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An albatross swan song – Verse 2: Postcards

An albatross swan song – Verse 2: Postcards

Postcard One: Arriving at 39 degrees north, 116, degrees west, no east (almost)



Sunrise at the above coordinates, sort off.

The trip is going swimmingly (thanks, Richard Tonkin and the skies have been clear, just wait and see, Alan Curran); I caught and soared the Tweed Head Thermal (express but economy class) all the way to that warm bit in the middle. Made my connection (just in time) with the PNG cross winds then snoozed peacefully (10mgs did the trick – ta Madam Morpheus) all the way to the above.

Problem is: I had mapped out a mental course to the bloody airport, not a bloody unrecognisable Beijing high street. Bloody dialectics, gets me every time I pass that warm bit in the middle. Everything is arse about. The stars and moon and sometimes the bloody clouds – I hope this isn’t a bad omen.

Postcard Two: The Art of Flight and other ARTS.



After circling the city for a few hours to get my bearings, and with infinite class Audrey prepares to do a perfect (almost) two point landing at 39 degrees north, 116, degrees west, no east, but not before dropping off a message of good luck on HQ.

Oh, and I also left a note with the lucky goo (of a fine and consistent texture, I might add) stating this generous deed was delivered with love and affection – signed Eliot Ramsay; along with links to all his Webdiary posts relating to pinkos and such (hehe).

BTW, I was terribly chuffed when greeted with such a wonderfully clear sky (there ya go Alan). It was most thoughtful of the locals to make the effort don’t you think – and especially for me; a good omen I hope.

Postcard Three: Man on a Mitty



This is the humanite incarnation of Justin (Audrey Albatross) Obodie (Mitty on a mission) taken last week standing outside that HQ ELIOT RAMSAY SHIT ON.

JO actually fronted up at HQ with all good intention and superlatively prepared to discuss the finer points of dialectical materialism, negation, negation squared, negation cubed then divided by Pi while being micro-waved then eaten with live lobster (yum – I hope Jenny Hume hasn’t read this and apologies to the ghost of Douglas Adams), then tested and re-tested by an abacus that could do infinite calculus in 27 million colours – or when all else fails, plus or minus 42 (as the case may be) seems to do the trick.

BUT – the guys at HQ told me to piss off. “Haven’t you heard we are all capitalists now, and bloody good ones at that – go see that Kim guy – now piss off you annoying little shit.” So I did, but not before being called back and interrogated about possibly knowing the whereabouts of a gentleman by the name of “Errorit Wamsay”.

Apparently they had followed all those links to Webdiary and thought “Wamsay” was pretty cool, “spot on” in fact, and they just loved his dialectical “iwony” – in fact he had been cordially invited to share Dapto Duck over gallons of Yanjing beer and rice wine with The WHO (I think that’s what he said) – damn!! OUCH!!!!

I must admit on being confronted with such I felt myself going very red indeed. The “comrades” laughed out loud and called me a lobster or something, then said I “should go and visit Mr M across The Square. He’s looking somewhat pale these days and would probably have far more to say on the subject, lots more in fact.”

Postcard Four: Watching the detectives – then freaking out.



I decided to go and have it out with Mr M and waddled off in the general direction of the mausoleum. But all of a sudden I got a bloody great big chill down me back and my feathers stood on end. It was hard to be sure whether it is the poor dead dear lying in that somewhat solemn and stately design or the cop car just behind me.

Anyway I thought it prudent if I hurriedly disposed of my back up stash of fine white powder. Burp.

Suddenly I was not in the mood to discuss such an intricate and complex subject with a dead icon, so I got the hell out of The Square – but not before abacussing under my left, no, right wing.

Anyway, good news friends and roamers, Pumpkin just called me on my mobile thingy to inform me she’s got a tip (I think that’s what she said), a tip that could lead us into dark and mysterious places (mmmmmmm)– in our search for the Ghost with no name/s.

Arriving soon (I hope): Lost in translation – sort off – or a spooky night with Pumpkin in old Shanghai (you will get to see us in bed) plus Mona Loser’s house of ghosts.

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