So I'm back in England, raddled old bitch that she is. So far it hasn't proved too catastrophic. The family seem to be much as I left them. Everything seems much smaller but the cyclopean construction of New York will warp a man's perspective thus.
Hitherto the worst of it has been my being lost in thought and missing North Dulwich station on my way back home from town. Well I didn't miss it but the malign divinities of public transport worked mischief on me. The door refused to open and by the time I had bolted up to the next one the train was already preparing to be in motion again. This all occasioned a jolly stroll back from Tulse Hill in that British rain that is so characteristic of November. With little more than a vague intuition to guide me - my phone won't work here unless I can piggy-back on WiFi and I had none of this funny British money on my person - I made my way admirably, making it at least as far as the Crown and Greyhound where I was able to persuade my brother to join me for a pint or three of Pride. I narrated to him the worrying habit of the Colonials of serving this brew, where it is to be had at all, in chilled glasses.
I have finally got my computer playing nicely with the WiFi here. Next time I will bring the Mac but it weighs a metric shsored. The little Dell I am now typing is unfortunately running Ubuntu which involves a lot of palaver with iwconfig and the sacrifice of a black rooster to Legba. And even fucking then it still keeps overwriting the connection settings to a DNS server that actually works with the IP address of one that doesn't. I suppose it's a bit like the previous generation going home to some herring town in the Orkneys where they had to haggle with an operator for half an hour in order to place a telephone call back to the real world.
Right, the witching hour is upon us and I must retire. One does not wish to caught up and abroad past midnight back here in the Old Country.