Sepia tinted mammaries

I got up at 7 am on a Sunday to go hiking. Now I am picking ticks out of my leg hair. Is this where midlife crisis starts? I also find myself looking through old pictures from my youth (on Dickbook, from a distant four years ago) and reminiscing on the laughs, lack of loves, my hairline and the time before my chins eclipsed the view of my belly, itself eclipsing the view of my hideous deformed genitals and webbed feet. There are a lot of pictures of 'costume' parties. Why are lady people addicted to these things? However, I still enjoy the picture of me as Indiana Jones, being assaulted by a pygmy while Jesus looks on disapprovingly.

More reminiscus was brought on by my latest visitation. The Flying Dutchman and his patron came to stay with me as part of their grand tour of the new world. Their baggage train had suffered some losses to fever and bandits on the way and so it was a mere five elephants, forty native porters and a voucher from American airlines that arrived at my door. The walls of my dank lair only just withstood the force of the blast when the luggage was opened.

Sitting on the veranda and sipping iced drinks brought by my houseboy betwixt his sound beatings, my visitors and I recalled the ancient past, back at the toilet seat of learning that was my previous home, where I used to hang out with the cool kids, who now run a successful small business advertising radio 1 DJs by email and when I could be really rude to people who had the decency and education to understand.

I hope my visitors (not the ticks) had a good time. I started out strong by taking them to a restaurant that they didn't like, and then threw shit weather at them. In no particular order: we went out for dinner, drank a bit and played mutual acquaintance attractiveness top-trumps. We discussed deep philosophical questions, such as "why does one remark on a female's intelligence foremost only if she is ugly?" We did some hiking-lite, saw topless men sweating, and asked directions from female clones whose desire to jog was so strong that they ran on the spot to answer our request. Sometimes we hung out in clothes shops, running a critical eye over the men's underwear section and debating at length the peculiarities of a Gentleman's fit. We ate voluminous pancakes at an 'Italian Villa -Breakfast Served ALL DAY'. We got in a car and drove two hundred metres, just because it was raining and because climate change is change we need.

By tagging along with one of my colleagues, our group indulged in the sport of kings, which is to say drinking other people's beer at other people's parties. I made offensive comments about accents in front of someone I'd only just met. The party host had a voice like a dentist's drill applied to blackboard and then amplified through an electric dog whistle. I didn't like it much. But we danced a bit (apparently I have my own angular style, and "that's cool") and I TALKED TO SOMEONE WHO TEACHES MEDIA STUDIES FOR A LIVING! WITHOUT SPITTING! That last bit is ambiguous, but I rather like it that way. As we left everyone was thanked for coming, except me. I was thanked for dancing.

It now appears that I will be back in the UK from the start of July until mid August. I look forward to seeing what offerings you will place at my feet on my arrival. There is no need to cut the hearts out in the arrivals terminal this time.

I am tired again and can't tell if this is amusing or not. But maybe you can't either. Aha!