I won't, jeans stuck to my leg as they are, go into what has happened in the last four months. Let's just say that after being told Australia catches fire in January I decided, during a terrible moment on hold for a Sydney taxi hearing Drivin' home for Christmas, to drive, fly, sail and walk home for that particular fortnight of festivities and basically slept in until April. Well, that's not precisely true, there was a short jaunt to Berlin with my parents (to see the world's largest model railway - at least that was the excuse) and another to Amsterdam for purposes undisclosed here but I've been off the grid until now. Round 2.
Adam's still in New Zealand and there's the small matter of global circumnavigation yet to be completed so Paul, with the best of intentions decides to go directly from a marathon of self harm called the Bangface Weekender to Bangkok (why not stop in Thailand if you have to go to New Zeland?) And that's it, that's where I am. I left Pontins in Camber Sands this morning, hiking through a swamp of drug addled scene-sters and musos to catch a bus and three trains and then two flights and a taxi and now I'm here, again, on the Khao San Road in Bangkok. Which brings me neatly to the explanation of why my jeans have taken on a slightly adhesive quality: I'd been raving in them for three days solid before flying to Qatar and then trudging through this city and it's associated heat so I'm off now to replace them with shorts.
More on the above, mentioned life-hiatus later, when the mental dust has settled. This is just a bugle call to my faithful readers, now departed, to let them know that for the immediate future at least, I'm gone. Which means I'm back. Back again.
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