the impatience of a constant clicker, I will visit the Jamaican government’s historical event bank. Tonight, I reach self-indulgently for the nearby history written by Black and play YouTube clips of Usain breaking records.
I raise my feet this suppertime on a coffee table bearing Blue Mountain and flick through Ackee meets Codfish before loosening my limbs for a pre-bed time bender to mento strains from a crazy Jamaican radio station.
Wakeful now, I lie and prioritise dates for national launches across the globe, reggae exposés at home and writers’ retreats. I need to be in Jamaica for the end of July where Canadian fish fayre continues in Anchovy, St James. A quick turnaround will be in order, though, as I plot the jet line back to New York in time for Oliver Samuels’ party in the park on 4 August. Recovery from jet lag and hijinks will be aided by a long lie-in on 6 August as I combine national events with live Olympic coverage, expecting the selected proponents of Jamaica’s athletic prowess to win wondrously yet again.
In our own speak, the course of our contentment is conveyed by Louise Bennett Coverley. Though I miss her night of celebration in Florida whilst I ruminate on my trip, I turn to electronic collections of dialectal rhyme from Miss Lou and successive artistes while I read Derrick Wright on our power to network abroad and Franklyn Knight on our notable track record as a democracy at home.
Tomorrow will soon dawn as I prepare to activate the plan. I will draw the misbegotten dollars of migrant wealth from my bank and offer them to Virgin Atlantic for a series of fares to take me through my planned intensive activities. The balance will be rock bottom but I will have fifty years to prepare for the next binge.
By then we may be intergalactic star travellers with new and more dazzling h