So begins Day Two of my Amsterdam stag do experience.
It's a lovely sunny morning. I'm sitting outside a cafe in Rembrandtsplein, with a cup of coffee and an orange juice (call me Two Drinks Ephgrave), waiting for the others to join me for breakfast.
Yesterday was lovely. It was also very long. It's one of the few times in my life when I'd been up for twenty-four hours straight. I don't want to create the impression that I'm with a bunch of party animals - we've all quite restrained - but it's fair to say that we've been getting about.
Thankfully, this isn't a typical stag do. There's been no excessive drinking or any pot smoking, I haven't been chained to the railings or dressed as a penis. It's just a nice short break with pleasant company. The fact that we're in the sex and weed capital of world is merely a coincidence, whatever you might think.
We started yesterday with a canal cruise, taking in the waterbased sights. We attempted to get into the Anne Frank Haus, but unfortunately the queue snaked far into the next street (who would think this would be the case, nearly seventy years since the end of the war? There's hope for humanity yet). We had nice food in a few different pubs and restaurants, with the odd beer in my case, though they were suitably spread throughout the day to not have a bad effect. More than anything, we've been having a good, long chat.
I've learnt how much I've changed. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've been an occasional marijuana toker in the past. When I first came here in the late Nineties, I was with a group of smokers who took things to excess. These days, it doesn't hold much appeal. I'm nearly fifteen years older (Christ) and my priorities are different. I don't need to chase the dragon (or the 'drag on': smoking reference). I'm careering towards my mid-thirties and happily married (even if it's only been for a few weeks). I have a different emphasis.
Later this morning, we'll visit the Van Gogh Museum, to see the work of my favourite artist (Van Gogh, in case you can't guess). I recently finished reading a collection of his letters to his brother Theo, which was a fascinating yet saddening experience. It will interesting to see the paintings and sketches again, with more of an understanding of what he went through while he did them. He was hugely commited to his art, but racked with self-doubt about his ability. If only could see how much is work is celebrated today. Would it have made a difference?
Uncle Travelling Matt signing off.