Myself: Hang on a minute while I comb back my wig and glue on a a goatee that screams "Punch me!"
Prodnose: What now? What now for pity's sake?
Myself: Every journey ends, but we go on. The world turns and we turn with it. Plans disappear. Dreams take over.....
Prodnose: OK I get it, you're taking the Bomber back home to Wales for a chunk of half term. Enough with the Johnny Suede already!
Myself: But wherever I go, there you are — my luck, my fate, my fortune.
Prodnose (resigned): How can I miss you if you won't go away?
Myself: Cardiff. Inevitable.