If asked, them what know would dare say yeah, that Veronica, she’s a huge idiot. But yeah, that Veronica, she’s a hugely determined one. It’s a dangerous combination of dominant traits, more Cheech and Chong than Yin and Yang that has driven me the planned 7 hours ahead of you – well, those in UTC+1 – from you I have propelled myself 420 minutes into the future. 25,200 seconds, 29,499 beats of the average healthy heart at rest, 13,986 revolutions of a long-playing record. Light could travel 756 million kilometres in that time but light is not on a 20 year old Honda.
What this means is unclear except, perhaps, I know what’s for dinner and don’t fear the lumps. Also, when the chocolate peanut rain of the Apocalypse arrives I will be temporally ahead of you lying outside with my mouth open, goggles firmly attached (nut allergy sufferers be warned).
So far, the future is nostalgish. People are friendlier, roads are poorer, moments seem eternal, cutlery is wrapped individually. With a September commitment in former Berlin postponed the idiot’s now free to harass this future; to be clear about its intentions, at least until it becomes past again. Toothsome notion straining like a reptile’s tail in my foolishly clenched jaw, I have decided to continue eastwards into yesterday. If I’m quick I may get to see what they pinned on my back.
Best wishes from Ulaanbaatar, please unsubscribe at will.
7th August 2014