Damn it, I could not ignore Earl Okin any longer. Maybe his nearby vehicle and he were available to save me.
If they were, I couldn’t ascertain it.
Tried tweeting Lizzie Roper, though I’d cut her off in my mind after she, having called me her favorite Twitterer, stopped following me. But, you know, she lived close by. (Not close enough, though.)
Sent out a general online cry for help from people in the Hammersmith area, tried to contact my missing money-supplier again and again, and was, of course, delayed in these efforts by computer issues.
Finally, I simply had to leave.
In the street, between Starbucks and the Piccadilly Line station I hadn’t the funds to enter, I wondered how I would tell my father I had squandered both his airfare expenditure and his opportunity to still be thousands of miles away from me but (at least) on the same continent.