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New York. New York. So good it’s not an acronym.

15th September 2017

Yesterday in the car as we approach NY, G says, ‘Got your passport, haven’t you Mo?’ It wasn’t a question. Bollocks. No. I’ve not. I left it with my money and iPad in the room safe in Boston. I’m such an arsehole. Neither she nor Tim tried to disabuse me of that notion. That was another blessing of a task for them when they least expected it.

We arrived at the hotel half hour before I was due to meet Steve and Robin. Dumped my gear and waited in the lobby. Tardy shits turned up an hour late. I could have washed my smalls after all.

We went to an eatery that Steve had pinpointed where we were treated to mild distain. A full plate of it to be fair. My meatballs were in a burnt tomato sauce. Little did they know I love burnt tomatoes, so I won that face off.

I managed not to get lairy and talk too much on Gin Petrol and was back in my room before 8. Washed some clothes in the bath and set about culling my 2 cases into one. It’s too much for me to drag about and G goes back to England on Saturday, so she can take one back for me. I will have to send back my drawing stuff too. One luxury too many for my lilliput luggage.

I watched some adverts that told me which medicines might make me both better and disabled and then fell asleep.

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