Off I go, taking my bockety neck and staring eyes, to try and regain a sense of equilibrium in south Wales for a week. The Gower, more precisely, for what might turn out to be six days of soggy plod across unexceptional headlands. Or it might be soul-restoring glory in which I learn to stop moaning ‘Should have done genocide. Why didn’t I do genocide?’ in reference to my last exam. Terrible picked-the-wrong-question paranoia I’ve had after that one.

I was telling a friend about it (‘Should have done genocide. Why didn’t I do genocide?’) at her house in north London, beside the open kitchen windows, until urged to change tack on the basis that we were in the heart of the second-biggest community of Hassidic Jews in the world. She had just moved in and was trying to get to know the neighbours – and was already regarded with enough suspicion as a goy so didn’t need her good work undone by a friend channelling Eichmann.

It’s 7.15 in the morning and I’m supposed to be packing. I went out last night and experience has taught me that trying to gather a week’s worth of clothes when you have a couple of sherberts on board is a big mistake, unless you’re fine with five bras and no socks (which has happened. I was a student and PLASTERED). I’m less buccaneering these days, preferring to count out T-shirts (‘…Wednesday…Thursday… Friday…’) and rationalise pants supplies.

Back in a week. Looking forward to ‘heavy rain shower’ and ’16’.


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