It’s winter. W-I-N-T-E-R. It’s a kind of season people in Sydney often talk about but hardly know or have ever seen, even if they pretend or genuinely believe they do and have. They don’t and haven’t, let me tell you. For most of them, winter is when it’s from 15 to 20°C during the day, with temperatures dropping to about 10°C at night, meaning they have to get a jacket for long cold nights out. And they feel it’s scary.

I have a different winter in mind. A real scary one. A winter during which mercury hardly reaches zero, staying permanently underneath that frightening mark. A winter with snow flying in the air, or even better, covering the ground, with foggy wet days and bright super-cold ones, with people hiding in their beautifully warm dwellings with double-glazed windows and central heating — both inventions virtually unknown to the population of Australia (though I cannot talk for the Tasmanians).

I have thrown myself into a winter like that. Voluntarily. One day baking my bones in Shark Bay, next one numbly walking through shopping alleys at Dubai International, third one pushing my way through hordes of Arsenal fans in London suburbia and finally fourth one being spitted out in sensationally grey and gloomy Prague. And wintery one, too.

I guess I knew the theory. This was to be expected. Maybe not as classy as snowstorm, yet equally effective. The beauty of thermal inversion. The eerie of darkened foggy days leisurely metamorphosing into eerie of even darker foggy nights and than back again. And again. And again.

Nine days and nights. Suddenly, one begins to understand why Michael Hutchence chose Prague for the set of their most melancholic video. Or how Kafka could trip here without a need to use hallucinogens.

The weather has cleared just in time for New Year’s Eve. Seeing starry skies after such treatment felt like winning a lotto. Emotionally, I mean. Starry skies have nothing to do with bank accounts, as far as I’m concerned. Uplifted now, it’s somehow easier to wish everyone a happy and successful new year.

So. So. I wish you, for both of us of tm91, a happy and successful new year. And please, do not forget to have a towel handy at all times.

A Sunday, as good as any other. Temperature’s reaching thirty, I’m enjoying a lunch with bunch of mates, indulging in foreign cuisine, hmmm, so good it’s almost bordering debauchery. Yet there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Or rather two of them. The first one that makes me run to a car just seconds after parting ways with friends, the other one slightly larger, harsher, more irritating, hanging exclusively over me. I am moving.

I’ve been moving all my life. While some people never leave their village, I cannot count a number of beds I laid my bones across. I do not mind — I really don’t; it’s only the act of actual moving that makes me a bit dizzy, slightly nervous and remarkably unpleasant.

To fight above mentioned distress, I invented and over the years mastered and perfected a recipe for moving:

Point one, above all, is — don’t panic. That should be written in large, friendly letters on any recipe anyway.

Point two, almost equally important — do nothing. For as long as possible, ignore the inevitable. Act as if nothing was to come. Pretend it’s business as usual. Ideally, do not even talk about it. Keep it for yourself. The more people know, the more people ask annoying questions. The more people give you advice. The more people want to attend a farewell party and (often the same ones!) a housewarming one.

Point three — listen to music that can be enjoyed quietly in a lounge. Trying desperately to avoid using that derogatory word lounge music. Basically, we’re talking about something The Wilbury brothers would approve of. Something between Ray Charles and Beck. The choice is yours. Relax, take it easy. You may even want to try breathing exercises. They come handy soon.

Point four — without discussing this point in detail, please google Blitzkrieg. As fast as humanly possible, the following has to be done: pack all the necessary stuff, sell everything that is not necessary and can be sold, give away or throw away (meaning recycle) anything that cannot fall into previous categories, disconnect services, move out, move in, unpack, reconnect services. Welcome home!

Point five — have a cigar and a decent drink. You’d need it, trust me. Scotch, quality wine or cranberry juice are acceptable. Having bath is essential to stay sane.

Hovering between third and fourth point, and trying to move on (a bit sarcastic when considering to move out and move in), I’m contemplating. Looking around, recording a final reel of a surreal mental flick set in this place. Everything comes back in flashbacks. Each piece of a furniture, each spot of an apartment tells a story. If they can be memorised, they go with me. If not, they have to stay behind, I don’t feel like taking prisoners. Of course, there’s a scent of nostalgia in the air, though evaporating as soon as I get to the blitzkrieg point.

And then — once unpacking is complete, I’ve had a bath and maybe an imaginary Red Apple cigarette, it’s time to start filming a new flick somewhere else. Actually, I can’t wait.