By some miracle bestowed on me by [xxxxx<---(Universe?) please feel free to add your name here], I have lost weight this week.

I thought the smorgasbord of Mexican food, basin of dumplings and pizza slices I Hoovered like a motherfucker in the States was still finding its way to my thighs this week, and yet, Hark!

All hail ye, I am a mere two kilos from my goal. How is this even possible? Do I have a tapeworm?

Maybe it's because more calories are used trying to stay awake when you're jetlagged than going for a fucking jog.

I fear I might not escape Death By Diet in Eastern Europe though. I might not be so lucky.

Dude. I checked the weather last night in Prague, Krakow and Budapest.

It's fucking Baltic.

London hasn't hit the single digits yet, and yet these places are practically Icelandic.

So here's the vibe.

4 countries, 1 Skoda, 5 layers of clothes, 4 different currencies, my mother, 1 iPod, 0 language recognition, 1 GPS navigational device, 10 days, 1 visa, 1 jangly nerves, Czech, Poland, Slovakia and Hungary. BOOM.

I'll be driving on the wrong side of the road.
For six hour legs at a time.
Between three cities.
Along roads that are apparently "in some places, appalling condition."
In a Skoda. A Czech car that, in the past, has a notoriously bad reputation.
With my mother.
While listening to euro trash techno.
Wearing five layers of clothing.
Eating slop.
Avoiding Communists.

I'm terrified. So will think of someone I know who drove a tuk-tuk around Sri Lanka, and people who motorbike across Vietnam and are still alive.

Trying to man the fuck up. And seize the adventure. I created for myself. And now must face.

To be honest, I feel like that dude from Idiot Abroad, Karl Pilkington. Just anti everything. And having to visit exotically weird places.

If you never hear from me again, it's been great. If you hear from me in 10 days, then you'll see that I am actually alive. For now though:

Bye.

xx