Prologue

A novel will frequently begin with a prologue. The prologue establishes something that becomes an integral part of the novel as it weaves onwards from it's first chapter. In the Da Vanci code, it's when the weird old secret service grandad of the French Translator chick gets whacked. It sets something up, for the reader, that reveals certain information to him that is beyond the grasp of the main protagonist.

I am currently in the opening chapter of the next phase of my life. Unbeknownst to me the prologue is occuring elsewhere in the world and I am blithely unaware of it. Some situation, some person, some reality is occuring somewhere that I am about to inadvertantly step into. I, the protagonist of my life, have no clue as to what this shall be.

You the reader do not either, because in the novel of a life the only objective viewer are aliens or God or Big Brother depending on what set of conspiracies you choose to believe to explain the unexplainable nature of the universe. Perhaps it is a book unread. Certainly Dawkins would say it is so.

Chapter one progresses with tying up the odd ends of my life, leaving Cape Town, packing boxes, not really saying goodbye to everyone I should have said goodbye to and receiving slightly petulant e-mails, smses and face-book messages to vaugely inquire into the rude nature of my behaviour.

In Chapter One the status quo of the protangonist gets set up as well as what he expects. Or she. In this case he.

London. What do I expect?

Mm.

Those tube station signs.

That's about it. The rest is a mystery.

Ooh, and British accents.