Its amazing the doors that open for you when you are armed with a good book, a piece of paper and a pen. Women in particular seem drawn to the artist, much moire so than a man to a female artist. I'm not sure why this should be, perhaps its a measure of sensitivity, an indication that there is a gentleness in the soul held before them.

The lead had been given, of the bohemian measure of O'Flaherties as a good introduction to Medan was as dull and as foundless as the poor chap that I'd trusted to porvide it. In fairness, a dullness in voice or opinion may mean something completley different, but when stuck in a country of which you know nothing, even less of where you actually are, the dropping feeling of what the hell do do now is hard to avoid.

So I tucked myself into the beautiful love story of Kahil Gibran and Selma, and waited out the evening crowd of ex-pats and experienced old-hands that could steer me away from the nightmare of business hotels and into the heart of the matter, the measure of the city of Medan.

They didn't come. But as one door to adventure closes so do a dozen others open, and sure enough, while a pretty young girl was staring with astonishment, not at me but at the book I was holding as she delivered another depressing and solitary beer to me, I was now trying to outwait the bucketing and smashing monsoon drool of my first Indonesian night .

'You know him too?' she asked in excellent English.

There was the door. Within minutes the splash of greed waistcoated and hatted staff were gathered telling me the do's and don't of this city of which I'd never heard of until the scant day before my birthday. Now I had long queues of promises, for both themselves and I, they shared the sacred secrets of Medan with this passing fool, gladly with each hand shook and with each wide smile shared with each and every one another.

While they argued over my welfare, Susan, I can never get used to Christian names after so long in SE Asia, begged me to furnish her with the lyrics of 'my way', why I remain unsure, but we sang the tune together awhile, it's odd, but since singing at RTB's wedding, it's as though my voice has been rediscovered, I no longer lack the sheer shame of humming, or singing a tune in front of others, the cruel put down of others back in Britain, here everyone loves anyone that tries to sing, and now I seem unstoppable. I feel sorry for those that must suffer!

And so, furnished with the next steps of my odd oddysey I once again have through providence and prophets, been shown the path that my witless destiny might tread. Serendipity is once more my companion, and I strangely am begining to feel more comfortable with her whimsical measure.

Few things on my journey have gone to plan, and indeed, there is no longer any plan at all save a vague idea of direction. This seems to upset so many save I. Two days ago I thought of heading for Borneo, Ptool, my Laos girlfriend is upset that I am not back in Bangkok, and instead I find myself in Indonesia, without so much as a map, let alone an itinery and little idea of where I'm heading except for the words Orang-Utan and Bukit-Lawang. It's a long story, but it makes sense to me. I think. This really perplexes the hucksters, the tour operators, those that want to know where you'll be and when. There aren't many people that seem to undersand that a shrug of the shoulders means that you'll figure out what you want to do tomorrow, well, tomorrow. If then. May'be the day after, or if you're feeling particularly comfortable, lazy or weary from the road, may'be next week.

Some people actually get physically annoyed with you. They don't seem to undersand that you've left the planet of cause and effect, of rigid, boring, be here now, and have chosen instead to swill around in the trough of happenchance like a hugely contented pig. They seem suddenly odd characters, people obsessed with the future, how will the bills be paid, where will you be this time tomorrow at exactly half-past ten thirty two and five seconds tick, tick tock.

Who knows?

If I don't know myself, how on earth can they expect me to know where I'll be when they want to know? Ah, they nod in sage desperation, it's his mid-life crisis. That's what its all about. Never mind that I've slept with more beautiful women in ten months than I did in ten years, seen things I never could have expected to see, heard things I'd never heard before, and understood the utter strangeness of being in a way more profoundly than I ever could have considered before I stepped a foot out the door on the unseen road that leads to everywhere and everywhen in every splintering direction.

Today I am alive, tomorrow I may die. I may one day be imprisoned by a feeble decay, if I survive that long, but in the last ten months I have lived ten thousand years, and though my body and circumstance may trap me to a drooling beggar, yet in my dotage, my mind will still swoop and soar and sail in memory of these days in the meadows of the sun.

I live, therefore I am. Anything else a detail.

yechydda,