A rebel without a clue.

A breakfast of Iranian figs, beetroot juice before our trip across the fowl mouthing feature. To trip along and languidly design upon St. Mawes. Carpaccio, Cornish duck. Lucky I have money to roll in for forming luxury. Tips? Pinot grigio. Tiefffenbrunner alto adige, 2008! Spot on for lunch with carpaccio. Nearly Austrian. No cliched Italian veneizan. Hmmmm. Rested finally from heavy week. Sinking my teeth into duck about now! S. Pellegrino and plonk. The simplicity of the dark duck meat cake at hotel was excellent: confit. How would the addition of a slight crunch, like of hemp seeds, have affected that plate? The meal didst skin me, but I am grateful at £38.

I am out of the tunnel. Into the bright. I can see the distant lights. I no longer peer from the reverse end of binoculars at the world. To touch the sun and not get burnt is the quest. It is our only rational god. It appeases our daydreams as it shines on our barnets. The anti-D's are registering I think and also the persistant nice weather helps: I can hear the merry singing of a song Thrush. Baby it's alright. It's alright. Sarah Blasko. I'm dipped in the murky and shady underworld of espionage during WW2. We were desperate not to lose all to Nazi Germany. We played games in Washington just to persuade FdR, etc to save our broken corpse and in the long run also save the USAs bacon whilst at the same time the Germans and Russians were both striving to keep the Americans as isolationists. It exposes the many layers that Britain has that're fundamental to it's body politk. The many faceless gentlemen club members who schooled at Eton, worked thr...