Considering the pouring rain that hit us uninterruptedly for the last 24 hours, I guess the crocodile either found himself a warm spot in some village pub, or the poor thing had a bad day indeed.


Searches for the crocodile continue.
Ditto the rain.

Meanwhile, I am trying to invent something to do with my friends that will come visiting these days. Because this being three days between a weekend and the Day of the Dead/Halloween/All’s Allows celebrations (potentially, nine days of vacations), the locals decided they would do absolutely nothing – no festivals, no parties, no events, museums closed, visitors are kindly invited to f*ck off.

Add to this that my house is a mess, and I will have to find a nice warm spot for me and my friends to spend our time together.
Just like the crocodile, we are exotic creatures in these hills, and there is no place for us.


So the question is – what could a group comprising four writers (one of which is a translator and another an editor, too) plus one Jack the Ripper expert do, stranded in the dark hills of Astigianistan for three days and nights, in the pouring rain?
We will come up with something, of course.
Me, I’ll bring along a camera, a pocket recorder, a deck of Tarot, a paperback, a folding umbrella and a notebook.



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