Postcards from a small island
When we were working out what benefits the funders of our post-modern grand vitesse could have we were a bit stuck — what could people get tangibly from us ragged-arsedly pootling round the coast? Yes this blog, but to be frank it’ll be bitty: we’re saving the real good stuff for the book.
So, Danny said: “what about postcards? We could send one from each pier”. And for two ponies that’s what you could have got. We didn’t think anyone would though. Unfortunately seven or so of you did, which has just resulted in me giving the woman in Falmouth Post Office a counting-headache by asking for 392 second class stamps. And we’ve got writer’s cramp from knocking out 35 postcards in quick sucession.
Falmouth is quite nice, in a sort of touristy-wants to be Newquay but actually has a Fat Willie’s Surf Shack in it way.
There are also plenty of US Navy wandering the streets. I have resisted the tempation to sing songs from On The Town at them—so far.
If I end up in Gitmo, you’ll know it was Frank, Gene and the other one to blame.