Which, as you may know, is the title of a surreal/patpahysical novel bu Rene Daumal that I am talking to Kit et al about adapting for some kind of performance in the shop.
I slept until around midday, then we had to go and feed a collection of sick and injured cats that live in the flat of Tracey's friend JF who is currently visiting the UK. The flat is in a beautiful old building overlooking the Corniche and more suited to glasses of cold white wine and cigarettes in long holders in a 1920s world than as a a feline refuge centre. But times change.
Back in Tracey's flat that evening we drank whisky. Lots and lots of whisky and smoked some of the local cigarette from the Bequa Valley. We chatted, Tracey revealed the bizarre and sordid side of Lancaster life that though I lived there for so many years I had never been aware except for vague veiled hints from those in the know. And gradually all sense and meaning seemed to peel away from the words until I was aware that all I was saying and listening to was pure gibberish. With this sudden revelation came the realisation that it was time to stop talking and go to sleep.