The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there

Back in the early days of this blog, I did something thoughtless and cruel to my family and friends. I ran away. Sure I only lasted two weeks but I think that's a pretty damn good innings for a childish, melodramatic endeavour (Part One The Journey To Rome, Part Two The Journey Home).

8 years ago today I was in the town of Menton on the Cote D'Azur (that's southern France for the uninitiated), eating chicken and tomato panini's if memory serves me correctly. Whilst the memories are rather dark and foreboding, given that I was planning to kill myself at some point on the trip, I can now look back on them fondly. I'd given up all responsibilities, ever so briefly, and there was no family, no university, no work, nothing at all to worry about. Except for that damn black dog on my shoulder.

It's refreshing to remember a time before WORK when life was a little less repetitive. I would give anything, I repeat ANYTHING, to be able to afford not to have to work anymore. To be able to choose each day what I wanted to do and know that if I did choose to do something there was always tomorrow for a rest if I wanted it.

Which reminds me once again of my oft quoted promise to a tramp at Brighton Station (which occurred 8 years and a couple of days ago!) that I'd never become part of the rat race. Sorry dearest tramp, I have failed thee! And, I suppose, myself.

If you feel benevolent and particularly generous, this writer always appreciates things bought for him from his wishlist