Tuesday 4 March

I am flying over the rooftops of Krakow, astride the biggest pigeon in the world. Early spring sunshine exposes the rainbow undercoat to the battleship grey of his feathery carriage as we arc down into the square. As I shift perspective I see that what I had considered scaffolding surrounding an old steeple is in fact the superstructure supporting Bateman’s ongoing hair redevelopment. We zoom in to give him a fright; he backs off and hurls a stale roll at us. It is dodged with ease – the pigeon I am riding has after all seen far more sophisticated attempts on his life, being the reincarnation of the former king, Kazimierz III. We fly on to the Jewish district that bears his name; a name that represents the religious and ethnological tolerance that succeeding centuries have since tried to crush. He is a very clean pigeon. The king sets me down gently. I offer him a small shot of wodka. He shakes his smooth, intelligent head slowly but firmly.

Sanchez reports a mistranslation (from pigeon English to pidgin Polish and back) of yesterday’s Watts-Amis message. Alas, poor Cleggy: the child is of the other species. I exchange the light saber for a medieval chastity belt, which will coincidentally serve the same purpose as the scrapes upon my forehead and nose. A painful glance in the looking glass this morning reveals not my previously well-formed skull but a wandering globe representing this scarred and scabby world, albeit with scant accuracy (my Americas look more like Denmark) and little educational value (beyond scaring small children screaming from the demon drink). I fear my chances of finding a wife out here are much reduced.