Liam has overcome the it's-a-bit-like-going-to-the-bank-and-nothing-like-how-you'd-expect-a-Visa-interview-at-an-Embassy-to-go thing, and is now ready to join me in the Land Of The Free (terms and conditions apply). Well, not actually join me in some kind of homosexual elopement situation (not that there's anything wrong with that, of course), but to join me in the situation of being an Englishman in a strange land. Unlike me, however, he will be an Englishman In New York, which may qualify him for a free copy of Sting's greatest hits. Perhaps. Although I don't think Sting was talking about Upstate New York. In fact, he wasn't talking at all. He was singing. And isn't that song supposed to be a tribute to Quentin Crisp? Hm.
Anyway, I shall be in New York myself just after Christmas, and shall be there when he arrives, which will be nice. I believe he plans to get me drunk.
As for me, I spent the early hours of this morning being poked and prodded by doctors. My arms look like they've burst their seams, with bits of cotton wool poking out all over the place. I've also been referred to both a sleep study and a sports physician, all because Meg is paranoid about my health. Oh well. At least my ego was massaged considerably by the numerous nurses who started hitting on me just because I'm English. The nurse who took my X-Rays today giggled and blushed and asked me to "say anything, just anything, I just want to hear your voice", and then promptly asked if I wanted to be introduced to her priest...
America's a funny place. I wonder if Liam is truly prepared?