It was low tide, high times, middle of the highway rubbish words. On the Tyne banks we waited, laying in wait almost. Cards were dealt, wine was downed in the shade of the sculptural homage to the city's industry and etcetera. Later. The evening came swiftly as L and I downed inexpensive Monday cocktails in the aftermath of a housewarming that indeed was far from tepid. Byker looks good in the half tone light of a autumnal evening. Big K razored his way through a thousand paragraphs with one very knowing glance. A twinkling presence, a good rudder between the twin engines of L and I's energies. Balance. 3 as a magic number. Night brought Bruch's symphony into my aching lugs and I traded some Ian Anderson in return. Free speech, one each. I rheuminated my way through a million lines of bullshit as I tried to bring my newly diagnosed RA into some semblance of understandable logic. Pain has no logic, nor does it discriminate. It is an equal opps employer of agony. Jimmy Macpherson in the Fleet St. bar gave me a new impetus as we negociated our way through decades of family history in about twenty minutes. Quite the lad o' pairts is Jimmy. L is a bit pissed off with my ramblings as it was our day oot. Fair enough. I said my goodbyes and off we trotted to Tokyo. If only. Nagging old memories of Gateshead erasure floats into my ethanoic cumulus and I tumble a bit as L and I try to process excess. Party goes on, 3 days now.