Whistling songs and kissing balloons by the seaside

I awoke with a start and a sort of horrible scream squeal because Jon had fell over me. That'll teach the fucker for bagsying the only bed in the converted mansion apartments we stayed at last night.

The isle of wight is full of impossibly winding roads and the population of 140,000* are notably absent.  The suns out and were already on way to our first pier at half nine.

We've just drove passed a bus queue and been regarded with the same bemused indulgence one would give a clown child.

We should be in Brighton by the end of the day, think that's going to be a big night.

*number culled from the ferry magazine next to an advert for the garlic farm.

Sent from the future

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