Oh look, a Beagle.

I'm back.
It's a bit of a shock being airlifted out of the French Riviera after two weeks of gluttony and information overload. No more Maltesers for breakfast. No more rude French people attached to poodles. No more celebrity spotting. Unless you count seeing JP Duminy in the departure lounge at Heathrow. While waiting for my luggage at Cape Town International I noticed a lady with a little Beagle hanging out by the carousel. This was strange until I worked it out.
"Sniffer dog?" I asked.
"Yes, drugs and agricultural products."
Ten years ago this encounter would have sent me into a sweat straight out of Midnight Express. Fortunately my days of red eyes and eating Milo straight out of the tin while watching Teletubbies at 4am are over.
So I patted the Beagle, who was very friendly despite my non-possession of agricultural products.
Now that I am home I face innumerable dilemmas.
The first, my emotional-airport-coming-home-epic-moment, was ruined by my son James who failed to recognise me and seemed much more interested in the ceiling of the Arrivals Hall.
The second : what is the purpose of this blog ?
After all, it was set up to record my comings and goings at Cannes.
Anyhow, I have decided, in an uncontrollable fit of literary vanity, to carry on.
I am not sure what I will talk about. Some vague purpose will come to mind though.
Today perhaps, it is to be the one person on earth not writing about Michael Jackson.
Although I just have.
Damn.