I feel about as comfortable as Wallace did when his cry to freeeeeedom ripped through the air, every bone and muscle in his body also torn apart. Maybe that's the price to pay for freedom; you always have to feel a little torn, a little disemboweled, a little frazzled when change is imposed upon you, when you are set free from the cage. Today I am travelling back home from London after a seminal meeting that has released me to a land that does not know of meetings, offices, air miles, small-minded middle-managers, back-stabbers, blamestorming, touching base, blue-sky thinking and all that pompous, self-righteous crap. The sky is the customary British Steel Gray set upon a blanket of greenery as my thoughts lie scattered like worried sheep upon sunset.
Either way, it's finally over, it's over, it's over, it's over and despite the stinging tears, it feels really good. And now I feel like breaking into song; like Michael Caine in Little Voice and then like Michael Bublé in Feeling Good.