Landings

So you think you know a person. You think, yes, this person will collect me from the airport when my flight arrives on the 20TH OF AUGUST. You think this is granted, secure, a happy consequence of imaginary friendship. Because you have known this person since this person was three years old. Fat and snotty, you knew her and you loved her.

Any former supporters of Chez Consette - we reached a giddy readership of 12 at one point - may recall the somewhat abrupt conclusion. I apologise for this. For a year and a half now I have been, to paraphrase the idiot, otherwise occupied with 'missionary work in the Amazon'. The idiot and I have been having time off from each other, as things can get kind of stuffy in an imaginary friendship. Like someone needed to get off their bum and open the windows. And don't be silly, it is of course perfectly possible for an imaginary friend to indulge in sequestered globe-trotting. The imagination of the idiot is more potent than it seems.

Anyway, you think you know a person.

Today it is September the 3rd, which means that it took me fourteen days to get to Oregon from the Canadian border, unwelcomed at the airport and distinctly unamused. I arrived in Vancouver just one day after she arrived: she was on the nineteenth, and I was on the twentieth. She said on Skype that she'd wait for me, and then we could catch one of those tiny planes for Portland, together, and we could talk, and I guess that would have been nice.

As it turned out, in a spectacular display of negligence, she managed to imagine my non-arrival.

Idiot.

It's a long story, which I won't go into now because it's late at night and she is emoting about a poetry class tomorrow morning, nevermind my general state of dirt and exhaustion. Don't you worry, love. Get some shuteye, there's a lass. Suffice to say, though, that thanks to a load of hippies on their way down to Haight Ashbury in a VW Camper, I followed the trajectory that a very stoned and peaced-out crow might fly, thus accounting for a 2 week meander of only 300 miles.

First impressions to follow,

Consette x

PS. The above is just an elaborate preamble. What I really intended to say was: sorry for not starting this sooner.