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The Wrong Shade of Yellow 

    I was middle aged and homeless, soon to be penniless, and really and truly no different from that bag lady sitting on the bench over there. I couldn’t jack it in and go home, because I didn’t have a home anymore.

     The bicyle and the tent were now home. Wherever I found myself on any given night was home.  And that meant, for tonight, Genoa Piazza Principe Railway Station was home.

      I was cycling across Europe in search of Utopia, a place I believed was located somewhere in Greece. When I found it, I would start a new life there.It was my big, fat Greek midlife crisis.

     But now I was having a crisis within a crisis. What on earth had I been thinking?


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Everything will be Just Perfect!


We’d been standing in an icy wind at the gates of the cemetery for ages, waiting for the priest. He was supposed to be coming with the undertaker, and they were late. When the funeral-mobile rounded the corner, I didn’t register why there was only one person aboard. Not until the undertaker jumped out and said: “We’ve got a problem. The priest isn’t coming.”


A problem indeed. Polly’s life had now come full circle: a rollicking tragi-comedy filled with problems just like it. That truly scandalous divorce (“Middle-aged Clergyman Runs Off With Schoolgirl”)… Those ninety moves across three continents…. They were my problems too, of course….

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