Time to go home, and it's gonna be a long, long day; from pick up time in Saint Augustine until I'm back in the office and sat at my desk is going to be twenty hours of travelling and killing time in airports, and then another six or seven beyond that until I can walk through my frontdoor and collapse into bed. So better have a decent breakfast to set me up for what's to come.

For some reason David Bowie appears to me in a dream tonight. I have no idea what it means but I seem to be playing percussion with him on a beach in Brighton, while he makes me promise that it's all top secret. You have my word, Mr Bowie! 

It's a beautiful morning, hot and sunny, and with the usual disruptions that crossing the Atlantic brings, I'm awake far too early. So I take advantage of the fact to run along the riverfront before the heat of the sun makes such feats impossible. 

The joys of Jacksonville, Florida, have never struck me as ones of which I'd be likely to partake. The only things I know about it go hand in hand, namely that nu-metal rock chumps Limp Bizkit are from there and it's about as proudly redneck as Florida gets - neither exactly prime motivators for me to hop across the Atlantic to spend a weekend there, when Miami or Key West are much more in tune with a cosmopolitan metrosexual such as moi.