Dear Charlie,

When I'm old and gone weird I'll collect swords. By
then of course I'll have a study with things under
jars and a cocktail cabinet inside a giant globe. I'll spin
and slap it and that’s where we'll fly the airship next. Your liberal
scruples over my Gurkha batman will vanish as he whisks our
eggs over the Himalayas. Down en Indochine exotic chicks with long long eyes
will produce Mausers from about their luscious
persons and regretfully attempt to murder us. We'll dig it and
skip the country. Any country. Over the Sea of the Celebes the sky will
roar white noise of starlight and we'll be drunk, picking out
sails below, talking about great runs we had: that one all around Oxford
before I left for the Orient. It'll be quite a reach, the Pacific at last,
especially after that bad crossing of the Tasman, but we'll know Hawaii is worth the try and by then of course we won't value our skins
so much as the rush. Point the nose at that bar of cloud on the horizon. Ben
Ben Ben I can hear you saying, what do you mean when, gone? You're
weird enough already. Ok Charlie but can't you hear the wind singing in the shrouds?

We're going to make that trip Charlie.

Mark my words,

Ben