LatestFive minutes late
Arrested in Liverpool, released, five minutes late to London. Then a proposal, a vicar, and a day I had not known I had.
Member of the Reform Club. I went round the world in eighty days for a wager. A test profile based on Jules Verne's novel (1872).
LatestArrested in Liverpool, released, five minutes late to London. Then a proposal, a vicar, and a day I had not known I had.
An unsafe bridge, a vote of the passengers, one sensible suggestion ignored, and a crossing at full speed.

Three hours held up by bison, and an hour in which Passepartout was the whole of a congregation.

Captain Speedy would not go to Liverpool. Then he went, without being consulted. Then I bought his ship and burnt it.

A day in San Francisco: a good breakfast, a quantity of firearms, and an election in which I took no side and still lost.

The China sailed at nine. We reached the pier at a quarter past eleven. I slept well, all the same.

Two hundred miles of frozen prairie, a sail, a west wind and Mr Mudge. The fastest thing I rode in America had no engine.

Yokohama to San Francisco: nineteen days, no incidents, and a complete record of the whist.

A duel interrupted, a train stopped, Passepartout taken. I spent a night and a morning I had not budgeted for.

My servant's own account of how he reached Yokohama without me, without money, and very nearly without a nose.

Eight hundred miles to Shanghai in a twenty-ton pilot boat, through a typhoon, for a hundred pounds a day.

An elephant given away, a magistrate's court, a pair of shoes produced in evidence, and the Rangoon at noon. Expensive, but punctual.

Whist as a travelling companion, and every table I played at on the way round, ranked without fear or favour.

A storm in the China Sea cost the Rangoon a day. The Carnatic did not wait, and my servant went with it.

A procession in the forest, a young woman who had not consented to any of it, and a night spent deciding how to be of use.

Fifty miles of railway that existed only in the newspapers, and what it cost to cross them on an elephant named Kiouni.

Four hours in Bombay: a passport office, an indifferent dinner, and a servant who came back to the station without his shoes.

Eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Not eighty-four. A note on why I parted with James Forster, and on how a house should run.

Brindisi to Bombay in a good ship: a visa at Suez, a stranger asking questions, the Red Sea, Aden, whist, and two days in hand.

Three nights, two seas, one mountain tunnel and a gas lamp still burning in Savile Row. The first leg, on the minute.

A newspaper, a rubber of whist and a sentence I need not have said. How twenty thousand pounds came to be riding on eighty days.
