Another night in The Old West Inn has been booked because Jon can’t leave until noon tomorrow at the earliest.
We went to see him again, and he’s absolutely gutted. Understandably so. He’s going to be on crutches for the duration of the trip. The whole thing is a nightmare. It’s not only Jon who’s feeling down.
It might help if he weren’t being so bloody British. The staff members are at his beck and call, willing to get him anything he asks for (it’s on his insurers), but he doesn’t want to put them out.
In happier news, I found an organic supermarket and ate a full pound of strawberries (British ones are still the best—what a shame they’re only good for two months per year). That was a lovely experience after weeks of eating shite. Delicious shite.
Colin messaged us about a classic Bullseye, with a couple of pensioners winning a holiday to Thailand and Jim Bowen telling the old boy to behave himself. He (Col) still isn’t committing to meeting us in Las Vegas.
We went back to the Shanachie. If Jon’s being British with his reluctance to get nurses to fluff his pillow and bring him some Game Fuel, then we’re nailing it with our constant trips to watering holes. We met some more great characters, including a Native American.
The weather has been incredible; just before sunset, the temperature was clocked at 17° C.
I do hope when I next write that I’m in Sausalito. Willits is cool, but it has been exhausted—and I don’t think Nick’s guts can take any more hard pear cider.
Peace and love.