I don’t see why I’m not in Africa. I ought to be in Africa. I planned to be in Africa. I really meant to be in Africa.
But I’m not.
Not this year.
The story is too dull to tell, but the point is that I really haven’t been anywhere far far away for months and everyone in this house is getting itchy feet.
Morocco was supposed to be next on the list, after we’d been to southern Africa. We’ve bought lots of books about it, but not the tickets.
I keep meaning to get to Uzbekistan too. I have wanted to stand in the Registan like Robert Byron for as long as I can remember. The turquoise tiles. The dry hills. The textiles and mud walls and mutton stew.
I have to go to London at some point this year for research purposes. It’s a very good idea, I’ve found, to set one’s books in distant places, because then you have to go do the research in person. And really, while you’re in London, you may as well travel around and look at some gardens and boats and castles and swords. Maybe buy a book or two. That kind of thing.
And then again, there’s not much point going all that way and not going to Ireland as well. Or Wales. Or both.
The next book is, very cleverly I think, set in Amsterdam, Venice and Seville.
But then again I still haven’t been to Russia. Or Portugal.
Or Broome.
Or …