The birds sang, the wolves howled, you could also hear far-off a dragon feeding its young. My hand instinctively went to my sword at the sound.

As the sun rose through the dense trees we reached the river. Fortunately low in water as the summer burned on. We waded, we swam, we crossed. Avoiding the crocodiles which were fighting over a deer carcass.

We paused momentarily to remove the leeches from our legs and bandage up the piraña bites, which were numerous.

And then we saw it: a condor overhead. Flying majestically round in search of food.

I took my rope, climbed the highest tree I could find and on the first attempt, managed to lasso the magnificent beast and bring him down gently, calming him down with my natural gift for communing with animals. Not in a ‘Welsh way’, but with soothing gentility and empathy.

We mounted the bird, the largest of God’s flying creatures, and he flew us over the land, past the Caves of Death, across the Stream of Doom, around the deadly Lake Miliband, until we reached over the mountains and could see the faraway settlements.

We bid the bird farewell and offered him our heart-felt thanks. He just looked pissed off and eager to get away, but there ya go.

An arrow whizzed past. Another, as I turned, stuck miraculously in the side of my glasses. Incredible. We ran for cover and saw the small band of tribesmen running towards us, spears ready, swords in hand. And although there were only a dozen of them, we were but two. And these Jihadi Vikings were renowned warriors, fearsome soldiers and pretty decent footballers.

I said a prayer. Then pulled out my Uzi. I’m not sure which worked better but moments later we were moving peacefully on. Towards our goal. To civilisation. To the dream. Twelve little 2-headed corpses lying in the woods.

After 17 miles across hillock and dale, past buttress and butte, over lots of other geographical things that you get in such places, we reached the Palace of Thandor.

Well, that was what the satnav told us but, as ever, I wasn’t so sure. It was haunted, ghosts flying round, vampires feasting on virgins, witches cackling as they flew overhead, demons devouring lost souls.

We ran, and ran and ran. And eventually we made it to Fleet Street. To our goal. To work.

How was your journey in yesterday’s tube strike? Everyone has a story.

Lord A of Fantasyland
xxxx