Trying to shuffle through the requisite amount of papers today, because come this evening it’s time to down tools, marshal my energies and prepare for a trip to that legendary den of iniquity, and road crossing danger: Amsterdam.
I haven’t been there for a couple of years, but on some level, memories of that dirty place still return from time to time, usually when I’m sitting round a table, somewhere between wide-awake and full on white-out, laughing about a world of psychadelics and hallucinogens that I was pretty pleased to have consigned to my ill-considered youth.
But it’s back. Brought on by Mr Lurch’s decision to do the right thing by his delightful partner of choice, we’re off for a stag weekend to the city of a thousand maroots. We’re a big crew and I approach the event with a mixture of excitement and anxiety, sure that at the very least, a bolo adventure of some proportions, is about to unfold. Just need to pack up the trusty camera, the dictaphone, drink a couple of pints of berocca for extra vitamin reserves, steel my resolve and head out to the flatlands. Resistance, and by that I probably mean sobriety, is pretty much futile.