I am not tired. I went beyond tired about four hours ago, on the other side of the English Channel and 200 miles away. I am however home. My motorcycle is also home and is shiny-side up. Strictly, most of my motorcycle is home — the clutch went functionally AWOL somewhere mid-Normandy. That was interesting, and bloody ungrateful of it — I’d spent the weekend praising its 15,000 mile reliability to the skies — the one other Ducati on the trip having come home on a trailer.
So my hall now contains a strewn trail of oversuit, leathers, gloves, boots, rucksack and helmet, the trail leading directly to the wine cupboard. All bar the wine are steaming gently as the microclimate of a long, damp ride slowly clears itself. The cats have sensitive noses. They look appalled.

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