The Hidden Hand

The rain continues to fall on our never ending days. Three more shows, five more flights, and just under a week until I am at home in the bosom of Northern California. Provided I can negotiate Heathrow at the height of panic alert aqua, all should go swimmingly. I am off to Lisbon tomorrow for what will prove to be a pretty great time. Then, it's the twin festivals in Ireland and Scotland that I have come to dread. 60,000 mud, urine and feces-drenched punks screaming bloody murder at one another is not actually my idea of a pleasant Saturday afternoon. I've spent the bulk of my day today in bed watching The Mighty Boosh and Trailer Park Boys, nursing a wicked head cold that one gets from spending 26 straight hours on a bus with the infirm. I have had 12 cups of tea, 6,000 miligrams of vitamin C, 3 entire lemons, 1 litre of orange juice, 1 litre of carrot juice, and 2 bowls of soup. I have to pee every 7 seconds, and I'll be damned if I'm still unwell in the morning. I'm going to put on my cashmere hoodie, dark sunglasses and listen to the jam until I get to Portugal. Here's hoping that things remain calm for another day or so.