I'm off. Finally, and it's taken a long looooong time, I've put the pile on the market. Yep. On the market this afternoon.
I've no idea where we're going to, except it's not likely to be Blighty. Too effing expensive. So France is - as I type - the planned destination. Don't ask, 'cause I've no idea where in France. Probably an old Cow shed.
Actually, I quite fancy New Zealand. It's good enough for Frodo, though rather distant from my druggy friends in London ... I could grow my own, I suppose.
Ah well, you live and learn. I've learnt you have to earn money to pay bills, otherwise nondescript suits get upset. I've decided I don't like playing 'the game' where you slave to pay for a place you don't really want to be. What's the point?
I will write both music and 'fiction', and I will do it where I can get up at four in the morning and record a drum kit without having upset neighbours hammering on the door.
I will, I will, I will Mr Fawlty.