So Lazy was pulled out of a big Merc people-carrier full of horribly be-dreadlocked obvious stoners at Dover ("Well, you're obviously some sort of a band or something," the Kent police officer said, peering around the bongo-drum laden interior, and then asking me aside.)
"What I want to know is how you fit in with these people?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the Pak and Afghan stamps in the passport and the cropped hair and more-or-less neat clothes, and the usual questions: where from, what do, how can I classify you in my scheme of things?
Jesus, what to say? It's no good being flippant with these people. I told him I'm a journalist (which I am when I'm not being a PR flack - maybe this is one of the sources of the schizophrenia?) and blah blah blah. He told me they were obviously concerned because these are like dangerous countries, but conversely, maybe I could help them with anything, if I keep my ear to the ground out there...
Of course, officer, I would be delighted, most delighted... He actually shook my hand, and we are through and soon having a quick reefer on the deck of the night ferry. France flashes by in a haze again (France, to me: nice motorway rest stops) and it is night again by the time we are pulling through into Spain. ¡Viva!
They dropped me off in Valladolid in the middle of the night and carried on to Portugal and I started to make my way a little further south through warm Spanish night. I don't remember how, exactly, but I arrived. Yes, Lazy did. The town is pretty, the women are beautiful, the weather clement and the food is good. I can see how ones have fallen in love with this place. Here and not going fucking nowhere, puta madre.