So 5 days to go, I'm sitting with a crick in my neck and frozen feet in an empty flat bordering the hinterland that sits behind Brighton, nestled in the crease formed by the M27 and the Ditchling Beacon, thinking I should stop typing and cook the eggs.

The flat's been empty now for two months and I've working and waiting, preparing for my pilgrimage. Living out of the back of my car and on the z-bed of kindness.

The team of builders have just arrived to install the new boiler system that's going to keep this flat warm and cosy through the winter, the system that's gong to keep the frost from the toes of those who abide here whilst I'm fending off the mosquitoes from mine.

I've packed already, which IS NOT like me,! Usually leaving everything to the last minute, I panic, search for my passport for the umpteenth time. I've left it in a safe place now tho, with a friend. I'd been carrying it around provocatively for the last month in my bag half expecting to loose it, even perhaps tempting fate, hoping silently that it would dissapear to add another dimension of complexity to my going, or even perhaps subconsciously prevent me leaving. But a week ago I decided to put it in a safe place as I deeply committed myself to going.

So now I have all my belongings in a blue roll-along affair I picked up for £2.50 at charity shop in London and am ready.

God my feet are cold.

mmm Eggs beckon, bacon beckons? Beans, no beckoning there... Ah Tea.


I'm not going to miss this winter, for sure; but I will miss my god children, their parents, my friends, my squeeze but most of all..



I am going to miss that proper cup of tea. No more "builder's" for me for six months.. perhaps I should forget the laptop and pack pyramids instead...