There’s been a terrible mistake. For some reason that escapes me, I appear to be in Iceland.
I remember saying to my mad mate Roger that I would go if he invited his beautiful wife Izabella, then forgot about it. Apparently the plan didn’t end there, and now I’m in Reykjavic, getting ready to search for the Aurora Borealis (currently at a twelve-year high) and go out onto a glacier, or something. Naturally I have failed to pack properly, and have with me an assortment of T-shirts and flimsy outfits that the locals will laugh at as they toddle past in their puffa-jackets and funny hats.
What made me think it was a good idea to go from just off the coast of South America to somewhere near the top of the world, via London, with the wrong clothes, in February? I’m a novelist, not an International Man of Mystery, for God’s sake! I don’t even smoke!
I’ll report what I find here, then get back in a few days to crack on with Bryant & May, I promise. But I’m not eating whale or reindeer, I promise.