My pockets are empty. I am being searched, whilst giving an in depth commentary on my possessions. One RC Leather, Black pin stripe wallet containing, amongst other things, three credit cards, one debit, and three forms of identification. Set of house keys for a prestigious Bristol townhouse. One E71 communication device, black, titanium, perhaps not as good as the blackberry, but certainly better looking. Small piece of paper, possibly a bus ticket, detailing exchanges of £1.67. And this could go on for a while, but I am patted down and ushered into the club. The music is disgusting and the people more so, and whilst not much occurs in the course of the night, I do fall in love with a Russian.
And the days that occur previous are somewhat similar to one another. Consisting largely of letting my returning presence be known. On Monday, I have coffee, which I do not pay for, and check some designs, which I do not care of. And shall be happy when the brand which I have now recreated, fails.
On Tuesday I have coffee which I do not pay for and begin intensive social networking. Until I eventually exhaust my contacts, and leave. However it must be said, some handy housewifery tips were traded.
On Wednesday I have coffee which is later followed by two pints of cider, three gin and tonics, nightclub entry, and a taxi home, all of which I do not pay for. I also attend a private function, to which I am not invited. Entertaining myself by playing off attendees against one another.
By Thursday coffee is substituted with coke. And the details of Friday, so mundane, that they have slipped my mind completely.
And if this is an inclination as to how this sabbatical year shall progress, so be it. But lets hope for more Russian encounters.