You poor, poor wretches. You sad, depraved, urban pustules. Feel free to lose your collective sh*t and try to obtain the most illegal narcotics you can get a hold of. No jury in the land (land = Moldova) would convict you for possession or being under the influence. For I, your guide and spiritual leader, am going on holidays for 3, count them, 3 weeks. As is Mrs Del Monte. It’s our honeymoon. And while Mrs Del Monte spends her time applying lotion to my many crevices, you’ll have no one to console you. I had a stand-in lined up but she’s just discovered Baywatch Nights, so she’s binging on that for the time being.
So, once the snivelling has ebbed, once the tears have dried, once you’ve trashed the undergarments you have doubtless soiled, take a moment and reflect. This is YOUR time. Be free my adoring readers. Enjoy! Smell a rose. Eat a noodle. Drink a tall, cool beer. For it is not Au Revoir. It’s goodbye. Seriously. Leave me alone.