Day 1,399: A Pond of My Own
What matters is this, Doctor: don’t travel alone.
Since I split with the Mandster my inbox has been stuffed full of requests from hot young women from all over the world practically begging me to take them with me on my next wacky adventure.
Actually, Ha! No. Just kidding. I haven’t even been offered so much as a Nigerian banking scam.
I guess that the unlimited possibilities on offer to anyone willing to be my next assistant aren’t glamorous enough for most: sleeping in train stations, hair-raising bus rides along roads of death, African jail cells, pirate-infested waters and the like. Anyone who’s after stability, a mortgage, kids, his n’ hers bath towels all that palaver wouldn’t exactly jump at the chance to hook up with a flighty lunatic like me – and who could blame ’em? Well, it’s that or I’ve got an arse where my face should be. I would have shrugged and said fair enough and been content to roam this globe alone, a bit miserable, possibly lonely, floating off untethered, an Odysseus without his Penelope, letting the chips fall where they may.
But something that nobody (not least me) could have predicted happened in September when I was down in London for the Olympic Parade… I met a girl in an office building owned by Pink Floyd. Her name is Casey.
I wasn’t expecting that.
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