I read today that a longstanding member of Tararua Tramping Club (the one I was about to join) fell to his death on New Year's Day while on a solo tramp in the South Island. It must be very sad news for everyone at the club and it goes to show that there's an element of risk no matter how experienced you are. I'm about to email the woman from the autism group; I'm sure she would have known him. He sounded like a kind, easy-going bloke.
I had an unusual dream (or possibly a nightmare) about my flat. I had four dogs to contend with for a start. Then I wanted to advertise for a flatmate but somebody put up an ad for me, stating that only actuaries need apply. I'd rather have the dogs.
Mum wrapped up some ham to take back with me. Every Christmas and New Year it's the same story. Ham and salad one night, ham and potatoes the next, ham and ham the night after. Not that I mind particularly.
I finished Stephen Fry's autobiography in time to give it to Dad before I hopped on the plane. He really is an amazing man. The mind boggles as to how he managed to pack so much into his twenties. How I wish I had a quarter of his talent with words. He left his life story tantalisingly poised on the subject of his cocaine addiction, which he says will require another book.