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We are now into the second day of this lively festival of internationally renowned dead writers who have arrived in paradise wearing coats of many cultures waxing eloquent on the frailties of life and the temptations of physiological attractions.
When I dropped into the festival office to collect my Press Lunch Pass I was greeted by the apparition of Oscar Wilde singing platitudes in a longitude position, sipping ever so gently on absinthe whilst tapping his upright knee with his index finger.
He glanced at me and said with a flourish, “My dear fellow are you one of the locals? Could you be so kind as to tell one what a gentleman of leisure may indulge in after 10.30 pm in Ubud, for I’ve noticed it gets awfully quiet and submissive to the elements?”
I invited him to join me on a nocturnal run, down to Kuta, to partake of decadence in throbbing environs.
“You’re a good soul, if ever one exists. Thank you,” he replied.
Before I embark on an evening with a Victorian celebrity permit me to enlighten you on the distinguished gentleman in question.