Far, far away

I don't remember much about the first time I went tripping on acid - it ended up being a very messy, incredibly confusing and slightly enlightening night - but I still vividly remember freaking out in the bathroom at the KFC in Timaru.

I was staring in the mirror, trying to get a grip on things, and trying to deal with the fact that I was so very, very, very far away from home, and I had no idea how to get there, and my head was spinning and I had to get out of there, but it was such a huge distance to get home, and I was stuck.

I wasn't, of course - my mate Simon was driving us around and could take me home at any point. Also, crucially, I was actually only about 17 kilometres away from home, which wasn't very far at all.

Last year, while visiting Iceland with the lovely wife, we drove up to one of the most northern points of the island, and before we turned around and headed back to Reykjavik, I made us stop for a photo because that was, as far as I could figure, the furthest away I would ever get from home.

This time, I really was several thousand kilometres - and at least three plane rides - away from home, so this was a lot further than the local KFC. If we went any farther north, we would start coming around the other side, so without actually going off into space, this was as far as I was ever going to get.

I wasn't tripping this time, so there wasn't anything to panic about, although I almost got the rental car stuck in the Icelandic sand getting the hell out of there.

We're heading off on another trip at the end of this week, right around the world, but mainly in the Scandinavian countries, because they're so fucking pretty. While I still get a day to check out the finest book and comic shops in London, most of the time I won't be speaking the same language.

I'm going far, far away again. 

The Tearoom will remain open while we're away, but things are going to get tediously and embarrassingly confessional for the next month. Like, really fucking dorky. You have been warned.