I want to write, but worrying incessantly and making my self crazy is much more convenient.

Work has been a fucking bear and a half. Not the kind of bear of which my sweet boy-o has suddenly become enamored. Well, it ain’t bears per se, it’s nature shows on 47 inches of high definition broadcast.

He don’t need to go to Alaska, he can see more details on the television box.

Anyway, work has sucked me dry with worry and the cliched “cat herding.” I bailed for a vacation just in time to miss chapter two of finalizing a strategic plan. I guess the flattering thing to my hand-wringing overwork is three different folks are each covering a part of what I’ve been up to and a whole other chunk is waiting until I get back.

I’m a workhorse, I am. Slow, plodding and a bit dim but steady or something.

I haven’t wanted a vacation quite so much in quite some time. I’m looking forward to the 13 or 14 hours or so it will take me to get to Scottish shores. Mostly, I’m looking forward to the utter anonymity, the aloneness, the journey in which not one single soul will know me or need speak to me for hour after blissful hour.

I’ll have reading, writing and an array of iPod assisted sound, music, podcast, audiobooks and videos to keep me going.

Stop the world, I’ll be freely circling it. Quietly.

‘Course, I’ll miss M. and be sending pictures home to him and looking at his visage courtesy of the iPhone photo gallery.

Looks like the Edinburgh adventure will be thoroughly weblogged. I, as fucking always, will have my trusty MacBook under my arm and Dot apparently got her laptop working over the last day or so.

Stay tuned. Sleep I must now.

And, I must muse about the fact that I never imagined myself in one of them there relationships where I can head out on vaca and come back to a home. Maybe part of the journey is the return.

Or something else so fucking corny I want to stab myself and lap up the treacle released with my life spirit.