Tuesday 10 July 2007

Wet Feet

24 hours - jetlag a very real experience. It reminds me of those vacations where you swing from city to city to get the most out of your time, but in reality you're swimming in this grey fug of dulled perceptions. You flounder along suffering the vague resentment that the morbid hand of an earlier planning indiscretion is propelling you along like a bouncers grip on your belthooks.

For those of you inexperienced with this feeling, try getting on stage with the gals at Stringfellows. Having hauled you out of the limelight these bastards grip the back of your trousers so tightly as to deliver a semi-wedgie. You tippy-toe (to conserve your manhood) at considerable pace under the green exit signs looking like a ballet dancer on a cross channel ferry in January, and that friendly paw supports you all the way... Bad Planning.

This, naturally, isn't Bad Planning. It is a fab idea, but hey, I've crossed time zones, didn't sleep for two days, and now my body's so confused I slept all evening and I'm up all night. A bit like a gentleman friend on the Trans Siberian Express.

I despise those people who 'don't suffer jetlag'. I remember boys' own stories about paratroopers who due to their experience and general manliness can drop off to sleep on demand to retain their energy for the combat ahead. To say thay you don't suffer jetlag is to say that you're kinda square-jawed and muscular, and you're gonna get the chicks. It's embarassing and dated, so terribly 70s. Indulge, I say. Glory in your temporal porridge. Create like a hyperactive 4 year old in this mudbox of modern invention!

So now it's 3.11am. How depressing.

I know you want to know what I'm doing, and where I'm staying. But all in due course, all in due course. For now, back to the movies on demand and the warm golden welcome of equatorial dawn...