I am in a shop. In the freezer is a Columbian policeman’s hat. It’s about £12. I try it on. It changes into a metal ovoid helmet, covering my face. Like something a bomb disposal guy may wear. I look out through a small window, like a misplaced urethra, partially covered with hessian cloth. Other customers ask what I need it for. I suggest bird watching, I know what they are thinking, it’s a very Freudian dream.
I am traveling north, undulating my feet as if propelled sideways by an invisible snakeboard. On the road, slogans, spaced out, one word at a time, so drivers can read their situationist message.
I am planning to travel to Newcastle, catch a plane to Japan, only a few miles away, and travel north to south in Japan to experience regional differences for myself.
In a small town high street, a man approaches and gives me two Tibetan singing bowls. I thank him, and explain that people have been giving to me since I started this journey. He walks with me a while, and we discuss how childhood memories are not of the things parents buy us, but of things unique to our experience, late summer light dappled by leaves on a woodchip wall, a bed transformed into a car by imagination, a dinosaur made with love.