I made it back from Poland in one piece. Sorry, I’m jumping the gun; I made it out there in the first place. For in my previous column, I left you on a cliffhanger: I couldn’t find my passport. But I did find it, of course, in the drawer where I Keep My Passport Specially. I just hadn’t looked hard enough.
I wonder why. When I accepted the commission – to go to Lower Silesia, from Stansted, at stupid o’clock in the morning, to then get on a modified bicycle and cycle in a somewhat hilly region called, as I came to learn, “The Land of Extinct Volcanoes”, for no money bar expenses – I must have been very bored indeed, and possibly on a death wish. The closer I got to the departure date, the more I felt a sense of impending doom. It seemed a toss-up whether I would die from a heart attack or being run over. At the very least I would fall off the bicycle and break my leg. So when I couldn’t find my passport I felt a kind of relief: ah well, I won’t be able to go, and that’s the end of that.
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