In fairly typical fashion, after laying my head to rest the previous night in a bed-and-breakfast in mid 19th-century Pennsylvania, I awoke in a football stadium in Sardinia.

A.C. Milan having a game that day, I proceeded to order breakfast in their VIP suite: my usual weekend repast of scrambled eggs, waffles, a peyote button, a glass of pomegranite wine and two marijuana brownies.

However, I wound up missing the end of the match, since, atypically, I apparently hadn't rested enough and my breakfast caused me to doze off; shortly thereafter I awakened on a park bench in lower Boston. The rather burly policeman who was staring at me didn't seem too thrilled with my residence, however temporary, upon this particular section of municipal real estate. As I was unkempt, unwashed, unshaven, and clad solely in flaming Superman™ logo pajama bottoms and a tattered black bathrobe, I suppose I can understand his perturbed state, if I try very hard.

Fortunately, the year was 1967, so I wasn't completely out of place. Also fortunately, I've been to this era frequently, and so still had a line of credit, and a room in the Fairmont-Copely awaiting my arrival. I hung around with the Irish Mob for the next 30 years, and spent another ten as a technology consultant, just for something to do, before dressing to the nines and setting off to a banquet that I'd been invited to in rural Norway.

I was late arriving, naturally, in spite of having 40 years' advance notice. The feast was quite sumptuous, and surprisingly Italian (bringing my Saturday full-circle, by yet another in a string of meaningless coincidences), with a full Neo-pop orchestra and vocal soloist providing accompaniment.

Awakening the following day in metropolitan Sudan, I arranged for a private jet to return me to Norway, so I could drop off the orchestra's clarinetist so she could change her clothes, and from there a helicopter sufficed to bring me to western England, for breakfast.

But that's another day.