Ken Stewart, Urban Guerilla and Yours Truly stalwart, is having a big birthday so I'm off to Sydney.
Up early on a Saturday morning. I could do with a couple more hours rest but that's the price I pay for loving you the way that I do.
Adelaide Airport. Under construction.
Security. No drugs, bombs or nail scissors, thanks very much.
Exit row seat - bonus. And why not? I'm six foot three. Thank you for noticing, Virgin.
An hour late out of Adelaide, 45 minutes on the tarmac in Sydney. Some kind of worldwide computer glitch. Millenium bug I reckon, just a bit late. Take your time, I can stretch my legs out and carry on reading.
Sydney airport is heaving, full of grumpy, impatient faces. Glad I'm heading in the other direction...
Train into city. Central. Banana skin on seat. People are so considerate.
Lunch. A burrito the size of a football. Pure Blonde.
Freddie Flintoff and Bill Tarmey (died this morning, RIP Jack Duckworth) autobiographies. Seven dollars well spent. Backpack now full. And heavy.
Train to Bondi Junction. A thirty minute walk through the local area. Allsorts around here. Bondi Pavilion.
Help with the party set up. Tote those tables, lift those chairs.
People filter in.
Memory Lane.
Ken is surprised. That's the thing about surprise parties...
Friends and family feel the love. Musical tributes. Ken joins me on stage - you can't keep a good man down. Folk punk is the new black.
And then, it is over. Remove posters, stack chairs, say goodbye.
A couple of hours' sleep. The morning sun hurts my gritty eyes. Airport. Fly. Finish my Wreckless Eric book. Arrive home.
www.bleakumbrella.com
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