One minute it was there, the next minute it was gone. My suitcase, pinched off a train somewhere between Paris and Vienna. Did it contain items that will cost me thousands to replace? Yes. Are they of even limited commercial value to anyone else? Probably not, apart from a Patagonia jacket (eBay onsell value: circa 200 bucks). Was there anything irreplaceable in it? Not really — apart from my sketch notebook, containing the originals of

It’s funny because in between the stars you can see millions more. That’s something Joel’s sister said last week, when we were camping in Wales. Joel has three kids from his previous marriage. I have one. Together, we have none. Sometimes, I grieve for those children we’ll never have. Mostly, I think we’ve probably got our hands full enough already.

Coming back from the US, it struck me that being jet lagged is *exactly* like being stoned. Jet lagged, you’re a bit paranoid, easily confused and keep losing the thread of conversations. Everything takes longer than it should. The world feels like it’s moving very slowly and you are moving slowly through it. Your mouth is parched; eyes, dry and squinty. Sometimes you see things that aren’t really there. All you want to do is lie down.

Once, years ago, I was sitting in the middle of the backseat of a taxi in a hot southeast Asian city. The taxi had no air-conditioning. Both windows were open but there was no cross-breeze. SPLAT. A perfect dollop of white bird shit landed on my thigh.