From a relative low-point of the previous entry things took a meteoric rise. I went skiing with the ski club and took lunch in the company of an esteemed Australian businessman and family. We had a lot of fun together and it looks like a long term association might grow out of it.
Having enjoyed the best powder conditions in years I was exhausted after 11 days solid skiing. I left tired but happy only to have my Zurich flight cancelled. By the time the dust had settled there was little choice but to spend the night in the airport. My niche was already occupied by an unemployed Brit who had missed his flight to Malaga. There was so much that didn't make sense about his predicament that I couldn't drag myself away. Charlie was a lovely guy, over-fond of his booze and dope but engaging nonetheless. He was delighted to be speaking English again and this was un-fathomable to me. What was a Belfast-born Mancunian accented Bricklayer doing living on the dole in Basle for the last year and a half? And how come he spoke such good German? Once we had transferred to the airport chapel and smoked a bit more he confessed that he hadn't worked since being released from Stellenbosch maximum security prison having served 7 years for armed robbery. It's a bit of a conversation killer that. There are some people who will do anything for you including turning over a few German Post Offices armed with Northern Irelands finest weapons of self-destruction. Apparently some old school mates had visited and came up with the idea.
Pathos by the bucketload. Ironically one of the other guys in the Chapel lived in Folkestone and remembered Pete and knew of the Maasbach.
And then I met someone whow knew someone who lived on the Oxford Canal and knew about the story that Geoff told me - no, not the 15 tabs and talking to a tree all day but the tragedy in which a mother and her kids died when their boat caught fire.
How many possible stories are there; is there a meta-structure for a story?
And how about encountering Ken Hendrickson in verbier whose Father's major academic work is pothumously published here.
Time to stop and do some work.
Having enjoyed the best powder conditions in years I was exhausted after 11 days solid skiing. I left tired but happy only to have my Zurich flight cancelled. By the time the dust had settled there was little choice but to spend the night in the airport. My niche was already occupied by an unemployed Brit who had missed his flight to Malaga. There was so much that didn't make sense about his predicament that I couldn't drag myself away. Charlie was a lovely guy, over-fond of his booze and dope but engaging nonetheless. He was delighted to be speaking English again and this was un-fathomable to me. What was a Belfast-born Mancunian accented Bricklayer doing living on the dole in Basle for the last year and a half? And how come he spoke such good German? Once we had transferred to the airport chapel and smoked a bit more he confessed that he hadn't worked since being released from Stellenbosch maximum security prison having served 7 years for armed robbery. It's a bit of a conversation killer that. There are some people who will do anything for you including turning over a few German Post Offices armed with Northern Irelands finest weapons of self-destruction. Apparently some old school mates had visited and came up with the idea.
Pathos by the bucketload. Ironically one of the other guys in the Chapel lived in Folkestone and remembered Pete and knew of the Maasbach.
And then I met someone whow knew someone who lived on the Oxford Canal and knew about the story that Geoff told me - no, not the 15 tabs and talking to a tree all day but the tragedy in which a mother and her kids died when their boat caught fire.
How many possible stories are there; is there a meta-structure for a story?
And how about encountering Ken Hendrickson in verbier whose Father's major academic work is pothumously published here.
Time to stop and do some work.
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