Whipping Through the Ionosphere / Larry Fagin

Hi folks. I’m here in the Seychelles. Repiblik Sesel. Only a week ago, Duke and Duchess of Cambridge stayed over. Indian Ocean is lukewarm today. The sand is hotel ashtray white. Climate is between 24° and 32° C. forever and always.  My swim trunks are faded blue dolphins cavorting on a orange ground. Feast of the Assumption is coming up, followed by the South East Monsoon Sailfish Tournament. I guess I care. I’m staying at the Berjaya on Beau Vallon Bay. Creole food is so-so. Too much coconut cream. Turtle flesh in dishes is restricted by law. Fuck that. We’re all going to die. I tried a parrot fish steak fried in butter and garlic. Piquant. Like scrambled eggs, you can’t ruin it. I’m alone here so there’s no one to block the enjoyment. Stupidly, I brought along Kilvert’s Diary, which is way too heavy, and a few WWII Penguins, Eric Ambler and such. Oops, now I’m inside my own body, very near these tiny titanium mesh tubes, which neither hinder nor help…


Email this to someoneShare on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Pin on Pinterest