As I start to write this, it is 10:30 in the morning. In twenty-four hours I'll be waiting to board my flight (a whole two-hour journey) to London out of Bologna.

My bags are almost completely packed (just a few items to go).

I've read and re-read my excerpts for the readings until I'm nearly sick of seeing 'em.

I've decided on my outifits for the launch and the readings. (Dressy, not fussy; quite "me", really.)

When Alle and I arrive in London, we'll find my mother and my friend who are waiting for us there (their flight gets in earlier), and we'll get them to the hotel. We'll rest, have dinner, and then?

My nerves will start kicking in and I'll become a chattering, blithering idiot, most likely. LOL! Not that anyone can tell the difference, I reckon.

No, I'm sure we'll have a quick toddle around our neighborhood before we retire to our rooms, chat and then get some rest. Thursday morning, to one degree or another, my London adventure will begin. I hope things go smoothly, and that I don't actually make a fool of myself in front of anyone.

To quote the Grateful Dead (and when you think London, don't you just think of Jerry and the gang?) "What a long, strange trip it's been..." I mean, I started out writing this little short story which I initially meant to be just for me and mine, and instead it became something much, much bigger - both literally and figuratively.

In the end, a story about Bologna is taking me to London, and then back home again where the real world will intrude once more - and regularly at that. I'll have to look on the next ten days as something out of the norm, and cross my fingers and hope and wish and pray that all goes as well as it can.

And then I'll have to knuckle down and get to writing again. I want to see where the next story takes me.