ConanWatch. Day 8.
So far, no sign of a huge, thickly-muscled, black-haired bronzed barbarian hero padding up behind me on silent sandalled feet. Damn it.
Maybe I should try wearing flimsier clothing. And more ornate jewels.
Maybe I should try becoming some sort of undead goddess. Or an eternally-beautiful queen of a remote tribe. Or a rebellious yet vulnerable dancing girl with flashing eyes and a passionate heart.
I'm not sure Conan would even be on the Waterloo to Yeovil train on a Monday night, and if he was, that he would have understood the booking system, so he would have to slay the guard and all the other passengers in a bloodlust frenzy when asked to produce his ticket.
It's never going to work, really.
Maybe I can persuade Mr WithaY to wear a leather loincloth and headband and shout "Crom!" from time to time.