However if I got the chance to now, the boat would glide up that golden sand, and I’d look up to the top of that magical island, golden British sunshine blinding me, and think…fuck…how on earth will I drap myself up there? Is there enough heather here to make a soft bed for my big fat arse? Did Julian pack enough tinned tongue sandwiches? Will the hard boiled eggs taste too eggy? 

It’s 38 weeks today until I fly back to the UK for a visit. It’s 37 weeks and 6 days will I wanted to hold the event that I’ve been waiting for for years. And I’m shit scared. So here’s another public blog to bore you all to tears…

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