All my dreams are on their way

The boys are in mid-air, on their way to San Francisco.

We are told they behaved impeccably on the drive and all through check-in: curious and contented in their travel box. Awww.

They will presumably be raising merry hell by now, staggering drunkenly up and down the aisles, biting charming passengers and crew alike. Mac will certainly want to fly the plane. Barry will want snacks. Everybody's snacks.

It is warm and sunny in California. Luckily, I don't care. I like grey skies and the promise of rain and sleet, oh yes I do.

I have eight more days, during which I have to do everything I'm really bad at.

Is there some particular reason why I wasn't born a cat?

And if you need a friend, I'm sailing right behind

(Also, further to my last: I just feel impelled to point out that the boys are having a far easier journey of it than I am. They've spent all week in a luxury hotel, having their every whim pampered; they were delivered to the airport in a private limousine; they are flying direct from Heathrow to San Francisco, where Karen will collect them as soon as they're through customs. They are smuggling nothing but their own sweet selves, so the formalities will be brief; and then they will have their green cards and be lawful Americans instanter. I on the other hand have to get myself to Heathrow by train and tube [oh, and the trains will be running exactly to time and there will be no problems on the tube: I have decided this] and then fly to Chicago, where I will overnight in an unluxury hotel before getting up at appalling o'clock and flying down to San Jose. Where Karen will be waiting to ferry me to my first duty, which will be to work my way back into the boys' good graces, assuming that their furry fuzzinesses can be bothered to remember me at all.)