Britiannia lopes to imminent closures. Whatcho thought was an ugh rail escape has since minded under the  elemental longs (ings and otherly) of feeling as though one's paddling in one place or stuck in a  scramble that won't be letting off anytime too terribly nearish to greenwich meantime.  I'm stuck at the far end of a room with seven very nice but very asleep Germans, unable to get at my bags or my coffee without dancing on deutsch kebabs. The time will come when this will have to be the case, as our family battle snake (Bill) will assuredly be arriving soon, and will assuredly be facing the similar predicament. These treaties aside (or treats to be amended), tours sometimes come to a glum door: facing the planes and idiot mingles, wondering how new faces are going to respond (i.e., partnerships and travelmates), feeling as though a lifetime's been lived and you've barely met the halvsie point; is it enough exotica? Bah. Wrong choice of words.

However would it be wrong to wonder if this already has been enough? There're still acres to cross and ideas to spin, but when you've found the a-ha it feels as though it's chump change moot to banter on with further roams. Ach, could just be London and travel wearies also, I reckon. I forget just the little dreads that build upon build upon... all the folks back home with their "must be nice" pecks and envies don't get the worrisomes of where to place one's feet at a certain time to arrive at a certain place in a timely manner so as to play a show and find a bed and do it all over again the next day. Not that it's an anxious feverpitch, but the bloke's not on holiday. No chips on soldered soldiered shoulders either, mind you. I'm not at one with the universe without my offee (for starts), and the prospect of another queue to get somewhere in an entirely unnecessarily hurried manner doesn't make one grin too heartily. All said, I'll dope it up to ironies in the reformation of daily grinds, finding peace in the swarm of bugs that have landed (as of late) in the membrane. The fact of the matter is this (or thus, whicheverwhat): so much work, SO much, has gone into this and now it's an uncanny sense of gliding accompanied with the oh-yeah-daily-minor-hurtles; one batch of bees replaced by another.