I know, I know, I’m not the first person to post a photo of some skyscrapers.

I’m currently everywhere and nowhere. I’m in the process of switching from New York time to UK time, and have got that horrid been-up-for-thirty-hours feeling of head chemical inbalance. My body isn’t sure where it is either, something made worse by the fact that the aspect ratio of my bedroom floor is not entirely dissimilar to that of an average block in midtown Manhattan, so my head has been doing amazing (yet pointless) feats to try and figure out which street my bed is on.
I’ll get photos and suchlike to you in good time. Until then, I’m waiting for the water to warm up. I’m also terrified that in three days’ time the mundanity of “life back home” will have completely erased this frankly life-changing experience from history. Can my newly-acquired brain fit in round here? Or will it be bonsai-kittened back into its original shape?

I’ve just endured ten minutes of pure mental torture. For some reason, the word “barcode” was thrown into the whole “machine-readable passport” thing. After a short session of high-octane Googling, I’ve established that there are clearly various definitions of the word “barcode”.
To me, the word barcode conjurs up images of vertical black lines, some thick, some thin, with a row of numbers underneath. You can imagine the terror that was oozing through my veins as I flicked through the pages of my passport looking for a motif that matches this approximate description.
To the various governments of the world, barcode means two lines of chevrons, letters and numbers.
So I do get to go to New York after all. Hurrah. Fucking phew.
You may not hear from me again until next week. Unless you are Stuart or Krissa, in which case I shall see you tomorrow evening, or you are Jodi, in which case I shall see you on Wednesday morning, or you are Kate, in which case I shall see you on Wednesday afternoon.