Unknowns, I've been entirely remiss in accounting my adventures for your pleasure and contemplation. This tin-can line grows increasingly tinny and unsatisfying. Will have to rig up a subwoofer, I think.

Spent December in the UK: Oxford, Edinburgh, Fife, and London, got trapped in London for New Year's. It's the only big city where I've ever enjoyed New Year's—people just go to pubs and act a little silly, instead of standing out in the cold screaming and acting really silly.

To wit, this New Year's I had a surprising chat with a bloke unknown to me who mentioned that he was discouraged from playing guitar in school because of his one odd finger. No problem, said I in my cups, what about all the two fingered guitar players—what about Django Rheinhart? That sounds familiar, he said. Yes, he had just two fingers, brilliant guitarist, go for it! Maybe I will, then, thanks mate! So I did my good deed that eve’.

Also loads of chats with a couple of Irish guys who were known to someone who was known to a friend of mine. One had spent time in Boston. "Where's Charlestown?" he said, "That's proper Irish, right?" He had done some sort of working holiday there. "I came over and stayed there, met so many Irish I felt like I was in Galway still. Said I have to get out of here. Had to move to Brookline."

There was a piss-poor pool table upstairs, with a single functional cue, on which I roundly lost a game, according to my wont, while a disemployed stock futures trader bought round after round of shots, apparently having nothing good to do with his money, which shots I politely, then not-so-politely, declined. Furthermore a very loud band played in the basement, looking and sounding like late-60s holdouts—perhaps Timothy Leary was on bass, not sure.

All was festive and bright on that peculiar New Year's Eve after midnight. Where next in our adventure tale? Perhaps Grangemouth.