The light is slowly draining from the grey December afternoon and Ellie switches on the lamps and turns up the arthritic heater a few notches in the everlasting war against the chill.
“A toast” I say, tilting my glass so that the light shines through the bubbles in the fizz, “to the Summer. And may we not linger in finding her.”
“Don’t you mean Happy Christmas?” asks Ellie, raising her eyebrow just the fraction of a millimetre and chinking the edge of her glass with mine.
But there’s the thing. Am not thinking about Christmas. Don’t really give much of a damn about Christmas. There is one thing and one thing only on my mind – getting the hell out of England asap and going to have some more adventures Sas-stylie.
Hence this blog. Have made a pact with Timo the (divinely long legged) Finnish storyteller to each make a new blog. If you come across it, at least for now, it’s by chance. You have probably never met me (although London gets smaller by the day it is true). And so this is the beginning of the tale. There’s three months, give or take, of preparation before can up sticks and bugger off round the world so you’ll have to read about the parties and agonies of work before I quit too.
(You can always skip the boring bits.)
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