Writing this to you from my bed in the ger (like a yurt, but it’s Mongolian) because even though I really, really want to sleep, I can’t. Totally minging sheep’s milk tea and nothing but boiled mutton to eat. I am hank. I think my rumbling stomach is going to keep everyone away! We’re here with two lads we met in the pub (no, neither of them, before you ask, but one of them definitely wants it). They were clever and researched the trip so they have had a day sans hangover, while me and V are absolutely hanging and don’t even have one can of Coke between us. Saw wild horses, which was pretty cool, and tomorrow we’re going to be riding horses (and camels) and going to a shamanic festival ceremony thing (I know, WTF?)

Cx

P.S. Miss you!

P.P.S. Dunno when you’ll get this. No Internet.

To: [email protected] [DELETED]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Greg

Still cannae sleep.

Been thinking about Greg a lot. I’m writing this but I know I’m never going to send it. But it might help sort things out in my own head. Maybe I’ll tell you one day, face-to-face, I mean. It’s not the kind of thing I want to have in writing. Maybe I should though, because if it’s there in black and white, I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Fuck.

You know when you see those people on telly and they’re fuzzed out, voices distorted, all that. Talking about stuff that’s happened. Stuff someone’s done to them, or stuff they’ve done to someone else, and you just think WTF and imagine … and you think ‘that’ll never be me’, and ‘that would never happen to me’ and all of that.

And you know sometimes, it just does. And that is the whole point.

To: [email protected] [DRAFT]

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Random Nomadic Camp

Started writing you an email in the middle of the night but have deleted it from drafts. Luckily I couldn’t send it anyway cos no Internet. It was just me being a fanny. Think I was alcohol poisoned, to be fair.