At last Friday!
I have been back at the grindstone for a week now, and I am still furiously pedalling to keep up. Unfortunately, one cannot get the staff, and my minions whom I left running my affairs of business have singularly failed to do anything constructive whilst I was spreading the way of the Chap in the colonies.
Work is an anathema to a sterling Chap and it is a sign of these desperate dark days that one has to work to pay Broon and this thieving acolytes for - well - the non value they give me. Frightful, frightful state of affairs, if you ask me.
Unfortunately, I haven't had time to copy out my journal from the trip yet, and I still need to sort out the electric photographs I took to illustrate my affairs. I still do intend to split the blog out so I can share with you my thoughts on the news, plus latest views from the front line of Chappism in today's vulgar world. However, as one's Amah used to say: Warm words cook no rice! (Mind you she was a red-book carrying Maoist during the cultural revolution, lest the reds cross the New Territories and accuse anyone of being a running dog lackey of Imperialist swine)
Now January is such a dreadful time of year.
I have drunk the cellar dry of laudanum, and now instead of looking forward to an entire weekend upon one's sofa drifting in and out of consciousness I seem to be suffering from a terrifying sense of motivation.
This runs desperately against the grain. I have found myself considering altering the bathroom of my pied a terre. I have considered finally breaking the loving bonds I have with tobacco. I have even (get this chaps!) considered that I ought to lose a few pounds before I repair to my Schloss-adler in the Alps for my annual skiing adventure. Even more startlingly, this would appear to involve physical exercise.
Now the last time I felt like this, help was at hand. Fellow chaps clustered round, sat me down with a hookah filled with capital Moroccan, poured me a half bottle glass of Burgundy, placed some ripe cheese before me and bade to me 'consider what I was about'. Within in moments, I had attained a pleasant state of torpor.
Times, as I said, are hard now. The chaps have dispersed, the hookah pipe consigned to Oxfam, luxurious Turkish cushions have made way for wooden flooring and corner sofas and the outlook is bleak.
One ray of cheery light though - my particular friend is currently in the Andes. With any luck she is shamelessly exploiting the natives, shooting Guanacos and fermenting revolution.
Lord knows if she has the sense that god gave her, she will send me a bushel of those coca-leaves - they make capital after-dinner chewing, far superior to Mr Wrigley's filth.