Tuesday 8 July

Bateman calls for a life-planning session before a shy likeness of the world inherited from my great-great-grandfather, Clock. Of great-great sentimental value it is nevertheless difficult to scan as rather than purchasing a shiny new globe upon convincing himself that the world was less than flat (‘o’wise I were had run off t’ end o’ bloody planet taam ma baak wettled backwar’ forth, wa’ t’owt a bell’) Clock simply glued an existing chart to a lumpy old cannon ball/plum pudding (depending on which side of the family/you believe). The resulting gift-wrapped testicle works better as an abstract representation of how we all see our mortal coil most days. But eventually we succeed in locating Mauritania where Bateman informs me that despite the vast dryness of the desert, the coffee shops and the beautiful, buy-me-a-drink blue eyes of the Berber women, there is barely a snort of liquor to be found. The prospect of our traveling without a drink, in a country requiring armed escort (simply to protect me from Bateman) and where being sold into slavery can happen up to three times daily, is as appealing as peeing in a sandstorm. Or it would be if I hadn’t already exceeded the week’s grace so generously gifted to me by those who would have me rob the city’s most dangerously eccentric man.

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