Some more time goes by.
Some surly polyhedrals are burning a hole in my dice bag.
Some fidgety characters are climbing off their sheets and heading off to the tavern.
Then like a bolt from the blue Tony pings out an email saying he has a couple of spots free in his ongoing Traveller campaign. The skies clear and I can hear a celestial choir and the trumpeting of a thousand angels. There is a strange smell of burnt Stilton but you can't have everything.
The group is short of a pilot, so I'm tasked with rolling one up. Even without the original lethal character generation version of the little black books this is hard work. One early effort did give me a character with Pilot-2, but he was about 724 years old, so I keep going, changing the names each time in the hope of changing fortunes. By the time I've finished, the numbers on the dice have just about rubbed off completely.
After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing we're on. Ian offers to ride shotgun/co-pilot for the journey to Bletchley, or in Ian's case Blearrrghhhchley.
Ian spends the first 20 minutes after arrival wandering around Tony's estate occasionally bending over and squeezing the last of his stomach contents onto the pavement.
The game itself goes well, but we're both quiet in the car on the way back to Wycombe. Ian nods off as an anti-emetic strategy. We never speak of it again.
Traveller? Nah, it makes me sick.
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