and me wolfing down everything I could reach, which is my wont. I almost nabbed a nearby diner's elbow instead of the bowl at one point, so eager was I to finish the spicy meal.
Something I feel I must mention at this point is that, while I could definitely hear our dining neighbours and knew they were there, our little spot at the end of the table felt nicely secluded. Which sounds preposterous when you consider each of us was no more than a foot away from someone else noisily enjoying their own selections, but it's true. It really felt like a dinner for two. I could feel the now familiar pink fog of emotion that had begun to envelop my mind when spending time with Amanda settle over me during the evening, and I can say now that I think it made everything feel this way; like it was just for us.
Eventually we finished our meals and, after judiciously rolling a couple of cigarettes for afters, paid the bill and began the journey home. I would like to point out that over the course of this weekend I travelled more than I ever have when in London before. Obviously having a beautiful woman on my arm (I never grow tired of saying that!) enhanced the experience, and the sense that she was enjoying herself just as much as I was added to the constant feeling of something which I was beginning to think was more than simple happiness.
We took a detour on the way home, and Amanda brought me along to see where she was studying. When she speaks about things that she enjoys, or even things she doesn't, she speaks with an intensity which I have never experienced outside of my own rambling rants about petty revenge; but the things she speaks about are interesting. With her hand clutched in mine and folded into my pocket to protect her fingers against the chill London evening, she spoke about her studies and local sights with an utterly endearing passion. We stopped for a drink before heading back home properly, and spent some time huddled together on a couch in the smoking area of the pub Amanda confidently informed me was a regular student hangout. At her suggestion I decided to try one of the independent and unusual lagers available on tap, which, it turned out, where all off. I settled for a Heineken - I didn't need fancy beer to enjoy her company!
We talked for some time - we always seem to talk for longer than I think, in a surprisingly pleasant way - about so many things. Past relationships (my own experience here was, not humiliatingly sparse, but definitely lacking - but you, dear minions, are already aware of this), music, our childhoods... These were some of the several recurring themes we discussed throughout the weekend and have discussed several times prior, but for some reason being curled up next to her on that couch in a quaint little smoking area sticks confidently in my mind alongside the late-night/early-morning talks, a smug little grin on its impish face.
Soon enough we decided to head home, and made it back to the student accommodation without incident - I barely avoided having my heel smashed by the ridiculously narrow turnstile contraption for a third time - where we spent more time simply enjoying each others company. She introduced me to several new things over that weekend, and as a perfect example, I should speak of music for a moment.
Now minions, you will remember that I have made my personal tastes in music abundantly clear over the years, and tend to cling to bands and artists for years (decades in some cases - Offspring, Less Than Jake, I'm looking at you) like a favourite teddy bear, rather than attempt to embrace new things. But this girl managed to not only get me to listen to new music, she managed to get me to enjoy it. I'll give you a few examples...
I've listened to a lot of Whitey since being introduced to him, and only just now found out he's bringing out a new album. I am unashamedly pleased.
I've been enjoying New Young Pony Club - they've got a sound that mostly reminds me of Metric and the Ting Tings, but, especially in this track, influences from older groups, particularly The Smiths.
Finally, I was given a lesson in spoken word. I have never listened to spoken word in anything other than an audiobook capacity, so this young lady was something of a surprise, especially when shown this clip from a Shakespeare-inspired exhibition of lyrical talent:
And then again, in a performance I was mesmerised by:
Kate Tempest is obviously passionate about what she does. I have to say, while I enjoyed listening to her work, I loved watching it even more. She's expressive, thoughtful and fearless; this is no more evident than the few times she looks straight at the camera. I found myself being drawn into Renegade than any of her other works, which includes the admittedly fucking excellent songs she's recorded with Sound of Rum.
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Determined not to let the fact that this was my last day with Amanda go wasted, we spent the majority of the morning exchanging murmured sentiments and soft, lingering kisses. Eventually we decided to get up; a walk around Greenwich Park would put us both in a better mood before our inevitable parting. Amanda rose first, responding to my request for Marmite on toast with a will. The last of the pain de campagne loaf would go into making some excellent toast. I lounged on the bed, savouring her with my eyes and revelling in the simple joys of things like a warm bed and the prospect of Marmite on toast. I watched her run the breadknife through the rapidly thinning loaf, frowning in thought. "Mind your lovely fingers," I said, fully aware of how wet I sounded, (believe me, there were far more disgustingly mushy moments over the weekend - AND WE REVELLED IN THEM) and embarrassingly aware of my own multiple kitchen disasters. She responded with a laugh and an impish grin, before promptly slicing into her finger with the knife. Her yelp of pain jolted me off the bed, and without even thinking I began pulling on my shoes and grabbed my jacket, intent on getting plasters and antiseptic. She glared at her hands, gripping her finger tightly as she insisted that she was going to need more than plasters. After a quick look, I grabbed her keys and went down to the nearby store, where I had seen first aid kits on the shelf during our first night. Retrieving one, I returned to find Amanda dressed and clutching a bloody tissue to her hand. We swiftly made our way to an NHS Walk-In centre nearby, where Amanda attempted to get even the most tiny iota of useful information from a woman who, in what felt like an unbelievingly frustrating and cruel twist, can only be described thoroughly by directing you to this. For my part, I Loomed. It has been remarked upon that I am a distinctly good Loomer, and for once, I agree, though unfortunately the Desk Twat was utterly unfased by even my best glare. After nearly ten minutes of watching this monosyllabic cretin click at her computer, we were informed that there was a Medical Centre around fifteen minutes away.
Luckily the pair of us are particularly good at covering any distance on foot, and I clung to Amanda's side like a curiously ambulatory giant bearded limpet, alternately ensuring that she was okay and gritting my teeth at my own idiocy for suggesting toast for breakfast. We reached the Medical Centre with no real trouble, and headed up to the waiting room. Amanda gave her name to a far more friendly and helpful receptionist and we took a seat.
We spent almost half an hour in that waiting room, but I don't regret a second of it. We spent that thirty minutes leaning on one another and whispering, smiling and swapping secretive observations on the other waiting patients. This is what waiting rooms are for after all, once the papers have been read, the clock watched and the children's toys judged sadly too small to play with without breaking them. When the giant red LEDs finally pinged and showed Amanda's name, I took my leave to go for a cigarette, knowing that I would have simply been a third wheel in any consultation with a healthcare professional. Ten minutes later, Amanda joined me outside and I took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in simply helping her put her jacket on. A brief session of conciliatory hugging later and we decided to return home.
It was getting on for mid-afternoon by the time we arrived back at Amanda's room, and we quickly settled in for the Marmite on toast that had been denied us. It is here, my beloved minions, that I fear time began to flow at a terrible, quickened rate. We chose to approach Greenwich Park before sunset, and this turned out to be an excellent decision.
We huddled together on a bench, watching the seemingly endless array of over-excited dogs bounding about and eliciting delighted noises from Amanda and mirthful chuckles from me. We spoke again, almost effortlessly now, telling each other our highlights of the weekend and already planning for my next visit. I held onto her hands, taking care with her wounded finger, and reflected over how badly I wanted to stay. I'd had a truly incredible weekend and, sat there, stroking her fingers, I knew what the pink fog I'd been experiencing was.
We took a walk back home, slowing down to watch yet more over-enthusiastic canines haring around the park, and I began to ready my things. With a sense of detachment, I packed my bag. Amanda and I sat together on her bed, quietly talking and once again taking pleasure from each other's company. I could feel a tremble in my jaw while we discussed which train I should get, and I knew I was right. I wasn't sure if I could tell her, but I could feel the emotion simmering inside me, railing against its rusted, dusty cage. Was it too soon? Would you she feel the same? What would I do if she didn't? The mere thought of the terrible guilt I'd be weighed down with if I said the words and she responded with a hollow reply was maddening, terrifying - it sent a thrill of fear up my spine, something I hadn't felt since my arrival on Friday. I bottled the anxiety, cramming the fear down, down, hidden beneath the memories of the days past.
The time came. We set out, me with my bags and she wrapped once more in a warm coat and taking my arm in what felt like an utterly natural and comfortable way. The walk to the station was far too short, but gave me more than enough time to stew in my own neuroses while we continued planning my next visit. We passed the bridge, then the bookshop, then the local Wetherspoon's, and there was the station entrance. Amanda suddenly darted ahead, looking around with a worried expression, and smiled at me. I felt the tugging at my heart again.
"I want lift kisses," she said, grabbing at my arm as the lift doors opened.
The thirty seconds spent in that metal pod on my way down to the end of my weekend was, for lack of a better word, intense. The simmering had become a raging, furious storm of need that no longer railed but crashed pell-mell into the walls of its prison, roaring to be let out and have the whole thing resolved. The lift stopped, and the emotion broke free as I held onto the most amazing woman I have ever met as though to let go would suck all the colour and life from my world.
I kissed her and I said the words.
She replied.
We shared one last, sad, yearning smile and I backed out, turning on my heel as the rush of commuters hid Amanda from my sight. The unleashed emotion tore through me, suddenly joined by a monsoon of sadness, longing and a thrill of guilt - not for saying the words, but for having to leave now. Understand, minions, that this is something I could not control. I spent the entirety of the journey home nearly oblivious to my surroundings - in fact, the first train I boarded had been the wrong one. Tearing myself from my self-absorption, I regained my path and began the true return journey. It only occurred to me on my arrival back at Colchester that I hadn't even listened to any music on the way home. I spoke with Amanda again once I returned home. I won't tell you what the structure of that conversation was like, but suffice it to say that for all my neuroses, mercurial moods, bouts of spontaneous guilt and tendency to lean towards run-on sentences with no apparent ending, I am now one extremely happy man.
Now settle down, minions! There is much to plan and much to do! We have journeys to schedule and logistics to run - Frakt, fire up the squirrel converter and don't forget to juice the idea blender! Glub, roll me a cigarette and put the kettle on, damn your adorably beady eyes! And stop taunting Blechh, it's not his fault he gets all teary during soppy stories. ...really though, Blechh, do pull yourself together, you're making an awful mess.
And you! YES! You out there!
Thanks for stopping by. :)
Love,
Richard