Nobody home, didn't think there would be.
After I got out of Toswania (curled up in the hollowed out hump of a dying camel) I took the Blue East route on a clipper. The crew were ok, except for the one-eyed guy with the lice.
I got ashore on Port Mouth Sound, the incurrence for Blankland. The customs assholes were, well, assholes. But I expected that, and so made sure I was clean.
I will now write a letter to Bêbe, and somehow explain how and why I fucked off so quickly.
But for now I will have a cup of tea and reflect on imaginary travels.
There's a knock at the door just as the kettle whistles. I have that moment of indecision (like dogs wagging tails, who can't choose between equal enticements), and then decide (turn gas off, answer door).
It's Fusel.
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