While working on The Rock, I had been sharing a room with Illa, a German-born psychic on the tour. She has many interesting stories about being bombed out of her house in war-time Germany to tell, and I have enjoyed hearing them. We cried a little, we laughed a little. I peed a little.

Mostly she makes me laugh.

There is something about German women in my experience that makes sharing sleeping quarters awkward. It isn’t the whole getting undressed thing. No, Europeans seem just fine with that. Naked, not naked, no big.

It’s the mighty wind.

The very same mighty wind that would apparently come from my uncultured arse. There’s good reason that Dances with Shrapnel dubbed me Methane Mom.

In my logical mind, I consider it a tradeoff. I don’t snore. She does. And? If I don’t let off pressure once in awhile, I fear my colon may implode.

You may recall that I have poop issues. Specifically, pooping in a public place. It becomes very uncomfortable. Because I am holding it and suffering in case some stranger that I will never see again should come into a public washroom and smell my poop. Or? God forbid, hear me making pooping noises.

When I am approaching the sanctity of the hotel room privy, the putt-putts commence in earnest. I suspect it is a Pavlovian response. No amount of “excuse mes” will serve to actually excuse me. German ladies are strict that way. Even with your strict “no farting” policy, you have managed to endear yourself to me.

By the way, Illa? That cough? The one I teased you about lighting two cigarettes at once to fully enjoy it?

Sharing a room with you gifted me with the same cough. I swear every time I make fun of someone, it bites me in the arse.

We were all crammed into a van, which boarded the ferry for a seventeen hour trip to Mooseland. There was Rye and Ginger, Illa, and Medicine Man.

Illa had generously offered half of her bed the night before, but neither of us was comfortable sleeping with someone, so it was an iffy nights sleep. And we had to be up at five am to catch the ferry.

There was entertainment on the ferry in many forms. I saw a little kid bouncing up and down in the video arcade around midnight.

Luckily, Tenderheart had rented a cabin, and various members of the psychic tour took turns crashing on one of the bunks in it. It was pure heaven to the sleep deprived.

Speaking of sleep-deprived, this morning Illa volunteered to go to Timmie’s and fetch us some breakkie. She asked if I wanted something, and I said I wasn’t hungry. I have no recollection of this.

But I digress.

On the ship was a husband and wife act in the lounge. I could tell by the way she cut her eyes at him that there was trouble in paradise that day.

He had a script of jokes, which he told well. He brought out this mandolin, which he informed us was his “girlfriend” adding that the wife was jealous of her.

Do I have a big mouth? Why, yes, yes I do.

I cracked “Does that bitch (the mandolin) make your supper for you?”

Immediately, the wife cracked up. Just lost it.

The husband? Not so much.

Will-Yummy and a few of his relatives hung out with me.

We always manage to have a good time.

I’m low man on the totem pole with these shared accommodations. Last one to get a shower, so left behind when the others run errands.

Will-Yummy and Tenderheart are showing the rellies around, and promised to stop by and take me with.

I have a plan. Let’s hope they remember the plan.