On hearing of the pending departure of Cagey to the swampy badlands of St Cloud the Heron extended an electronic invitation to his distant cousin. Cagey accepted with his usual enthusiasm and just the right amount of savoir-faire, the likes of which only Doc C. could equal (!). A great abundance of email ensued, loose arrangements where made, vague plans, fragmented and somewhat sketchy intentions placed on a table the likes of which had not been seen since the Herons ancestors "had a bit of a chat about the bossy Brits and chucked some tea into a dock".

Time passed. More time passed. How much? oh, a couple of days and a bit, another 12 hours say. What does it matter? narrator clears his throat...

Cagey found himself looking out of the exit portal and down a long corridor. In the background the pilot apologised for the slightly abrasive and noisy landing, explaining "they don't normally allow an aircraft of this size to land here". Post landing this didn't seem to phase the passengers who were too busy wrestling with overhead baggage or suspending small, semi-conscious children by one arm, as if intent to swing them beyond the lure and captive comfort of their seat of dreams. Old people grinned.

Cagey stepped out into the light. The bright glare of the Florida sun warmed the tinted windows. It was something very foreign, which was not only ironic but also true of the ground upon which he now stood. This particular ground had been labelled for convenience. It was called "This Way". Cagey followed.

After a brisk walk, and approaching a rather official looking group of people carrying firearms and standing to attention, stories of interrogation, anal probes and death by poorly recorded Barry Manilow hits whizzed between the ears of our dashing young hero. He handed over his green immigration card which stated he was neither a terrorist, a pimp, a hooker, a flanker, a junkie, a flunkie, a monkey, a homicidal maniac, a political asylum seeker or boxer with an ear fetish. All boxes checked out, and only one question remained, "have you recently been on a farm sir?" asked the Official. Somewhat taken aback by the question, Cagey looked puzzled, answered "no" and waited for the next question which he assumed would also be agricultural, possibly a teaser about irrigation, oil seed, or Massey Ferguson?

"You're ok" exclaimed the official, Cagey stepped forward wondering what consequences a "yes" might have had. He stopped himself thinking about it, content in the knowledge that nothing anal including Barry Manilow would be required today. He quietly collected his baggage and headed out of Sanford airport whistling "Bermuda Triangle".