Half-way

Ah, the great wire­less world. At Heath­row, Intel has hung signs every­where, pro­claim­ing that we should sit down, log on and unwire. Of course, sit­ting under the signs does noth­ing. The BAA staff know noth­ing. I am reduced to boot­ing Mac­Stum­bler and divin­ing for signal.

My plane for Bar­celona departs in less than an hour. I have watched epis­odes of Buffy and Angel on DVD (thanks Evan) and I have determ­ined that I bought the wrong book.

I said a while back, as I was trying to adjust to life without hawkeye, that it was a good phase of my life, but one that was over now. I wryly pondered what that part of my life would be called if I ever achieved my goal of being a famous poet. My Holling­worth period? My Sydney period? Whatever… I bought _The Dream of Scipio_ by Iain Pears and it belongs to that period, not this one. I am wan­der­ing through the past again and that´s not what this is about.

I feel instead that I should be read­ing Graham Greene – he said the border changes everything – or that book my mother gave me a while ago, _Night Train to Granada_ about Sydney anarch­ists trav­el­ling around Spain in the fifties.

And this? This will be my Span­ish period…