I am Rain Man

Yes people. It is true. I swear it is written somewhere that Tom Cruise and I shall descend an escalator in Vegas, dressed in identical grey suits before I count the SHIT out of some cards, french my bro's girlfriend in the elevator and generally get my swerve on while secretly wishing I was up watching Wheel of Fortune with my juicebox. 

Why do I thus compare myself to old Ray Babbit? OHHHH maybe because of the tres Rain Man interaction I had with a PERFECT STRANGER at the bus stop this morning. She asked, 'Excuse me, Does this bus stop at Shoreditch (or some such place)?' MY (fucking freakish) answer? 

'THREE!' 

What a freak. 

I was just, you know, COUNTING THE AMOUNT OF BEEPS the little green man crossing sign had made at that particular moment. It really flustered me and I think it scared the shit out of her.

So to hide from my shame I am taking to the wilderness, eating roots and berries and just going where the day takes me.

Shitting hell, I love the bounder's life! The downside? The fresh air makes me eat like a horse, hence the rather uncomfy fit of my biking trousers. Does not leave much to the imagination, eh dear friends?

But lest we get carried away by the joy of the open road and the feel of taut fabric, let us turn to the eye-scalding shit storm below... aka my new besties:

Y'all jealous yet? They serenade me at night, which is lovely, but when they're done they stick around and just watch me sleep, while stroking their mad quiffs (whoa, even dirtier than I thought it would be), which frankly scares the shit out of me.

Nightmares in the making, people.