Bulldogs, geraniums and parrots

I got myself up in the dark, pumped Mr Rusty’s tubes until they were as hard as you like, and set off into the mist and drizzle.

The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing!

I’m sorry. I appear to have developed a Wind In The Willows fixation, and taken on the persona of Toad at that. Bits of dialogue keep popping up in my head. Probably the sign of a misspent youth. I went off road on Mr Rusty and skidded along the muddy banks of the Dordogne, occasionally sliding a little closer to the steep edges of that lugubrious river than I had intended, and getting slightly scared by my own bravado. Rabbits, robins and rats dashed hither and thither as on and on I went, thinking things like…

Are Germans immune to German measles?
If chickens get a pox, what’s it called – people pox?
Are all kisses in France considered to be French?
What’s wrong with a dog’s life? Seems like quite a cushy number to me.
Do parrots really have a tendency to be sick more often than other birds?

And...

Is there anywhere around here where I can get my brain tested?

After a fair few miles, and a definite cardio-vascular workout (well, I was panting like a dalmation on crack and my heart was doing that pounding thing which I think is a sign of life) I returned to Bergerac some two hours later, dripping with mud and moister than a damp flannel on a wet day. After a steaming hot shower and a pint of black coffee I gave assistance where I could with the Guardian crossword in London (via email), wrote for two hours solid, paused for a bite of lunch and then wrote for another four hours. I am really getting into the spirit of this writing lark. It’s nice work if you can get it. And if you can get it, nice work. No fags mind you.

Those lovely people at a little place I know called L’Enfance de Lard had the nerve to invite me back, and it was most charming to spend a couple of hours in their company, amply provided with gin and tonics until the first of the evening’s guests had the bad manners to arrive. I slunk off into the night like a bad smell.

Home for a curry and more Curb Your Enthusiasm which I adore. So, goodnight then. That's me done for 2004. No New Year’s resolutions, no not, no nothing. Just me, a hot water bottle, a jolly good book and goodnight. That was the year that was.

Well done to 2004. It took a bloody long time, but I have found a different way. As the boy said in that dreadful NatWest advert all those years ago:

“It’s not all just work work work you know!”

See y’all in 2005!