On my way

Here I am in Reykjavik with three hours to kill. Tiny airport with hardly any shops to wander around but, luckily, there’s a couple of computers that accept dollars. Had to so something to stop going crazy.

There’s a man at the other computer who keeps looking at me. He’s wearing a coat with an enormous hood that comes right over his face. In England they wouldn’t let him into a shopping mall, never mind an airport. And his hands on the keyboard have a green ti “Oh my God he’s coming over.”

He’s gone now, thank goodness. I was scared, I can tell you. The only bit of his face that I could see was his tiny red eyes from within the darkness of his hood. He didn’t say anything apart from, “Toni Hutton?” I answered to my name in the hope it would make him go away. Which it did but before he left, he gave me a card. On one side there are the name and address of Cochrech Industries in Picar and, on the other it says, “Toni, give me a call when you get back to Picar, Tristan.” There’s a telephone number underneath. Yeah, right, like I’d do that. Even if I go back to Picar, which I doubt.

Whoops, gotta go, they’re calling my flight. Talk to you soon.