'Craig?'
'Yes Paul.'
'Why have you devoted the majority of your adult life to travelling instead of settling down and finding a job, a wife, a three bedroom home with en-suite, in-ground sprinklers, cable TV and a comforting northerly aspect in Kyabram?'
'Well Paul', Craig began, before I hastily interjected.
'Don't call me a whirlpool Craig, everyone calls me that. I hate it.' The joke flying way over everyone's head. He began anew, wearing an almost despondent look on his face, totally perplexed by my play on words.
'Well Paul, I figure everyone is given one shot at life. I've got plenty of time to do all of those things if, and when the urge arises.' He paused, thinking long and hard, then began again. 'How many people can say they've climbed Mount Fuji? How many people can say they've drank snakes' blood in Thailand and eaten Guinea Pig in Peru? How many people have run with the bulls in Pamplona and downed ten steins at Oktoberfest? How many people do you know who've worked in a strip club in Tokyo and packed supermarket shelves in San Diego? How many people do you know who've ridden a bike from Amsterdam to Paris and seen the Northern Lights in Norway?'
Hard questions to answer, to be sure. And when I found an answer, inevitably it would be none. To be honest, I was a bit gobsmacked. I knew Craig had traveled a deal but I'd only known him for a couple of weeks and didn't think he was in worldly Dave's league - he was. I mean Guinea Pigs for fucks sake.
'Okay' I began cautiously 'so it's got nothing to do with your personal robot of death?'
'Ummmmmmm, personal robot of death?'
'Yeah, your personal robot of death, everyone's got one.'
'What the hell is a personal robot of death Doddo?' The Kid asked, sounding angry and as if he were growing tired of my hungover ramblings.
