I arrived home a couple of weeks ago. Being a student in the artistry of surprise, I didn´t tell anyone I was coming until I was already in the Magpie, then some days later, turned up to casually bump into Nico and Winks at the Great British Beer Festival.
Since then, I´ve considered my options: brewing; sailing; and banking. I´ve made some efforts in the former two directions, and very little in the latter, but not a huge amount of effort in any.
I´ve also been told these writings might be worth something. I am not so sure. I used an hour or so to delve into the writing community that exists on the internet. I found a largely amatuerish community of flowery, predictable and unimaginative persons writing about their girlish "feelings", most often relating the mundane and effeminate trials and tribulations of their lives to eachothers in superfluous, wet, derivative poetic notions. Thankfully, I can´t relate to any of this tripe.
Instead, I´ve amused myself with daytime drinking at various lovely wooden pubs and with Monkey Island 2: Le Chuck´s Revenge.
Inspired by fond memories of Pelagic, I set myself to an experiment around Rich Tea biscuits. I wanted to see how many I could eat and if there was a point at which they became undesirable. I concluded that twelve to fifteen was the right amount. Twenty was beginning to get uncomfortable. Shortly after finishing number thirty-five, and the best part of cup of tea number two, I felt a sharp pain around my right lung that made it difficult to breathe. It went away after half an hour, but the point of undesirability had indeed been reached.
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