The Changing Face of Travel or GETTING OLDER

It's that time again! This time the rucksack is out, Hep B and Rabies up to date, Malarone ordered and I aim to travel lightly. Or this is what I thought before I returned home from Boots today. 

Before I pack a swimsuit or kaftan, not to mention underwear, I have to find room for THE WIPES! All of a sudden I am buying wipes for everything, even for regions of my body which have hitherforto gone obviously unwiped. There are wipes for hands.  We all have those.  Face wipes, a lot of us ignore all beauty advice and use those. There are wipes for foreign loo seats! What to do in a really foreign loo where there IS no seat? There are wipes for eyes, to remove makeup. Wipes to refresh eyes wipes. Wipes to clean foreign floors in foreign loos before you put your bag down on foreign soil. Have you ever tried wiping concrete or even sand?  Wipes to disinfect body parts before self administering injections.  FEMININE wipes to make you feel better about yourself and when you have thoroughly sanitised yourself, there are wipes to re-wipe your hands to get rid of the smell of the previously used wipes.  Bogged down by bags of wipes I moved on to the pharmacy.

The pharmacist had seen me coming and done a runner. Last year I was ILL. Very ill, nearly died but rallied to single handedly refloat the ailing pharmacy businesses in the UK. I have thinned my blood, thickened it again, enriched it. I have addressed my irksome cholesterol, looked to the inflammations and frightened away the aches and pain with more narcotics than an NA member could shake a stick at.  A reasonable request for adequate supplies of regular medications to see me through the holiday period without resorting to frequent trips to unknown medics has seen me afloat on a sea of plls. Not only did they supply me with adequate supplies for a two month trip, they prescribed enough drugs to see me banged up in the Bangkok Hilton for several years before the Embassy help arrives. I think I must have seriously pissed off the receptionist.

To the packing. I have removed all medicaments from cardboard boxes but cannot do a lot about the wipes which have to stay hermetically sealed to stay moist. See, wipes don't work when dry.  I learnt that on the last foray to foreign climes. 

I need lotions and potions, shampoos and conditioners, some to make me blonder, some to remove the brass from the blonde brought on by sun and swimming and some just to restore some balance. I am at that age when Factor 50 is a necessity, followed by the soothing after-sun. At night I need to feed my face, my skin I mean. In the morning I have to wake it up. The bags under my eyes need Prep 45 and the anti ageing oils now have to be bought in half gallon cans. There is the serum, the day cream, the night cream, the extra special rehydrating cream for mature skins, goose fat for old skins, hand cream. 

I am still thinking about the packing.

So, we have wipes, drugs, potions.  MY FEET!  I need comfort. I find  my fitflops, birkenstocks, Ugg boots, hiking boots OH, nearly forgot, walking sticks. Jeez, socks for the boots. I am going on the hippie trail, I need to be comfortable. 

Hell, forgot the electronics.  The camera. The charger. The phone. The charger. The iPad. The Charger. The iPod. The charger. The Kindle. The charger. The solar charger to charge the chargers.

Nearly forgot, the washing line. Pegless this trip, I am learning how to cut down. The universal bath plug because I never travel without it. Even a trip to deepest darkest Devon calls for a universal. Torch, enough batteries to keep me going for a week or two. Ear plugs. Blutak for emergencies (explain later, it is invaluable). Latex gloves, no explanation needed. My Leatherman - so so neccessary. 

Still ruminating about the packing. The 70 litre rucksack is getting filled up pretty quickly. 

The travel books. 50 things to do in Bangkok for under 50p ( a treasure found in a charity shop, bound to be handy). How to order 50 breakfasts in Vietnam before noon in 30 dialects. The Lonely Planet Guide to packing, think I will give that a swerve. A real book in case the electronic one falls in water.

Other necessities. The micro towel. Not so micro when you buy the extra large. The travelling blanket for those chilly nights. The silk sleeping bag liner and the travel pillow. 

The hip flask oh and the water bottle oh and the hot water bottle. Shite I forgot the travel kettle. The adaptor. 

Right, underwear. Knickers, bras. That's not bad, take twelve pairs of pants, four bras and oh yes, travel wash.

So I am wiped, medicated, entertained, feet are fine, got something to read so I am ready to go. Close the rucksack.

The clothes are still sitting in piles on the bed. So I am going to be a well read, semi naked traveller. Might as well stay at home and go to a nudist colony. Hey, not a bad idea. That is what I am going to do. When my mates think I am swanning up the Mekong Delta I will be in Keynsham at the Avon Naturist B&B of the year, circa 1960. I will arrive naked except for my poncho and pants. I may not be dressed but I will be clean and my feet will be comfortable and should we decide to hike The Mendips I will be well prepared. I think. 

Namaste.

The Time to be Happy is NOW, the Place to be Happy is HERE

The end of another day in "Paradise" and I am in the nearest thing to Paradise that Bristol has to offer.  My BED.  It is an amazing cloud of  colourful decadence and it has seen a lot of me this year.  More of that later. I love my bed.  It is large and comfortable and everything (?) that I need is within reach; my books, pens and pencils, legal pads, iPod, telephones, remote controls, e-book, eye drops, spare glasses, radio, ear-phones, small dictionary,big dictionary, French dictionary,  dictaphone, laptop, water, reading lamp and loads of other things within reach.  Much to the distress of my neighbours I do not have curtains.  I have great big georgian shutters which, when I remember to close them, have the remarkable ability to cut out all light so that if I do not set my alarm I can awake and have no idea of what time it is.  This can be disconcerting sometimes.  From my bed I can see my walled garden which has not had much action this wet summer.  From my supine position, when said shutters are open, I see some wonderful things.  I see the passing of the seasons which, when not scaring me, fills me with great happiness.  One of the many good things about living in the UK is that we do have four distinct seasons and I can watch the progress of them all from here. At the moment the leaves are well on their way to a full fall and the colours are glorious.  I can see oaks and pines from here so I have some tree colour all year around. My acers are about to drop their leaves but the ferns and camellias will provide winter colour. Some of my gaudy summer annuals are giving their last bravura performance . The first frost will soon put paid to their showing off.

I can see my summer house which I painted with great care last summer.  This is meant to be my summer study but so far it has been used as a studio by my daughter, a storage facility by a pal and an area of contemplation for myself.  Not much work has been accomplished there yet but I have a theory that more than 90% of the creative process takes place in that space between the ears, before a single word sees the light of day. The seeds of ideas get planted there and with a little judicious watering and feeding, these seeds sometimes flower into wee plants which with a bit of care can grow into a fully formed sentence.  And we know where sentences can lead. Everything I write by hand goes straight onto lined yellow legal

pads and everyone knows that no yellow lined paper is ever to be thrown away.  I cannot buy these pads in the UK so have to buy them when in the US or have pals send them to me. I guess I could get them on the tinterweb but I haven't needed to yet.

 I have many visitors in my garden, some more welcome than others. Urban foxes use the top of my wall as their personal thoroughfare and sometimes they just stop and stare.  I guess they are looking for food.  I also have squirrels, visiting cats and many birds.  I don't feed the birds in Winter because I want to discourage other LOWER forms of life.  If I feed the birds I encourage the mice and I have a true phobia of mice.  Seriously, it is not just a mild dislike, it is a true phobia.  Mice and their larger relatives scare the bejaysus out of me.  When I travel in the UK I always take my electronic pest alarm with me.  It plugs into the wall and is meant to emit a high frequency sounds that is said to deter them. I don't know if it works but hey ho, if I think it does, it does! When I am overseas I try not to think about the local vermin - of the four legged variety. I tend not to look towards the gutters after dusk. I do remember seeing a dead mouse on paving in Ubud once but just had to be brave. It was hard but I just could not go to pieces over a dead mouse in Bali where the bombings a few years earlier had seen the deaths of so many. Am I being ironic Reader or moronic? DO leave a comment.

Back to my room.  The ceilings are very high with ornate cornicing.  From this bed of mine I can also see a William and Mary bureau which has my father's old westminster chiming clock on it.  I have disabled this clock because I find the sound of its ticking intrusive. I wonder if that because it is an ever present reminder of the passing of time and that once it is spent it can never be recaptured? Discuss.  I have a tailor's dummy which is adorned, nay festooned, with a variety of scarves, beads, hats and stuff and nonsense. I cannot really see the surface of my dressing table because as yet I have no book shelves in here - or indeed anywhere in the flat - and the top is covered with orderly towers of books.  Needless to say anything I need is always to be found behind a tower which makes retrieving things nigh on impossible without having an accident and having to pick up a rash of books.  If I was more organised this would not happen, make-up would always be to hand, books on shelves, photos on walls or other surfaces.  It would be true to say that I will often venture out of the house without make-up  and a smile often has to suffice but I would NEVER leave the house without perfume. 

I have become very, very well acquainted with this room in recent times.  Earlier this year I had a massive spinal operation whereby a neurosurgeon rebuilt the lower part of my back, fusing four vertebrae with bolts, screws, pedicles and a fair bit of titanium rodding, securing two others with "scaffolding" and decompressing some nerves.  I put it down to a mis-spent youth.  Too many ski-ing accidents, a really horrible surfing accident about five years ago, numerous spills and thrills of varying degrees of severity, one sailing accident involving the genny and luff wire (you really don't need to know the details), a couple of car prangs and too many falls from grace by an over ambitious and under skilled rider. I had been putting it off for years and after a successful first op on my neck I opted to have the biggie done this year.  Mistake number one. Recovery was slow, as anticipated, but complicated by multiple pulmonary embolisms (embolii, embolus) unanticipated.  The rest is really history, as I nearly was!  Not much fun!  Put paid to most of this year and I won't be flying to far flung places for a while yet.  Mistake number two was surgeon error.  I was on blood thinning meds while in hospital, 10 days, and this should have been continued until six weeks  post op  It was not continued and in apparently classic fashion, six weeks after surgery, my PE's nearly put paid to a life that I was not yet finished with.  I am totally unused to being unwell so it has been a tad tiresome. Give me a bit of good old fashioned pain of a mechanical kind and I can cope very well but I found that being let down by a body that I had carelessly taken  for granted, really hard going at times.  Needless to say, mud wrestling and rugby have had to be forsworn for a while although I do hope to be back on a bungee soon and also I fully anticipate beating Felix Baumgartner's free falling record.  In your dreams, T,  in your dreams.

2013 is going to be an excellent year for me.  I will have to go to Oz to see the family and will take a side trip somewhere en route.  Last year it was Ubud in Bali for some time out with my daughter which I combined with the eponymous Reader's and Writers Conference.  Anna has never been to New York so we may go next Spring.  Our plan was to back pack around India for three months, starting in Macleod Ganj and travelling south on trains and buses but I think that may be a little ambitious for me so soon.  I am desperate to see Istanbul.  It has been on my hit list for years but remains as yet unseen. I used to dream of swimming in the Bosphorus  like  Io, one of Zeus's lovers.  Also Cappadocia is on my list.  I am in the process of selling the apartment in Switzerland.  It is in the Berner Oberland overlooking the Lake of Thun and looking up at The Jungfrau, The Monch and The Eiger.  We have had it for ages.  It is a modest two bedroom apartment which has been great as a base for winter sports and all year round walking but it was becoming fiscally irresponsible to hang on to it when we were just going over for a few weeks annually.  My late husband was swiss and we used to spend a lot of time there but sadly tempus fugit and all that and life just gallops away.  As much as I love Switzerland, it was becoming the anchor that stopped me from travelling to other places. I felt that I OUGHT to go and as I feel I OUGHT to visit the family as much as I can, the places I really wanted to see were stuck on he back burner.  That sounds terrible. As long as my 91 year old Mother is alive, I want to go to Oz to see her but there is a big wide world out there and I still have adventures to plan. Confronting my fragile mortality earlier this year was a salutary lesson soberly digested.

Mummy, at 91, is a testament to enjoyable longevity.  I know that some days are hard for her and that for every days she "parties" she spends two to three days recovering.  I also know that at the moment she would still very much prefer to be alive than dead.  Nearly every days she sees at least one of her many grand children and sometimes she even sees one or more of her three great grandchildren. Life is hard some days but she does battle on. Life is hard also for Claire my younger sister who is her main carer but as surely as the world keeps on turning that same world is a better place for having Mummy in it.

Well this turned into a bit of a missive didn't it? Have you tuned out yet? Don't really know what happened there so I had better scarper soon. A bit of sleep would not go amiss.

I Ain't Going to Heaven.....

 

I Ain’t  Going to Heaven, ‘cos you can’t go twice!

I am sitting looking out on to our own garden here at Kori Ubud, Bali and I am between magic and reality. When a leaf moves or a flower trembles is it caused by a raindrop or by the birth of a new blossom.  Or maybe a frog has hopped in the near vicinity or maybe a dragon fly has hovered overhead and caused a leaf to move.  Across the ravine is a rice paddy, too green to be cropped but riches there for someone’s picking.

Yesterday at a plantation I saw coffee, ginger, galangal, ginseng, vanilla, lemon grass,  cinnamon growing as nature intended.  I tasted coffee from beans that had been consumed and passed by a Lurwak ( which makes it exclusive but impossibly expensive to buy).  I never thought that I would drink coffee that had been pooed out of a civet like animal before but then again I had never imagined myself here in Bali, visiting The Elephant Caves,( rediscovered in the twenties),  eating three exotic meals a day and seeing the sun set into the Indian Ocean at Tanah Lot. I crossed over to the sacred caves, holding my trousers up with my sandals in my hand, to be blessed by a holy man with even holier water.  The sun set very quickly once it had started its descent.  The drive back to Ubud started in dusk which rapidly descended into obsidian darkness.  The lights of the temples in the gardens of Balinese houses twinkled like friendly stars safely guiding us back.  By this time I think our driver was tired as were both daughter and myself but a tired driver is one worth staying awake for.

The Balinese life, culture and religion seem to actively make up the three point principles which appears to guide their lives. The people are friendly and the shop keepers and traders are not aggressive. Poverty appears to be little in evidence.

Art abounds.  Good and bad.  We have seen some beautiful paintings and carving and also some that would not be out of place in T K Maxx.  In fact I think the far end of Ubub is devoted to the export market and the goods there appear to be of a lesser quality than those in the tourist areas.  The narrow side walks are busy with travellers and this week even busier because there is the 12^th  Ubud Writers and Readers Conference on.   Two nights ago we went to a book signing and reading of Rimbaud in Java by Jamie James and as I lived and breathed Rimbaud in my teens and early twenties this was an added gift.  Being at this event made me feel less like a tourist for some reason I haven’t quite worked out yet. Perhaps it is something to do with being a writer surrounded by both writers and readers.  The conference has a global feel with an emphasis perhaps on the east and Indonesia with many expats promoting books written while they have been here in Indonesia.  I saw Tariq Ali striding out in the street earlier in the day and wondered when his hair had turned from black to silver.  Then I looked into the mirror and wondered when my complexion had turned from peach to prune.  Maybe we don’t all have a picture in the attic.

We met a Mexican American girl Alison who came to Bali for a few days and extended her visa for another month. It seems that happens a lot here.  She had interesting tales to tell of the people she met at immigration. Some just trying to extend their holiday visas and some trying to legitimize their illegal entry. Tonight we will meet her again when we go to a big street party to celebrate the end of the conference.

I would say that Bali has woven its spell around us and I feel I will return one day.  While I have been here I have a phrase running around and around in my head as tho on a loop and I think it should be the title of a song.  It goes “I Ain’t Going to Heaven ‘cos You Can’t Go Twice”.  Maybe that is the magic inspiration that is Bali.

DRAFT

Bali Wonderful

Eight days in Bali and every one of them a joy and an adventure. The memories we made will last a lot longer than the tans we started. Gentle people who daily live their lives through their religious beliefs; the offerings to the Gods that we found on pavements, outside shops, on steps, on top of monuments; the haggling so that the right price was paid, guilt appeased and both parties happy. We were in Ubud which is the main cultural centre and inland from the beaches and australian playgrounds and lucky enough to be there at the same time as Ubud's 8th Writer's and Reader's Conference. We went to a book reading/signing one night which as a child of The Age of Aquarius was more than mere serendipity. It was for a book about Rimbaud, written by Jamie James, and about the reconstruction of Rimbaud's time in Java and Bali. Such a plus and we met an interesting Mexican/American to boot.

We visited the Elephant Caves, saw the sun set at Tanah Lot, saw rice paddies, ginger and many spices growing au naturel. I tasted coffee beans which had been eaten by lurwak monkeys and then evacuated - apparently a delicacy. I found a worm, grub, whatever in my Nasi Goreng one night and when I pointed it out to the serene and beautiful waitress she took it back to the kitchen. On her return she serenely told me "Oh it's Ok, it come out of vegetables but it is FRIED". This was meant to reassure me. Hey, if that was the worst that could happen, dare I complain.

Our room was basic but very traditionally balinese with fresh frangipani blossoms put at our door and on our beds at night. We were at the far end Ubud, not at Monkey Forest Road more out towards Jampuhan and had about a twenty minute walk from "home" into the centre of town. One day it poured with warm rain and w gave ourselves over to it completely. We decided that it was in fact not raining. I repeat, NOT RAINING, and we just walked through it, perusing all and everything as we went.

Oh yes, Bali was Bliss and Bali Wonderful and I am sure I will visit again. There is more to say but that involves diaries and notes and today I am plain tuckered out. My beauty flies home today and I won't see her for weeks so I am off to see how she is progressing. She is still with me now here in Oz and about to fly bck to UK tonight. Leaving will be hard for her. But that is another story. Another day.

TRI HITA KARANA

The stop cock has been located.  The last wash is on. Passports and documents safely in travel bag.  Fanny pack prominently sitting on top of travel clothes. Packing is 98% done. It is 1400 hours Sunday.  I AM NOT LEAVING UNTIL TOMORROW NIGHT!!!!!  Half the local area have my keys in case of emergency. There is being prepared and there is being anal.  I am obviously falling into the LATTER CATEGORY.

I have done this long haul journey so many times.  My family live the other side of the world and as I love them all dearly I go over to the antipodes as often as I can.  This time my daughter and I are taking a side trip to Bali.

She will turn up in a couple of hours with an old army roll bag and a soft vietnamese antique cotton bag which will hold her life.  It is a casual way to travel but probably OK for her as she has not had to fight with airlines to get preferred seating (yes I know I have to pay extra), arrange inocculations, get someone to open my mail in case that one important bill does not get paid, leave the place spotless for some visiting acrobats who are coming for a short stay in my absence, arrange the currency, put a converter app on my iPhone, make the last minute telephone calls, make sure someone knows where my will is,  read up on Balinese culture, programme Sky  so I don't miss my faves while I am away,  get cortisone jabs in lumbar spine, park the car where it has high visibility, find all the adaptors  and leads for phone, camera, laptop, iPod  ...............  and this is in the name of pleasure.

The relaxation  and pleasure will start when she arrives tonight and says "Hi Mama, I am so excited" and then I will know that all the preparation (I refuse to use the S word) has been worth it.  She is a good travel partner and this is obviously not our first trip together.  We will get a take-away tonight and sit and laugh at each other for being SO prepared.  She is so like me in many ways. Never late for an appointment, bus, train, interview.  It must be her swiss genes from her father.  I can't claim any of that DNA but I think his very Swissness rubbed off onto me for all the years we were together before the rotten fella up and died on us.

This is my second long haul this year but my sweet chick has not seen her aussie family for about six years. Now they are all almost old enough to go out on the toot together.  I think that three of them (at least) are planning a ceremonial tattoo together.  I know in daughter's case it will be a sweet one to go into her body library to join the ones from Bristol, Brighton, India, Sri Lanka, Vietnam etc etc.  I have been thinking of getting one also but don't think I will piggyback their bonding.

I am now getting very excited just at the thought of the start of the journey.  The buzz at the airport where everyone travelling has a story to tell.  It is strange leaving in the middle of a mini heatwave to go to an even hotter climate. I have had to remember that I will be returning in Winter and make provision for that. Just pack another pash.

We are going this time to celebrate my mother's 90th birthday.  It will be the first time my mother has had all her six chicks and attendant grandchildren and great grandchildren around her and it will be a true celebration of alive that is still well lived.  She is frail. She has pain. She deals with it and will be feeling no pain when she sees us all together.  All the arrangements are in place for a big and splendid celebration. My mother. Ninety years old.  I don't think for a minute that I will make it.  I have not lived a life deserving of 90 years.  I sometimes wonder how I managed this far.  I have been a risk taker, an adventurer and a traveller in more ways that I sometimes wish to remember.  I am actually quite  grateful to have reached this far.

I always miss my pals when I am away and if I am away for too long, it sometimes takes a while to get back into the rhythm of my real life.  It takes at least two weeks to completely unpack and check the stack of mail.

Anyway I am rambling again.

Namaste to you all.  I will be blogging from Bali and Australia if you care to call by.

Oh, yes, I can feel the magic.  I am off to take ten items out of my case.  Another anal tradition.  I have never ever learnt to travel light.

Don't. Diary. Don't You Dare.

Oh Diary, Dear Diary,

it's confession time and I know I can trust you. You already know most there is to know about me and still remain non-judgemental so I thought I would share this with you.

You now how long I have been on my own, bar the odd - and sometimes very odd- adventure but I think I may be wandering into the realms of dangerous waters. I won't put myself into situations of danger but you know what I mean. Unchartered territories with as yet uncalculated risks.

Ok, I will try to start at the beginning and not ramble all over the page.

Some months ago I thought I would have a go at internet dating. It is the 21st century and all that. I told myself it could be an adventure. So I signed up with one of the better known sites, posted a profile and an outrageous photo. I figured it would take a certain kind of courage to get past the pic!

Well, many guys were brave enough to get past that pic. In fact I think most of them didn't even register that I had pink hair and put Rugby, wing position, as my favourite participation sport. I don't think the ability to read is a prerequisite for joining this site, judging from the guys I attracted. Well all except for 2. A Circuit Judge and a Buddhist/Taoist. The latter being nearly 20 years my junior.

Met the judge at a local dockside cafe for lunch. He was Ok. A serial dater, tight as a badger's a******e and spoke disrespectfully of his LAST wife. Not for me, but no harm done. Don't think I was his cup of rosey either as our phone calls and desultory emails dwindled into nothing. Or got lost in the ether. Then I went overseas for a few months as you know so that was that.

Once home again I decided to terminate my agreement with the aforementioned site. I log in to cancel my subscription and could not resist reading my mail and seeing who had last "checked me out". There was one cute guy, said he was 55 so i had a look at his profile. Read it a couple of times and then was about to check out and leave when up popped a message from him. He joked that he wasn't just eye candy and that if I was going to check him out the least I could do was to stop by and say hi. Duly did that whereupon he admitted that he was in fact only 45 and had made a mistake in his profile. I told him to get back to the playground but he persisted. We ended up emailing each other. Yes, I know, I gave him my personal email, then my telephone number and it all took off from then. It was FUN. He made me laugh, he flirted, I flirted back and before too long I felt as though I was in a relationship of some wierd but exciting type. His wit was seductive, his geordie accent delicious. I kept a modicum of wit about me. I had seen people make the mistake of thinking they knew on-line strangers and I was not going to fall into that trap. You now what a pragmatist I am.

Well two months have now gone by, we speak several times a week, text almost daily. I feel he is at a crossroads in his life and is reaching out for something, someone. I know it is not really me but I have gone along this road with him. We have had minor spats, disagreements and to hear us on the phone you would think we were really old mates. I HAVE NOT EVEN LOOKED INTO HIS EYES. How can you imagine you know someone you have yet to meet. On one level there is a certain intimacy which comes with anonymity and bit by bit I have a picture of him and a measure of him in a depth that I may not have had had we met in a bar or at a party. We have shared things one does not normally share with anyone but a diary. All this and still I cannot know him because I have not met him. Yet. Or can I? I know what he looks like but megapixels although giving a good image cannot reveal what the first physical meeting does. That unknown quantity. That animal or chemical reaction that marks us out as human and not robot.

It was all quite hot and the beginning and the temperature has settled at way above tepid but nowhere near boiling. It is time to meet. To decide whether we can be the mates we think we are or something more. BUT (bad grammar I am aware) somewhere long the line I decided (and agreed with him) that age was irrelevant. After all I am not about to have his babies. Been there, the T shirt is now a duster. I have also learnt at least one valuable lesson from this, so far. I am no longer going to be afraid to live in the present and have foresworn looking down the tunnel of my tomorrows. So where does this leave me? Feeling like a teenager going on a first blind date? Not quite but there is an element of that. Scared? A bit but what is the worst that can happen? Perhaps I have imbued him with characters he does not possess and vice versa. Maybe when I meet this interesting man I will still find him interesting and even attractive. Maybe one glance will reaffirm how shallow the human persona can be and I will not find him attractive at all, in any way. Then I ask myself who IS this person I have been chatting and writing to for nearly two months? Part of me wishes I could keep him as an old fashioned pen friend, after all we do have a lot in common. My senses tell me I know him but my common sense tells me I cannot. I might think I know what is in his heart and mind but that is without factoring in that magic ingredient that can hardly be described. That unquantifiable ingredient that makes one person attractive to someone but not to somebody else.

We meet on many levels but our lives have little in common. Does this matter? Of course it does. Doesn't it? Am I over analysing this. The internet has provided us with a level of freedom. A freedom to express ourselves in a way that can be scary. Is that what I am afraid of? Allowing myself to be truly myself with someone I have not met. You know how my old journalistic skills are now part of my DNA and I have been able to assure myself that he is what he says he is, at least in terms of his work. He is not an unemployed layabout preying on the middle aged and vulnerable but he could still be manipulative person who is in the habit of pursuing what he sees as vulnerable women.

Update.

All the above is a little academic now. I was going to London to meet one of my brothers over from Oz, se the Summer Show at The RA and go and see The 39 Steps, so I arrange to meet my "pen friend". Remember dear Diary, he was the keen pursuer!! Anyway, tentative arrangements were made. Then he baled on me. Family problems in the North East. Since then a few comments on Facebook and NOTHING. Nada. Rien.

And how do I feel about this? Strangely, unaffected. I think I knew all long it was a bit of a game. Funny what a bit of boredom can be responsible for. Part of me always had reservations but the other part was game for an adventure and perhaps even only the making of another pal. I think he lives in a lonely bubble and makes on-line friends. I guess I should feel sorry for him but I don't. Whatever he has made of his life is mainly by choice. If knowing me for a while gave him some fun well so be it. I don't feel sorry for myself. It was just another experience. A bit like reading a book and not being sure of the ending. Did the book merit that ending? Not sure. Still thinking about this one. Real life obviously scared him. Perhaps he is better off in his bubble. I think I prefer the real world.