Ask.

I apologise sincerely for the glut of posts containing little more than my complete surprise at the marching on of time at its usual pace, but I'm afraid this is likely not to be my last. Friends, locals in particular, we have a mere twenty-three days before I'm gone for - well, I haven't the slightest idea how long, really. So let's assume that when I've squandered away my last few coins, made practically worthless by the unfortunate exchange rate, on something unnecessary and bespoke I'll leap from the Cliffs of Dover, either to a gloriously messy death or to survive and be proclaimed a god. Gods and dead men apparently needn't worry much about immigration law. So might I request that we celebrate as if I'll never be seen again? We can call the bonfire my funeral pyre. That way we can do it all over again in a month or six if I should manage to miraculously reappear.

Twenty-three days, eh? With the help of the likes of you wonderful and beautiful creatures the amount of trouble up to which I can get in twenty-three days is positively astounding. Consider it a challenge.