5 Mar 2003
“Sure, it’s safe to go down there. Those giant alligators are just stories, y’know, one of those city myth things.”
“What, you mean urban legends?”
“Sure, dat’s right.”
“So it’s safe for me to go down here?”
“Sure. No problem.”
You shouldn’t necessarily believe him. That’s all I’ll say on the matter other than I’ve always found it in my best interests to carry an over-sized Bowie knife on my person. You have been warned.
Anyway, having recovered from the two days of exercising with that olive skinned beauty Sophia and then the half marathon yesterday, that to my surprise I managed to complete (without performance enhancing supplements or any kind of vehicle) I decided that I might take a short holiday to recover my faculties. Bearing in mind that, if I am convinced by Nurse Sally’s translation of Dr. Rasheed’s diagnosis, I had only ten days to live, I thought that I might like to spend the weekend traipsing around my old haunts in Paris. In particular Montemarte, to remember some of the happiest times that I can remember. I find it paradoxical that when I am having some of the greatest times possible I am also in the least likely state of mind to remember any of them. This has been made clear to me time and time again over countless years. Rather than detracting from the experience, I find this realisation to accentuate it. As I am submerged in a most halyconic time I am always, at least mildly, aware that it is a one-time deal so I’d best damn well enjoy it. There will be no retrospective visitation rights permitted to me and my brain. This is it, enjoy it while it lasts, it will never be quite the same again. And so I do. Good God Bruce, would you please stop digressing. You have to be in Oslo by eight in the morning. Would you please get on with it.