Like all things bright and shiny, the bolo tour twinkled it’s way like a good un for a couple of weeks, but is now slowly falling to earth, one day off smashing it’s twisted asteroid shape into the unyielding structure of work.
Ah well, no matter. The trip was, as hoped, the exact tonic I needed to put me back on the path of the righteous. A clear plan has emerged, the half-smile on the face is back, and the arms and legs cane from a series of alcohol related injuries. As ever, I can’t quite sum up everything I learned on the three separate core missions that made up the tour, but there is still much writing to be done (most notably a description of Swansea and Madrid is owed), and the Groover is back, fist-shaking at the moon, guttural snarl at the back of his throat and long-bowed legs striding across the land seeking vengeance, amusement and his destiny. May all plumbaits cower in their paper underpants.