So, i am in the Viking’s huge room in his farmhouse in Wurzburg (no umlauts on his Canadian laptop, sorry). He’s currently sitting opposite me singing ‘Everybody Knows’ and playing his guitar like a crazed Roman Catholic Viking. We will go to Munich on Monday to look at a WG – so far the plan is for me to get a room in a WG and after a few months, if i’m earning and he’s still willing, we’ll try to get a 2-bedroom flat for our sorcerous orgies.

i left much behind in Ultima Thule. An unexpected evening with Juniper on Wednesday, and now, 200 km apart, i feel strangely accompanied, in her thought & desire & care. So, welcome & farewell. If you think of me, sometimes, i also consider you, as i knew your grace.

Living with the Viking is disturbing and amusing. For example, we took the bus to his farmhouse and a gang of rowdy youths sat behind us, chattering and making a hullabaloo. The Viking turned around and stared at them, then grunted.

“What are you staring at?” i asked.

“Those people behind us were making some silly noises,” he said, loudly enough for them to hear.

The gang abruptly fell silent. i stared horribly at the Viking. He stared back.

He honestly had no idea. i suggested, in a whisper, that perhaps his comment had been unwise. He failed to understand. He is the Viking. He is good at inorganic Chemistry, Roman Catholicism, and flamenco guitar, but his urban survival instincts are strangely undeveloped. For the rest of the journey i was prepared for a savage ruck with the youths but German scallies are not really comparable to the English variety. As i carefully told him, “in England they would have stabbed us both from behind.” He shrugged in a “if God wills it” way.

So, if i’m still alive next week i’ll try to secure a room in Munich, and then we’ll see what happens.