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MONDAY, 11 SEPTEMBER, 2000, O’ER THE ATLANTIC SO BLUE |
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Boo. Hiss. Me no wanna go. Me likey London longtime. Real snacky-snacky. Boo. Did you know… it takes nearly two hours to travel by Tube from the milennial Dome thing in East London to Heathrow Airport? Yah, well, neither did I. Yet despite me being so late to the airport, laden with expanding and exploding luggage (bug or feature?) and snack items that I can’t get in the States, I still managed to jump a flight and (ca-ching, thank you very much) I am at the moment sipping my champers in fuhhst clahhs, just like my flight to the UK a few weeks ago. Neener, neener. I win. Who’s the little man? (I’m the little man!)  Oh lovely. Flight lady who has been jamming chockies and savouries and vino down my gullet with a minted toilet plunger for the last several hours has just offered me duty free stuffs. Did you know… non-UK’ers, that a single fucking package of nasty ole smokietreats costs around £4.20? That’s nearly 40 francs! That’s about 800 pesetas! Almost $7! And I can’t even count how many Italian lire that would be — my numbers don’t go that high on my internal calculator. So anyway, yes nice-flight-lady-laden-with-wine, I will take your tax-free smokietreats while the takin’s good, and I will shower you with drachmas. I’m rabbiting about with this diary entry, aren’t I. I just bet you’re waiting for me to get to some point — like you want some pithy summation of three weeks of holiday. Some frightfully clever and succinct one-liner quippages about the differences between the US and UK. If that’s not to your fancy, some soul-baring introspection perhaps? Alas no. You get none of it. The only profound feelings I am currently experiencing might go by the monikers, “Exhaustion” and “Sadness.” Sad that I’m going home, but good christ on a stick with chutney on the side, sofa-surfing can shorely take the spunk out of a lad, I tell ya. Hoo-boy, I’z exhausted, yez I iz Mizz Scahlitt. Hey. Here’s a special little poam that I’ve been composing in my head for the last twenty-four hours or so. I dedicate it to all the people who gave me shelter over the last few weeks. That means you, you, and you, ya saucy devil. Kay, ready? Here goes… UNTITLED Thank you. Thank you very much. Now where’s that cow with my Bailey’s-over godammit? 
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