Leaving Trieste
The three of us left the hostel after shameful breadroll breakfast which only I ate. There were two jams: cherry or strawberry, but both looked and tasted of slightly fruity overly sugary dull redness. Coffee good which all three drank copiously. I was taken over by the coffee. Chattering too much and needed to cool off 'so see you outside'.
Swiss guy. Starring over the room to me at 7am. Came in last late and went to bed in middle aged thermal vest and longish shorts. Zurich scary guy. Axe murderer or sexual pervert Herr Lipp in leather shorts and vest. Spat food in my general direction at breakfast: we both saw that didn't we. The tongue reached out and reclaimed it like the toad he was. Had the ear of two Australians who were visibly scared...terrified in fact. How can certain nations produce such stereotypes? I didn't try conversation there. He was too interested in my attire. Fritz in the making.
Circumstance has made me a hermit for a month. Even now when I met 2 English guys doing a tour of Europe I am very odd and ott with them. Had to go and sit down elsewhere on the coach and now the plane. Good genuine characters. Explained that I was a bit hyper. I can go off now and put myself in a trance to relax. All stems from Paul McKenna. I imagined the aeroplane was in my head and I was looking in at the object. Caught it briefly there in an orange light.
Spent last day in the Adriatic and working on the tan being, stung by something in the water and watching a myriad yachts surround and harry some huge container ships. Looked at plenty of plus60 saggy chested/breasted leathered Italians.
Got an amazing €5 left to get me back from Birmingham airport to Birmingham New Street. And not with too long to wait for the coach, hopefully.
Caravans international Sam Alpert.
Errea
Tom Wolfe
Chris mawby
Westley kirton
Ostellotergeste
Apparently they light smokey fires in Slovakia to deal with the mozzies; good idea. I had a candle and matches and my very own urine patch.
Climbing over the Alps and Phil the pilot is an English weather wingeing mood. Showers. Somber. Shut up. Who cares. It's like a constant reminder of dogged Englishness or a tediousness Suspended in the sky over Germany and all he can do is worry about the weatherzzzzz. Look out yonder window. I've got an awful long road back home. The fact is even a pilot ain't happy in the UK.
So it's over. High above the mountains we fly back to reality. Having ditched my 2 man tent in ostellotergeste, thinking this would bring my weight allowance to Ryanstandard, prior to the beach call this morning. I found it had just more on the Ryanscales than the limit on luggage and was forced to quickly reorganise my cabin bag; this was odd as even with the additional tent on the way out it wasn't so high? I really didn't want to leave another thing behind.
The expressions of fear or doubt or realism on those heading back to waiting in the cold, jams on the motorway, leaves collecting in the porch or Ryanair selling them such expensive tea or coffees; all rotten, rotting brown and muddy. Boys at school with wet shoes and soiled knees. Colds and flu over reaction. Beechams. Give me painkillers. To numb the reality of winter. I hope it's another really cold and snow bound one. Then we can forget all that shit we've got to deal with: the grime, crime, unemployment, tax, getting older, fatter, losing more hair, turning grey, loss of virility, overpriced stuff.
Me, back to beandom and clean greens. Paul might have forgone that but not I!
Job searching and serious motivation. Positive mental attitude. I am a good person. I am worthy.
Win with Ryanair lottery: millions of euros up here in the dusky sky.
The main flight attendant has that Indian call centre voice I expect when talking to Orange tm technical services. Hindu's called George and Humphrey or Jane and Wendy I don't get and the cunning of it is entirely lost on me. His English is too broken for this role. I give him marks for trying.
I am listening to Byzantine music and the guy and girl on the seats in front are shaking a maracas for their baby...
Swiss guy. Starring over the room to me at 7am. Came in last late and went to bed in middle aged thermal vest and longish shorts. Zurich scary guy. Axe murderer or sexual pervert Herr Lipp in leather shorts and vest. Spat food in my general direction at breakfast: we both saw that didn't we. The tongue reached out and reclaimed it like the toad he was. Had the ear of two Australians who were visibly scared...terrified in fact. How can certain nations produce such stereotypes? I didn't try conversation there. He was too interested in my attire. Fritz in the making.
Circumstance has made me a hermit for a month. Even now when I met 2 English guys doing a tour of Europe I am very odd and ott with them. Had to go and sit down elsewhere on the coach and now the plane. Good genuine characters. Explained that I was a bit hyper. I can go off now and put myself in a trance to relax. All stems from Paul McKenna. I imagined the aeroplane was in my head and I was looking in at the object. Caught it briefly there in an orange light.
Spent last day in the Adriatic and working on the tan being, stung by something in the water and watching a myriad yachts surround and harry some huge container ships. Looked at plenty of plus60 saggy chested/breasted leathered Italians.
Got an amazing €5 left to get me back from Birmingham airport to Birmingham New Street. And not with too long to wait for the coach, hopefully.
Caravans international Sam Alpert.
Errea
Tom Wolfe
Chris mawby
Westley kirton
Ostellotergeste
Apparently they light smokey fires in Slovakia to deal with the mozzies; good idea. I had a candle and matches and my very own urine patch.
Climbing over the Alps and Phil the pilot is an English weather wingeing mood. Showers. Somber. Shut up. Who cares. It's like a constant reminder of dogged Englishness or a tediousness Suspended in the sky over Germany and all he can do is worry about the weatherzzzzz. Look out yonder window. I've got an awful long road back home. The fact is even a pilot ain't happy in the UK.
So it's over. High above the mountains we fly back to reality. Having ditched my 2 man tent in ostellotergeste, thinking this would bring my weight allowance to Ryanstandard, prior to the beach call this morning. I found it had just more on the Ryanscales than the limit on luggage and was forced to quickly reorganise my cabin bag; this was odd as even with the additional tent on the way out it wasn't so high? I really didn't want to leave another thing behind.
The expressions of fear or doubt or realism on those heading back to waiting in the cold, jams on the motorway, leaves collecting in the porch or Ryanair selling them such expensive tea or coffees; all rotten, rotting brown and muddy. Boys at school with wet shoes and soiled knees. Colds and flu over reaction. Beechams. Give me painkillers. To numb the reality of winter. I hope it's another really cold and snow bound one. Then we can forget all that shit we've got to deal with: the grime, crime, unemployment, tax, getting older, fatter, losing more hair, turning grey, loss of virility, overpriced stuff.
Me, back to beandom and clean greens. Paul might have forgone that but not I!
Job searching and serious motivation. Positive mental attitude. I am a good person. I am worthy.
Win with Ryanair lottery: millions of euros up here in the dusky sky.
The main flight attendant has that Indian call centre voice I expect when talking to Orange tm technical services. Hindu's called George and Humphrey or Jane and Wendy I don't get and the cunning of it is entirely lost on me. His English is too broken for this role. I give him marks for trying.
I am listening to Byzantine music and the guy and girl on the seats in front are shaking a maracas for their baby...
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