When the day is young... the alarm clock rings ... the cereals are chunked... the suitcase is locked... the tie is adjusted... the taxi awaits... the check-in queues.. the X-ray beams... the shoe is swiped ... the bum is seated in comfort by a frequent flyer card... so the rest nation awakes as I fly to some land to visit an hotel roo... a meeting room ... a dining room ... a bedroom. A Father by vocal recognition again.
A passenger not seeing the beauty, missing the childhood, expanding the waist line and one reads a Bill Bryson book about the Universe and everythong, that tells me in a comic readable fashion we are all atoms and I will probably end up divided amongst a tree, a rabbit, a sea anenome, water in a cup perhaps and my soul who sold a thousand widgits at the world best price is remembered only by a long forgotten E-mail.
Time to read a Bill Bryson travelogue methinks, for Johnny Foreigners are not welcome in all bars.
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