It's a bit late to be doing journaly sort of stuff now, but one man said "better late than never", and this seems the most apt sentiment I may procure. At this very particular point in time as my fingers dance across this keyboard typing this out, the choice lies between continuing on or (dare I say) doing a bit of holidays maths. Yuck, holiday maths. Even Lennart's cat sneers at the very thought of it. Why hello there cat I didn't see you pop in; since when were you telepathic? To be completely honest I'm feeling a bit peer pressured by the number of stipis (stipis: german for "awesome") who possess travel journals or at least make an effort to record the great memories that they no doubt want to relive in future dates.

I too want those memories. I mean when I have kids and other terrible stuff I want to be able to recount what sort of stuff went down the last few weeks in Germany, and they'll be able to oooh and ahhh at all the crazy things their father did and perhaps a TV executive  will approach me and ask to buy my story, and out of my labours comes the first season of "How I Met Your Mother, Decided To Make Kids With Her, And Decided To Tell Those Kids A Story About My Time in Germany When I Was But A Teen at The Tender Age of 17".

Alas my aims are not for monetary profit from said TV executives. I'll have to admit that the opportunity to look back upon my time here will be the driving factor, and I think it may actually bring a tear or two to my eye.

But where to start?

I could either start from this point in time, it would probably start something like this:

The young boy sat on his bed and typed away at his laptop, eyes heavy not with tiredness but with 2 kg weights attached by metal cables to his eyelashes, which he thought at first was a funny idea but now regrets it as his eyes now droop lower than an inappropriate joke about rangas at the local Society for Redheads meeting

Or I could go about it retroactively, which would be cool because I could then fabricate things:

As I stepped off the Lufthansa plane, the shit really hit the fan and I saw Lennart waving at me. Behind him, a brass band of two hundred began their fanfare, and that sexy little cougar Angela Merkel and her entire entourage of German politicians rolled out the red carpet and bowed before me, crying and pleading if there was anything I needed. I asked for a glass of water.

See, neither would really be suitable because absolute joy and beauty just sometimes just can't be captured by blogs. But I really want to do this, I really really really do! What now? I ask, What now??

The cat is looking at me in a very strange way. Perhaps it too senses the conundrum that I face.