The problem is, and one that irks me as I stumble through this fucked up litany of misfortunes (that some monk is now illuminating in a limestone redoubt up some Toswanian mountain, built above the jungle), is that I have a charitable concern that I am supposed to be expressing in every mile of my grand tour.
It's an issue, it's an action plan, that has been off-lined whilst I'm ill and injured in this asshole of a geography.
But at some point I have to call in (on the mobile phone I still have) and mark the miles at 50p per, so that dialysis machine gets bought by the Rhyll Friends Association (who do jam-drives otherwise). So all the old ladies back in the tiny oak-wrapped village will be severely disappointed by my inability to get beyond the shooting and blood thing going on.
No comments:
New comments are not allowed.