Next to my hotel is a funfair. After dinner my publisher’s daughter wanted to go into a small rollercoaster.
My companion said to me: “You have been to Afghanistan and Iraq you can go into this rollercoaster as well.” I didn’t want to be called a chicken, so I gave up my objections and together with my publisher’s daughter and my companion I got into the rollercoaster.
But I hated the ride. A ferris wheel alas, but a rollercoaster is sickening. It is a perverse machine.