2 + 1 = 3


If jet lag means an attention span of even less than 0.42 seconds, feeling hungry but not being able to eat, and having the feeling that someone put the wrong head on your body, then I am in the middle of one right now.

Thoughts are drawn to moments of my trip in New York, ending in nodding my head, or at least the one attached to my body, in disbelief because I still can’t believe it happened. Then comes the feeling that no one ever really will understand what a big thing it was for me, and after that the thought that I might have to consider to get a life, stop talking to and living with a pirate and stop drawing silly drawings.

“I don’t think so” the pirate says quite determined. “You can’t just put us on the street like that”.
“Yes, us.”
“Us. Since when do you address yourself in plural, as if you were royal?”
“I am not. We got a new lodger. I think you’ll like him.”
“Oh really.”
“Yes. I know your taste of men. Wait till you hear his voice”.

What can I say.
He, the new one, was so tired of hanging above Regent Street, that he asked if he could stay with us for a while.
“As long as you like” I said. I mean look at him, who would be able to say no to someone like that.

And so we were three.

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