Toukakoukan - » 2008

Citta di Roma

June 2, 2008 at 2:30 pm | Trip | 2 comments

“Err.. Mi… Viagarre… Australia, Via Pakistan, India, Indonesia…” I haltingly explained to the crowd that had gathered to inspect my (somewhat conspicuous) bike.
This drew a rumble of impressed Italian from them, and brought forward a highly tanned biker with a knowledge of English from their midst to translate from me.

We were all stuck there while they attempted to bring down the landing ramp on the ferry from Olbia to Civitavecchia, and while they did so I chatted in what small Italian I could muster and posed for photos.
It was a very strange feeling, something like being a minor celebrity I should imagine; men shook my hand, congratulated me, told me that it’s what they wished they’d done.
I don’t deserve this… All I did was make a decision and follow it through!
Still… The boost to my morale was spectacular…

Eventually somebody arrived with welding gear and after welding.. something we were allowed on, with the assembled bikers at the front of the queue waiting patiently for me to embark first.

It was the slow ferry to Civitavecchia (Rome’s port), though the seven hours of it were interspersed with a myriad of free beers and chocolate from various corners (which was highly appreciated as my budget was, as always, minimal).

As a result of our delay we arrived at 9pm, meaning I had to break my promise to myself not to ride at night.
I rode the SS1 towards Rome, desperately straining in the diminishing light signs of a campsite.
A large sign labelled “Roma” flew by and suddenly I was plunged into suburbs.
“Shit, I’m never going to find a campsite in the middle of Rome”
Another well-lit sign loomed in the distance “Camping Village”.
I pulled up to the reception and after briefly explaining my story to a wide eyed receptionist and walked away with my place booked and the promise of a free beer at the bar as soon as his shift was finished.

The place was unlike any campsite I’ve stayed at before, the bar rivalled anything you’d see in Milton Keynes and was packed full of people.
As I waited I wondered briefly who would come all the way to Rome and then spend the night in the campsite but realised I was there myself so I should shut up.

Free beer! Woo! After more than two weeks of relatively solitary living in Sardegna the busy bar was overwhelming.
My new best friend leaned over and pointed out a beautiful girl over the other side of the bar and confided that he was going over to talk to her.
I shook his hand, “Buona Fortuna!”.
The night went on, and after a few beers I found myself talking to the very girl that he’d pointed out.
I’m embarassed to say I’d rather effectively cock blocked him.
Still, she turned out to be a very friendly American, I think I must have asked her about 6 times where she came from in the US, but me introducing her to Flaming Sambuca rather effectively erased the answer (though I do have a rather detailed map she drew in my notebook!)

The next day after drinking copious amounts of water and eating an entire six pack of croissants secured from the on-site supermarket (this place has everything!) I headed off into Rome to get a photo of me in front of the colosseum!

Good god… Rome is a frightening place to drive around, that is until you get caught up in it.
I blasted through red lights, cut people up, filtered through moving traffic at 30mph and made great use of my extra-loud airhorn.
Nobody batted an eyelid! It was expected, moreover it was what everyone else was doing!
I did tone it down a little after I passed the scene of an (presumably fatal) accident between a car an a scooter however…

After parking next to the colosseum I wandered through Rome, sampling the pizza (which was far nicer than in Sardegna), the ice cream and the beer.
Although full of tourists, it’s a beautiful place, wandering down tiny streets in an attempt to escape the crush resulted almost always in stumbling across a gigantic piece of masonry or marble that had been structurally incorporated into modern buildings…

I’m ashamed to say I’ve taken relatively few photos, somehow the throngs of touristica spoiled the artistic merit…

Still, plenty of time to take photos; all I have to do for today is to book myself into a hostel (as that campsite was fuckin’ expensive) and after that I can wander at will!

Until next time…

From Rome to Venice (but not back again)

June 7, 2008 at 11:07 am | Trip | 1 comment

“Buonasera” a depressed looking receptionist greeted me.
“Buonasera, duo notte per favore?”
“€38 please”
‘What?’ I thought to myself, it was supposed to be €16 a night according to the website.
Being completely knackered and having spent around 5 hours trying to find this hostel (which included giving up and going back to the internet cafe for another look at google maps at least once), I decided not to argue and forked over the cash, reasoning it was only €3 more than my camp site and included breakfast and a roof.
He handed me my sheets and directed me to my room; trapsing down the ill-lit corridor I passed several zombie like figures which I could only assume were guests beaten down by the atmosphere of a soviet prison that pervaded the place.
Eventually I got to my bed, which was clean enough, set down my gear and thought “Christ, at least I won’t be tempted to stay here instead of exploring Rome!”.
I got out of there as quick as I could and headed down into Rome to try and find the nightlife.

As it turns out, there’s plenty of it to be had for free in Rome. The Piaza del Populo was one of my favourites, free music from the locals (many not even busking, just playing for the hell of it), and a constant stream of people going by to be persecuted by the rose-sellers (who were quite audacious!) which was entertainment in itself to see how far they could go before they got told to ‘Fuck off!’ in whatever language was appropriate.

Slightly more sociable was one of the walls over-looking the colosseum (which, incidentally was my personal favourite of all the sights in Rome,) where tourists would gather to chat.
It’s strange how nice it is to simply be able to converse in English with some-one, rather than having to search for common words or the equivilent Italian.
I whiled away the evening talking to random Canadians, Americans and Australians (surprisingly few brits have I seen!) and eventually wandered back to my hostel so as not to be caught out by curfew.

My route followed the river that bisects the city, the sickly sweet smell of fermenting fruit wafting over the warm night air from where it had fallen unpicked in rotting piles, the smell seemed somehow appropriate for such a seedy street…
I paced the spacing between each hooker, exactly 100 yards, remarkable, perhaps it’s the secret army of the Roman underworld undertaking maneuvours, rather than a pathetic display of capitalistic hedonism.

The next day I awoke to such a cacophony as I expect tortures cruel music-teachers on the 8th level of hell. Eventually I established it was one of my room mates whistling, and once he’d seen that I was awake, he smiled widely and threw a croissant in my face.
I scoffed my trophy while he explained he was from the Sahara, which I wasn’t aware was a country, that he was in Rome for a couple of days, but spoke far more Italian than English, which cut the conversation somewhat brief.

I had enough cash to do only one thing that day, see the Sistine chapel.
The outside of St Pietros was astounding, hundreds of vast marble columns circling the plaza.

Having paid the extortionate €14 entry fee I walked briskly through the vast winding museum, attempting to be interested in the panoply of busts and artifacts, though in reality the only thing that held my attention was the vast hall of maps.
It’s hard to describe how I felt when I saw the Sistine chapel for the first time… Dissapointed I think fits best. Somehow the bustling display of theology stuffed into every available space on wall and ceiling struck me with a very strange impression.
That of graffiti…
I can see why Michelangelo was reluctant to take on the painting comission from the Pope, I think he would be rather unhappy that the Sistine chapel ended up being his most famous work.
It doesn’t feel fair to think such things of such a masterpiece, but it’s only an opinion!

I spent the rest of the day exploring the streets of Rome, which is far more fun on foot than the hair tearingly, gut wrenchingly, nose bleedingly, eye gougingly excrutiating experience of trying to navigate it while obeying traffic laws.
The evening I spent the same way as the previous night, gazing adoringly at the night-lit colosseum, which I simply could not get enough of.

Unfortunately all the photos I took of it at night I took in RAW format, so I’m unable to show them until I can get them processed.

#I gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing I ever dooooo!#
I screamed racously at the top of my lungs as I searched the streets of Rome for the SS1 Aurelia heading north bound.
Ahah! And I was off, bound for Pisa!
They’re not wrong about Roman roads, they are quite… straight…
I really wish my bike had cruise control, leaning back chopper-style on the F650 I was keeping the throttle on by my fingertips with my left hand resting in my lap, pretty comfortable until IronButt kicks in, forcing me to take a stand on the pegs for relief.

I didn’t make it to Pisa in one go, I stopped short and found myself a free campsite in the form of a dead end made by recent extensions to the S1 by the looks of it.
Throughout the evening the locals kept tabs on me by driving part way up the dead end, apparently the rich (judging by the Mercedes), don’t like company!

Still, they left me alone and the next morning I was on my way once more.
Pisa didn’t hold my attention for long, the leaning tower and the adjacent church were very beautiful, and required a few photos once I’d finished my treat of a sigaro, but again, photos taken in RAW format, so not uploadable at the moment.

Afterwards I whisked my way along towards Florence to get to the start of the SS67 which would take me to Venice.
I didn’t intend to go in to Florence, but I realised I had when the beautiful triple and quadruple story houses towered above me and I found myself waddling the bike through swathes of tourists under a sign “Strada pedona”, Ooops…
Eventually I escaped without getting arrested and/or mobbed by tourists and headed through the SS67 and over the spine of Italy.

Wow, what a road, I really wish I could have taken some photos but none of the lay-bys or stopping places could have done it justice.
The twisties were such that I scraped my panniers along the road in several places! Great fun!

I camped rough again and after a near-vertical nights sleep headed off on more of the same beautiful road.

Next stop Venice!

Venizia, Dolomiti, non-starto.

June 9, 2008 at 6:02 pm | Trip | No comment

*Bang, bang, bash, bang, twock*
“Muuch better”, I admire my work; my pannier was decidedly trapezoid after a failed U-turn until I took it off and bashed it on the ground a couple of times, god I love these Jesses.
Feeling very pleased with myself I motored on for the remaining five miles to Venice.

“How much!?”
“18 euros per night”
Fuckin’ ell, I paid not much more than that for a hostel, let alone a bloody camp site!
Ah well, considering the parking next door costs €10 a day, and I was going to get the ferry to the city anyway, it works out relatively cheap.
Still, €90 budget for one day in Venice (including two nights camping) is a bit of a departure from my regular budgetary constraints.

Beautiful place Venice.

I found it very difficult to take photos in Venice, the whole place is so beautiful, you end up either taking photos of everything in sight, or taking photos of nothing because you can’t decide what to photograph!
And while it was in fact very beautiful, I found myself feeling it would be a much more pleasent experience if I A) had quadruple my budget and B) was bring a girlfriend, as it is a very romantic city.

I did my usual thing of trudging round getting lost because I was too cheap to buy a map, and too lost to find the tourist information office and decided to go home early before I spent even more than I’d originally bargained (which was, by my standards, quite capacious enough already).
Getting back to my ferry port however proved to be something of a difficulty, I eventually found my landmark, which in my head was “that gigantic pillared church on the waterfront”, but unfortunately it turned out not to be the right one…
After much effing and blinding I managed to find the correct stunning piece of architecture and sat down on the steps with a sigh to await my ferry.

“So you chilling out for a few weeks before you head off to Sandhurst?”
I whipped round at this suddent burst of impeccable queens English to see a three ‘lads’ (proper lads, rugby players at a guess) sat further up the steps.
Cheekily I evesdropped on a good ‘ole fashioned lads conversation with associated lewdness, attempting to stifle my own laughter at several points so as not to give away the fact that I was listening in proved difficult.
Turns out one of them had just done his entry exams for the army.
“… and 44 press ups”
“What? But 44 press ups is so easy!”
Inwardly I balked at this statement and wondered where my phenotype had let me down.
I never butted in to their conversation but contented myself with laughing silently.

The next day I was off, off to the Dolomites!

There seems to be quite a lot of bikers on this road… I wonder why…

1700m high, not much really, but still very beautiful (and kinda cold, hence the muffs)
I wandered up hill and down dale in an attempt to find a free camp site, but the whole place was so splendid that everyone else had the same idea, hence a million and one “NO CAMPING” signs everywhere, and nowhere was hidden enough for me to ignore these signs.Eventually I find myself a legitimate campsite at a shocking €16.50 (same as Rome!) and bedded down for the night.

On the morrow I dumped my panniers and headed up the nearest mountain I could find, passing hundreds of masochists, sorry, cyclists on the way up, when all of a sudden, CLATTER, CLATTER, CFUT pffft.
I rolled to a halt, self imposed by the brake, didn’t fancy rolling backwards for 5 miles and desperately pushed the starter button.
Much clattering ensued and then finally, only clicks.
Bugger… Oh well, nowhere better for a bump start!
I turned the bike around, freewheeled for a bit and dumped it into second.
*SCREEECH* The engine locked up, hmm… neutral freewheeling for me I guess!

I rolled my way back down the mountain-side and into a garage, and after desperately kicking my starter motor, parked up and hitched a lift back to my campsite for my tools with a passing biker, +1 for the universal clan!
After picking up my tools I managed to catch the worlds most convoluted bus back to my bike, it took an hour to go from point A to point B, which were seperated by 5km of alpine road.
Eventually getting to my destination, I pulled apart my starter…

Erm… I’m not sure about you, but I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that…

A shot of the outer casing.

Quite how the fuck that happened I haven’t the foggiest, oh well… quick call to BMW tomorrow for a new starter motor I guess!
Looks like I’ll be stuck in the awful awful Alps for a few days… Oh no!
*cracks open a beer*
Ciao!

Starter.

June 18, 2008 at 2:26 pm | Bike, Trip | 1 comment

Aaah, a beautiful day at last, sunny after many days of rain and dark skies, a good omen!
I do my daily excercises and waddle down to the local internet cafe to check the online tracking my starter motor.
Status: Out for Delivery
Fuck yeah! About time, it should have arrived days ago, but yours truly typed a 5 instead of a 6 in the postcode of the campsite he’s staying at while ordering the new starter motor, and this delayed matters somewhat.
I buy my measely €4 worth of groceries and try to force myself not to run back to the camp site, instead maintaining an easy saunter.

“Hi.. Any post?”
“Ah! Yes!”
Woohoo! I run over to my bike and tear off my old starter motor and oh-so-carefully fit the new one.
Right, moment of truth… Key in, turned…
*Pushes start button*
*click*
AAAGH.. Bugger… Oh well, it’s probably just a flat battery.
So I wheel the bike over to the start of the hill that leads conveniently into the campsite and push the blasted thing up it.
Sweating profusely I get to the top, wheel it round, leap on and whoosh, starts first time!
I sit it by the side of my tent and give it a bit of time to charge up the battery.

Flicking through the Oddyssey I decide it’s probably best if the revs are above idle, and grab my mole wrench to jury-rig the throttle open.
I pull back the throttle *PHUT WHIRR BANG*, a huge black cloud of smoke issues forth from the exhaust and the bike stalls.
“Hmm.. that’s not cool”
I tentatively try the start button again, still clicking.
“45 minutes was enough to charge it anyway I’d have thought… must be the relay..”

Where was that relay again?
In the process of wrecking the bike I discover that the airbox had a certain amount of oil in it, a gobbet of which probably got sucked in and caused the earlier stall, apparently this can be due to overfilling the oil (which I may well have done).
I eventually pull out what I assume to be the relay, as it’s situated between the battery positive and the starter.
Proudly I present my trophy to the local mechanic who sets about it with a battery and a multimeter.
“Si, working”
Eh? So wtf is wrong?
I retire to the internet cafe and learn a number of things.
1) I just tested the solenoid
2) The location of the relay
3) 45 minutes at idle probably isn’t enough to recharge the battery.

So once I leave this internet Cafe I need to get back to the bike, reassemble it, bump start it again and leave it running for a few hours.
Fingers crossed eh?

Happy Birthday to me!

June 20, 2008 at 4:51 pm | Bike, Trip | 2 comments

Yup, highly egocentric this post, for today I am 22, the first “uncool” birthday! Next stop 30!
My attempts to repair my bike myself have been utterly thwarted.
A full charge and even a jump start were insufficient to get it moving, though a bump start worked no problem.

A few days ago I had an amazing stroke of luck.
Quite out of the blue a chap called Guido messaged me on CouchSurfing.com and offered me a place to stay if I was in the area, and where should his area be but 15 miles down the road!
I jumped at the chance, and despite my crippled bike, I pushed it painfully slowly up a hill and bump started it down, hastily packed my gear onto it and set off for Salo, praying it wouldn’t stall.

Stall? No, it belched black smoke and died.
I was left to walk the 8km on foot in 30 degree sun and full leathers to the nearest bus station to complete my journey.

Given time to mull my situation over, I decided I’d had enough.
My bike has been held together with bootlaces, luck and duct tape for too long, it’s time to get my issues sorted once and for all.
So I’m getting BMW to sort out everything, fork seals, black smoke, all the little niggles that have been bugging me and then some.

Unfortunately after ringing up the nearest BMW Motorrad (which was pleasingly close by) it turns out that all my local BMWs are booked up years in advance.
So where shall I take it?
Germany!
I’ve pre booked a rental van and I’m taking it to Munich on Tuesday.
In return I’m getting a courtesy bike which I’m going to ride around with great pleasure (it’ll be nice not to have to worry about my bike falling apart for a change!)

The above solution represents a days work, head bashing, bad translation and frustration that I won’t bore you with, so back to last night!

Once I’d arrived at the bus station I discovered the next bus wasn’t until 2 hours after I’d agreed to meet my host for the evening.
A quick email to warn him and hope he didn’t mind and I sat down to wait.

After the picturesque bus ride down the west side of the lake I turned up in Salo and headed for Guido’s house.
Amazingly it was pretty easy to find, I’d been geared up for wandering the streets of Salo for hours and forlornly ringing him at 10pm asking how to find him!
I rang on the door, waited… Rang a second time… No answer.
Err.. fuck…
As I hung about the gate not really knowing what to do a lady and her son approached the gate.
“Ciao”
“Ciao!”
“You… are waiting for Guido?” (not goddo)
“Si!… Err.. Dove?”
“I don’t know, but would you like to wait in my house?”
“That would be great, thank you so much!”

I didn’t stay long in her house, just enough time for a shower in fact (which I was in very obvious need of and was offered as soon as I stepped over the threshold), before Guido turned up with his other guests.
“Sam! Hello! We have been waiting for you at the bus stop!”
“Really? I’m so sorry, I must have missed you!”
“No matter, let’s go to mine and eat!”

Some time, some carbonora and some red wine later we went strolling along the sea front under the light of a full yellow moon and an artfully lit boardwalk over the crystal clear waters of the lake, beneath which you could see salmon flitting in shoals of untold magnitude.
Guido gave me and the couple staying with him the historical background of Salo and treated us to ice cream from the much touted local gelato joint.

And the next day? Well, although it’s been my birthday, not much of note has happened, so… Though I should like to leave you with some photos, I decided not to lug my DSLR from my bike, so I shall have to merely bid you Arrivederci for the moment!

I caught a break!

June 28, 2008 at 2:44 pm | Trip | 7 comments

Steering wheel, check; brake, clutch, accelerator, check; gearstick… on the wrong side but, check!
Pre-flight checks done I started the engine and cautiously eased the rental van that was to transport my bike to BMW Munich for repair out of the forecourt.
*CRUNCH*
Shit… Within 30 seconds of renting it I’d twatted the van into the post in full view of the guy who I was renting it from
To the sound of screeching metal and paint I reversed the van off the post and sheepishly drove off.
A few miles down the road I parked the van in front of my stricken bike and set about loading it.
Yes, well… Loading a 200kg bike single handed into a van 3 feet off the ground is somewhat difficult, and after abandoning a rather lame attempt at a pulley system I hailed I passing German holidayer who was more than glad to give me a hand.

Bike secured I headed for Munich.
During the 4 hour journey I discovered two things..
1) Driving a van for the first time through three different countries with the steering wheel on the wrong side after you’ve not driven anything with four wheels for half a year is SCARY.
2) Borders in Europe are amazingly fluid, the only way I knew I was in Austria was from the signs demanding I buy an “Obligatory toll sticker”.

I arrived in Munich at 5:00, somewhat later than I’d hoped despite ragging it down the autobahns, all that I had to do was find a petrol station and buy a map.
This proved somewhat more troublesome than I’d envisaged, and half an hour later I was wading my way through rush hour traffic when finally I spotted one.
Grabbing hold of the first map I could find I handed my prize to the cashier who asked in admirable English “Do you need directions?”.
Having been given the worlds best directions (concise and accurate, holy shit!) I arrived at BMW… HQ…
A towering office block with BMW in 20 foot high writing was an impressive site, but nary a mechanic to be found, I’d been sent to the wrong place!
Tearing the map in my haste to open it I traced my finger over my route and was off again.
5:45, only fifteen minutes to get there!
Even though Munich was a breeze to navigate in comparison to the likes of Rome it was still 6:15 by the time I got to the 3 storey mega-garage that was BMW Motorrad Munchen.
They were still open! “Yes sir, we close at 6:30″ I was informed to my delight by the receptionist.
I managed to locate Fred, the friendly service guy with whom I’d arranged this rendezvous in impeccable English only a few days before; and half an hour later I had given him a full list of all the problems my bike had and he’d given me a brand spanking new G650X with 150km on the clock!

An uneventful ride back to Italy and an uncomfortable nights sleep in the van later, I shamefacedly returned the van to the autonoleggio.
The proprietor of the establishment walked carefully round the van inspecting for damage and stopped at the dent he’d witnessed yesterday.
“This. I say nothing”
“Sorry?”
“About this dent, I say nothing, is no problem.”
Phew! Am I lucky or what?
He even helped me unload the new bike from the van!

New bike loaded up I headed off for Switzerland!
Oh, my, GOD the Alps are beautiful!

One particular pass was especially amazing, and something of a biker meeting point!
I took the opportunity to throw some snowballs and fill my water bottles up from the cascading waterfalls of ice cold snowmelt that dotted the landscape.

The roads through the alps were as a slalom, I was grinning from ear to ear with glee as I leant from one side to the other flying round bends and overtaking with impunity, ridding the bike of what slim chickenstrips it had accrued in its short life.

Entering Switzerland I came upon a checkpoint, but was swiftly waved through without even a second glance, big difference not being in the EU makes so far!
Switzerland was more of the same beautiful roads, and by this point I’d got tired of taking photos and was simply bombing along having the time of my life chasing Porsches and Hayabusas.
Little did I know my timing enjoying these tarmac masterpieces of flowing artistry was shortly numbered.

I entered the umpteenth hairpin I’d encountered that day with confidence, “Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this!” I thought to myself, smirking at the prospect of another dose of an adrenaline, g-force sandwich.
“Hmm, overcooked this a little”, my hand went for the front brake.
*CRACK*
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck” I thought to myself as I lay in the middle of the road, my foot trapped underneath my still running motorcyle.
I struggled desperately to free myself, visions of artics bearing down on me racing through my mind, adrenaline blinding me to the pain I was causing.
After what seemed like an eternity I wrenched myself free and saw a line of cars had stopped and people were rushing to my aid.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes! I’m fine!”
I tried to stand up.
I decided lying in the road for a little while seemed like a nice idea.

After I’d struggled to my feet and the passers by had moved my bike out of the way, I sat down on the grass verge to recover.
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yes, my foot’s a bit bruised, but I’ll be fine in half an hour or so.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?”
“Nah, I’m fine, thank you very much for your help!”
I sat in the sun nursing my foot for an hour before trying to put weight on it again.
Yeah.. not going to be riding my bike today.
I flagged down a passing troupe of bikers who were a mix of American and Swiss and after explaining what happened, asked if they knew of a cheap place to stay nearby.
“Dude, go to the fucking hospital, I’ve had a few accidents myself, you need to get it checked out”
Secretly grateful despite my protests I agreed, as despite the lack of pain I feared my toes were broken.
By this point a pick up had stopped to see what the fuss was about and I gratefully accepted their offer of a lift to the hospital, as I had not been looking forward to riding pillion with my foot!

In a matter of minutes I was being taken care of by the best healthcare in the world.
The doctor informed me that I’d broken the small bone in my heel that ran up the back of my leg and I would need surgery straight away.
Within an hour I was transferred to a bigger hospital and was sitting on a gurney having a local anaesthetic injected into my back.
“You’re making us all miss the Germany Vs Turkey game you know!” My anaesthetist cheerily rebuked me.
“Don’t worry,” she continued, “This op is very common amongst skiiers as well, we do it all the time, it will be very quick!”
And she was right, though that’s not to say that the sensation of someone drilling woodscrews into your leg with a black and decker isn’t somewhat disconcerting…

I spent the night in a private ward and in the morning was cheered to be transferred to a communal ward that was 75% bikers!

During the first day I had time to mull my situation over.
I realised my most pressing concern was securing BMWs bike, as I’d left it by the side of the road for any tom, dick or harry to bundle into a passing van and make off with.
At this point, Misha and Mattias rode in like knights in shining armour wading into the thick of a melee to turn the tide of a losing battle.

Words cannot express how grateful I am to these two doctors who went so far above and beyond the call of duty.
The drove to where I’d had my accident (a good 45 minutes away), bump started the bike and drove it back to the hospital so it would be safe.
I still can’t believe the generosity and good will they’ve shown me, some-one they’ve only just met, nor the amount of problems they’ve saved me from!
Since then they’ve visited me repeatedly to cheer me up, laughing and joking and promising to return on Sunday night with cocktails, some relative of the Mohito that they’re horrified I’ve never heard of!
Guys, if you’re reading this, thank you again, and if there is ever any way I can repay you, don’t hesitate to ask.

So there you have it!
I’m being discharged on Tuesday with any luck, the view is great,

The food is awesome.

And I have a cool scar and a super sexy boot to show for it!