Chalky

That's right I finally have a proper job, a trade if you will, I'm a chalky.

Sadly, chalk is a thing of the past so past we should be called whiteboard marker-'ies' but for obvious reasons we aren't.

Yep, I'm a teacher. Ok, I don't work in a proper school and the kids don't call me sir but I still teach, kids still sulk, I give reports, take registers, do marking, and moan about 'the youth', so for all intents and purposes I am a bloody teacher.

The idea of teaching teenage children has previously ranked alongside no. 892 Removing my own spleen with needle-nose pliers in my all time list of 'must dos', but so far the experience has been almost fun. It's true that 12yr old Javier, whilst failing to master the future simple tense, has trained his facial features to spell out 'you are the most uncool boring twat in the world I wish you would die so I could go home and be all cool 'n' stuff'', and its also true that I have been belittled by 13 yr old girls whose boots are more expensive than my wardrobe in a language I will never understand, but what has surprised me is how little effect these slights have had, and that I still like it when they get the answers right!

Luckily its not all hormone war-zones. When not empowering the youth of Donostia to better understand 50cent lyrics I am one of four new members of staff at Real Sociedad. La Real (as they are known locally) whilst having slipped temporarily into the second division of Spanish football are still a famous club who command a big following. Their training ground (where I teach) is a big stadium as it is. The trophy cabinet (which I pass on the way to my classroom) is brimming with odd shaped silverware and as I sit at my desk an almost life size photo of Xavi Alonso (ex-la Real now at Liverpool) watches over me.

Since my English school got the contract La Real have not lost a game. I can't help wondering whether the new found ability of the centre back Mikel Gonzalez to use the past continuous to describe the scene in a story or the relative ease with which striker Immanol uses the past simple to identify completed events or individual actions has got any thing to do with this success – it surely must.

Finally a note on the weather. If there is a wetter place on earth than San Sebastian its mayor has gills and the post is laminated. I was told yesterday that it has rained here everyday since October 19th, and I'm not talking drizzle, it's wet rain, the kind that seeks out your underwear soggying your smalls just to show off. Luckily the local luminaries have thoughtfully tiled ninety per cent of the city's pavements with polished white bathroom tiles to ensure minimum traction for all bipeds – genius!

Still you can see snow on top of the mountains so its not all bad eh?

I've been to London to see the Queen! Only part of that sentence is true.

I don't own a Underground Logo T-Shirt, plastic policeman's helmet or double decker bus snow-globe but I have come back from London a better man than when I left.

Regular readers (are there any other kind?) will remember that in my last post / thinly-disguised-therapy-session i was a bit 'down in the dumps' so what better to put the zest back in one's citrus fruit of choice than a visit to the mother country?

In an act of wanton environmental vandalism I hopped a plane from Biarritz to London. In fact the door to door journey was only a couple of hours more than if I'd taken the train but about $8.4 billion less expensive (compounding my sin of climatic GBH with honest to goodness greed) so I succumbed.

Not seconds after descending into the drizzle of Hertfordshire I felt my spirits lift On emerging into the sleet from Archway tube I felt a warm glow as the damp crowds bustled past, pinched faces peering from glistening coat hoods. I was home.

Well not really home. I have never been to Archway before. Usually when in London I can be found in Kentish Town availing myself of the not insignificant hospitality of my longtime friend and associate (ok, just friend but sounded grand didn't it? ) Mr Dan Leon. This time however I pitched my swag (one for the Aussie readers) with my new friend and none-associate Mairi Mclachlan. That regular reader will remember Mairi as the third intrepid explorer (along with Andrew Portors and I) who documented the pioneering of the Umbrella as a hiking accessory and provided tents for the expedition. well not content with such an impressive demonstration of Scottish hospitality she also put me up for the last few days, made porridge and the nicest fruit salad I have ever tasted.




In London almost everyone speaks English, an attraction that had hitherto eluded me, and not only that they understand me when I speak it! Oh the simple joys of uncomplicated communication! If it were only this relaxing bath in the English language that I gained it would still have been worth it. Luckily though there were other treats in store.

Last week Kerry and Dan had a baby (I haven't seen the video but I think Kerry took care of the 'having' bit). So i was lucky enough to be there to see her (Daisy Hazel Leon) on her first couple of days at home, give her a cuddle and marvel at the mesmerising effect a cute wickle baybee has on all around.

The day before I was in Rochester the national capital of useless porcelain figurines. I had come to the home of the ceramically challenged to catch up with Pete Sayonas, one time bar man at the University of Liverpool, and all time friend. I hadn't seen Pete in four years and It was great. Having examined the town's ornamental fetish we sipped a few pints complemented one another heartily and laughed about the world from the safety of a beer garden. So content was i on departing that I promptly fell asleep on the train back, awaking to the station announcer at London Victoria, worrying about dribble.


The highlight though was the Sunday. One thing the Spanish are unapologetically pathetic at is breakfasts. Having presumably joined the rest of the western world in accepting the scientific truth of the health benefits of a good morning meal the Spanish seem to have collectively shrugged lit a cigarette and ordered another coffee, breakfast!

Last Sunday I was able to enjoy the joys of toast, tea, porridge, The Observer, BBC radio, lovely company and a life changing fruit salad. Not only that but Liverpool beat Chelsea, and not only that but lunch (Served in an impossible snug pub in Highgate) was the kind that comes with Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce. On the relax-ometer its right up there with smoking half an ounce of opium in a flotation tank listening to Whales discuss cuddles.

All this followed a Saturday night 'early birthday drink' with old friends and new in my old stomping ground of groovy Hoxton. My hope of becoming cooler through geographic osmosis is yet to show any results but fun was had nonetheless despite having to deal with a barman who considered serving drinks to be beneath him – too much concentration required being cool.

Now i am returned and enjoying my first day at work... but more on that later.

Thanks to all who made my London stay such fun, especially Mairi who has now overtaken Kenny Dalgleish as my favourite Scot!

Oh, and its my birthday today which makes me happy too (happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...)

The Doldrums

This blog would not be the searingly honest account of one man's struggle to find a decent cup of tea that it most certainly isn't, if I were not to share with you some of the more challenging moments of my escapology act. That is to say the shit bits.

Having successfully navigated the tempest of festivals, fiestas and fun that was my first 6 weeks 'in country', I have, of late, found myself becalmed. I have drifted into the social doldrums and my ship of state bobs listlessly as the party streamers on the pool deck of August fade in the cool autumnal sun.

Such is the lot of the solo traveler and indeed one would hope that having gone to the quite elaborate and not inexpensive effort of having left family, job, and friends to move to a place where I know absolutely no one and have only a tenuous grasp of the language that there would be moments of quietude such as this.

Nonetheless, steps have to be taken, there can be no excuses for sulking. But what steps are these?

The main enemy of any would-be social sailor is Shyness who, with his cunning accomplice Pride, conspires to limit the plucky adventure's opportunities to meet new people to invitations received and parties already know. The enemy of your enemies Shyness and Pride, and so your friend is of course Booze, or alternatively 'Just bloody growing up and sorting it out', but in the absence of such psychological gumption booze will do just fine.

So I have embarked on a series of nocturnal sorties with, for the lack of a better label, 'acquaintances' on the hunt for a social scene that can fill the sail and stir the lank waters of my lassitude. This has led me to drinks with English teachers, birthday parties with strangers, Spanish pop/folk gigs and American pub rock bands. So far the fruits of these efforts have not been bountiful but one cannot expect success overnight, “Life,” as Malcolm Fraser once remarked from the luxury of his Melbourne town house, “was not meant to be easy!”

So you find me on a Sunday afternoon sizing up the prospects of another evening of slightly drunken semi-awkward social maneuvering otherwise known as night life. Tonight its the American pub band venue again with a mustachioed man called Eneko (a friend of a friend of a friend) and colleagues unknown.

Step two is to move house. Its important to know when something has failed – a point lost on most Republicans – and my short stay with Morgan my Togoan flat mate has not been a success. Problems with a dank room lack of writing desk, and high rent gave weight to the decision but like most failed partnerships ours floundered on the rocks of mis-communication. The separation has been set (Oct 29th) and it should be a clean break, I don't expect to see my corkscrew again and Morgan will retain custody of the cleaning products he loves so dearly.

I will leave the description of my new abode to when I have moved in, suffice it to say that it has central heating, WiFi Internet and two Spanish flat mates.

Step three – get a job. Tick! Clearly the most successful means devised by humans to find someone to share a beer with has been the office. Offices have been ruthlessly efficient booze buddy factories since the invention of all day drinking and so its a shame that I won't be working in one. But I will be working in a school which owing to the proximity of annoying teenagers does just as well.

Meanwhile, slack waters slap at the sides and its time for another cup of tea....

A festivus for the rest of us

Who cares if one successful professional at an industry event tells another successful professional that they think that they're great and then that successful professional returns the compliment (very likely adding that they think they love them) and that, like everyone else who has spoken that night, they are thrilled even honoured to be there? Not many you'd think, certainly not the stuff of TV spectaculars right? Wrong! Such was the content of the oh so self congratulatory opening 'gala' of the San Sebastian International Film Festival (which I watched the other night – on TV, no cocktails and chit chat with botox brigade for me.).

Now I love cinema, I like a movie – some of them make a difference some of them make a profit I can like both -but a 1.5 hour TV show dedicated to watching rich, famous and successful people congratulating similarly rich, famous and successful people was a big ask. I sat through this rectum twisting tedium in the hope of learning something about the films to be shown at the Festival which runs for ten days attracting some pretty good talent, however the most I learnt was that Woody Allen thinks that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor (no shit Woody is that why you cast him as the lead in your latest movie?) and that his co-star can't speak a word of Spanish and isn't about to learn any.

Despite this entertainment crime of an opening night there are some excellent films being shown at the festival and I am looking forward to seeing a couple this week. On Wednesday night I'm off to see 'Tiro en la Cabeza' about a seemingly ordinary guy who kills two cops, then to round off the hilarity I'm hoping to get a ticket for 'The boy in the striped pajamas' about the holocaust. Ben Stiller is here but I don't think he's in either of them. I'll let you know the winner of the Juanathan prize at the end of the week and of course I'm simply thrilled and actually quite honoured to be here – I love all thank you, thank you, thank you...

MADrid

It wasn't really MAD although it was rad.

With Andrew visiting San Sebastian wasn't big enough for the both of us, so the both of us went somewhere bigger – Madrid.

I would be lying if I said Madrid wasn't awash with beautiful women, so I won't. Also Madrid in summer is well supplied with alfresco dining and drinking options all the better for the beautiful women of Madrid to catch a glimpse of me as I sip stylishly at my espresso – or so I imagine. If that wasn't enough entertainment for one lifetime there is also more high quality art than you can possibly eat and food that should be hung in the Louvre (or Prado in this case). There are also palaces, and fine shops, and more bars, then some restaurants, odd lifts and some more bars – suffice it to say that we had a good time.

The stand out however had to be the Sherry bar that one late night we stumbled into demanding Armenac.

It is an odd bar that wont allow you to take photos but they would not. The till was a hand cranker from the 30s, the sherry was served from the barrel into anonymous brown bottles then chilled in an ice bucket at the bar. The ancient staff marked your tab in chalk on the bar in front of you as you drank and whole place had the sepia tint from the exhalations of a hundred years of smokers.

Andrew and I became connoisseurs of differently aged sherry whilst admiring the faded posters advertising the world sherry festivals of the fifties and sixties. The din of a busy Madrid evening was inaudible replaced by the murmurings of the gaggle of local sherry lovers clustered around the end of the bar. A quite magical experience but on leaving you were left with the nagging suspicion that if you ever attempted to return you would not be able to find that bar again, and no one in the street would ever have heard of it....

A revolution in hiking comfort

I think its safe to say that more people would have conquered Everest had they thought to bring an umbrella. If, like me, you have taken time out from your drug infused orgy-fest of a lifestyle to nose around the odd camping/outdoor fun shop you'd know that the umbrella (or para-agua as they delightfully call it in Spanish) is not a common sight. Things are about to change. Thanks to the willingness of one Andrew Portors to shrug off convention and innovate the umbrella will soon be seen proudly deployed by the many Gortex fetishists that festoon our crags and dales – who, to a man, will be smiling with quiet astonishment at the comfort that the umbrella can bring to an otherwise soggy hike, wondering no doubt 'why the f**k didn't i think of that?'

The site of the umbrella revelation was “The Picos de Europa” a quite breathtaking mountain range that leaps from sea level to 2500m in just 15 kilometers making for plenty of vertical landscape with precipitous drops and soaring skylines. For the day walker as were Andrew, myself and our provider of tents Mairi, there is a great walk through the Picos along the Cares gorge. This walk has been made possible by the construction early in the last century of a small aqueduct that, for reasons I haven't been able to grasp' was cut into the side of the gorge half way up massive cliffs along with an access path in an engineering feat of mind-boggling awkwardness for benefits of dubious quality – that was our route.

The Spanish have a very adult approach to heath and safety issues in the mountains which boils down to one sign waring that stick figures can fall off ledges. They then invite you to walk 12kms on a sometimes very narrow path cut into the mountainside with drops of dizzying depth beckoning just centimeters away – no rails, no fenced off areas, if you go up to the tall places and fall off 'em that's your problem – all very refreshing.

I can't remember a more staggering walk – more Lord of the Rings than Lord of the Rings – if you are ever in Northern Spain with a pair of sturdy shoes you could find no better place to put them through their paces. Oh and there were goats too. Ok not in itself an amazing highlight after all they were not bears (and there are bears in those mountains) but nonetheless an unexpected encounter with a frisky mountain goat two foot from a swallowing chasm can be invigorating.

When is a man on holiday but not on holiday?

When is a man on holiday but not on holiday?


Who cares! Pass me another vino tinto! Such is life here in the holiday town at the holiday school with the holiday people. Life is condensed into disposable packages of two or three weeks. Once opened it must be consumed quickly and it is. Relationships form blossom and decay to be replaced by others. Perspectives transform from innocence to experience as the wine bottle is drained giving weeks the feeling of years and fortnights lifetimes. Already I have experienced the passing of old friends and the birth of new ones. I am as an immortal amongst the mayflies – but can immortals keep pace with the doomed?

The first chapter of my Spanish experience is about to come to a close – not such a bad thing for my liver at least. I have spent the last month being fiesta'd (its something that happens to you rather than by you) in a shared flat with other students, socialising with other students and their tourist friends, amongst a sea of tourists from all over the world. By Monday I will be in a new flat, living with locals, two weeks after that all the friends I have so far made (and one I made earlier) will have left and all that now is will no longer be. It's anything but boring.

Before the end of the beginning begins the start of the now. No I haven't been smoking weed (although you can here in the street and in the bars – and yet its not endemic and the sky hasn't fallen in....) but I am looking forward to three weeks off school and to do some exploring with Andrew (who is visiting from Oz). We will see wild places and places that are wild. No doubt there will be picture and so I will share them with you all, also tales, and some of those too will find their way to these pages. But just now I am contemplating tonight's coming adventures and wondering who I will be tomorrow, and with whom....

Running of the cows

I saw the running of the cows last week. Some of you may be familiar with the more famous and, some would say more impressive but what do they know, Running of the Bulls during the San Fermin festival in Pamplona. Well i was not in Pamplona but in Laguardia a tiny pueblo in the foothills of the Pyrenees. I was not there to see the running of the cows but rather to taste some wine because Lagaurdia is wine country (actually most of Spain is wine country which is why its cheaper than water here). Nevertheless, it happened and I saw it.

It may not have been the highlight of my first two weeks indeed I doubt it was anyones highlight of anything but it was a first for me. Let me paint the picture for you. I emerge into the sunlight, along with a bus load of other spanish language students, from the cellar tour of a local winery. The tour had left 90% of the students none the wiser about the niceties of the wine making process of the Basque Country as most of them are beginners and our guide was incapable or simply unwilling to dumb his lifes work down to one clause sentences in the present tense, but it had left them with a raging thirst and so we headed to the local bars.

The first sign that something was UP was the installation of crash barriers along the narrow streets and the local crowd eagerly peering at an empty street. Wine in hand we decided to wait and see what was to happen and before long, much to my bemusement, some of the least impressive heffers i've ever seen scurried up the street to screams of excitement (that the heffers met with streams of excrement). No sign of drunken youths running from their dubious threat nor matadors waiting to dispatch them, in tight pants - just cows and poo. You couldn't help but be enchanted.

I now sit on my balcony waiting to go out and see off the first of my fellow students to leave. Within three weeks almost everyone I have befriended here will have gone home, holidays over leaving me with some happy memories of the first hectic three weeks and a mission to make friends with the none-too-friendly locals...I like a challenge. Ad

Pillow talk

I was going a bit stir crazy last night waiting for my flatmates to arrive (actually one just arrived now as I type this - she seems sane, phew) and so I made this crap video to show you my flat - hmm gotta work on those camera skills..

I blame the pillow too for my inability to get a good nights rest yet and maybe that too has added to the weirdness of the last few days...

I am in a three bedroom flat that is totally occupied by students at the Spanish school I am enrolled at. That means there is a lot of turn over in people and I have already (in six days) met eight students who either were leaving or have just arrived.

Oh dear - my last flatemates have arrived and would you know it - young enough to be my daughters! Oh well they are only two weeks then maybe I'll get someone who can talk about something other than their A-Levels (they're English). The guys who just left were surfers from Holland (shurfers froom de Nederlandsch) they were Schooper cool ya..

Right - anyway San Sebastian. It's right nice. You should all come here - actually you can't cos its full. Its August and the entirety of southern Europe thinks its a great idea to have holidays at the same time, and that time is now. Today being a weekend day by the afternoon it was hard to see the beach for flesh and these Europeans like to show as much flesh are humanly possible (was that a leathery speedo clad man with his mouth open trying to get a tongue tan?).

Full though it may be it still contrives to be lovely - like Goldilocks preferred sleeping arrangements (or was it breakfasting options?) its not too big, not to small, and not too hot and not too cold - I wonder when the bears are coming home?

Here are some photos for your edification... And then I must go and talk to the children....

Left - Old town

Right - not so old big building which I haven't been brave enough to enter lest i be transported to the mother ship and assimilated....

Those Gauls are crazy!!!

I like a party as much as the next man - unless that man's name is Yassin. I met Yass for the first time about 15 years ago, I met him again this weekend and I think he has been partying ever since our first encounter. meet yass

Yassin is a crazy Gaul. I just spent the last weekend with about 15 crazy Gauls and Richard my yorkshireman friend who lives in France and, to quote same, we 'made ourselves 'ave it!' It was not weekend for the faint hearted or the amateur party animal Only those with a blithe disregard for their own safety and sanity were welcome - I passed - just.The man in the picture (msr Frou Frou) passed easily.

I wont go into the seedier details suffice it to say that it was the Tempo Latino festival in Vic Fezensac a small rural town which annually plays host to this orgy or drinking and merriment thinly disguised as a latin music festival. There was latin music - but there was also Pernod for breakfast 6 hours sleep over two nights and men in binkinis at the public swimmng pool (the sane patrons saw the funny side and actually applauded when we arrived).

Lunch on day two was something - well quite something actually - perhaps assisted by my party muddled brain and the fact that I don't speak very good French it was like having lunch in an Hieronimous Bosch (sorry about spelling but you know who I mean) painting. Luckily my fellow demons were friendly and the bull stew was delicious washed down with neat Almanac!


Well after lunch we went to the pool with the orchestrator of the whole debauchery (who n fact is a serving French Policewoman!) and so it went on. A fabulous weekend of revelry French style, lets see how the Basques shape up

Caravans Dogs and Mini Golf

What links caravans, large dogs, and Mini-Golf? This blog dummy! Actually, I would have accepted incompatibility with a rainy climate - but hey if every rain-shy activity were off limits to the British we'd be left with drinking and darts and we've all seen what that can lead to....



So lets not dwell on the weather (just see the pic of the day for a taste) let me invite you to share the view of British summer I have had this week via the prism of my familial visitations.

Mother likes caravans. Don't ask me why (its something to do with the ingenious storage solutions I think) so much so she has two．　Ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｗｅｅｋ　ｓｈｅ　ｓｈｏｗｅｄ　ｍｅ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｍａｌｌｅｒ　ｏｎｅ　ｗｈｉｃｈ　Ｉ　ｆａｌｅｄ　ｔｏ　ｐｈｏｔｏｇｒａｐｈ　－　ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　Ｉ was too busy trying to avoid hyperthermia in the windy caravan parking area in North Wales by shivering and jigging up and down like some kind of caravaning ice addict. Suffice it to say that caravans have come on a lot in the 30 years since I last spent a week in a tinfoil chariot sheltering from the summer in a cow field in Cornwall - they even have satelite TV in case you get bored with the sunshine outside - ahem.

Father likes big dogs. Deerhounds actually which have the benefit of being almost impossible to walk, massively hairy and partial to the odd sheep. Ideal you might think for breeding in Wales - well spotted because that's exactly what he's done．　Ｈｅｙ　Ｉ　ｌｉｋｅ　ａ　ｂｉｇ　ｓｈａｇｇｙ　ｄｏｇ　ａｓ　ｍｕｃｈ　ａｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｎｅｘｔ　ｃｒｕｆｔｓ　ｎｕｔ　ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｅｓｅ　ｂａｂｉｅｓ　ａｒｅ　ｅｎｏｒｍｏｕｓ．．

Ａｌｓｏ　ｅｎｏｒｍｏｕｓ　－　ｍｙ　ｂｒｏｔｈｅｒｓ　ａｎｄ　ｓｉｓｔｅｒｓ　ｉｎ　Ｅａｓｔｂｏｕｒｎｅ　－　ｗｈｏｍ　Ｉ　ｈａｖｅｎ’ｔ　ｓｅｅｎ　ｉｎ　ｙｅａｒｓ．　Ｗｏｗ　ｈａｖｅｎ’ｔ　ｔｈｅｙ　ｇｒｏｗｎ，　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｈｅａｒ　ｙｏｕ　ｓａｙ，　ｗｅｌｌ　ｙｅｓ　ｔｈｅｙ　ｈａｖｅ　ａｎｄ　Ｉ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｉｔｓ　ａ　ｌｏｔ　ａｎｄ　ｉｔｓ　ｍｙ　ｂｌｏｇ　ｓｏ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｔａｋｅ　ｍｙ　ｗｏｒｄ　ｆｏｒ　ｉｔ．Ｉｎ　ｏｔｈｅｒ　ｎｅｗｓ　Ｉ　ｌｏｖｅ　ｅｍ　ａｎｄ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｕｎ　ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ　ｃａｍｅ　ｏｕｔ．

My brother has an Alpha Romeo Spider. Not so much a boast as a fact that explains this video...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dY8MTU_gNM

As you can see the weather - ahem - lovely. Unfortunately you can't really hear the sound of the engine in that video but take it from me it is a fast car and since my brother had just completed a day of racing driving instruction at a local race track he was driving pretty fast. Which is of course really not very sensible - but may have been a little fun too.

I now find myself in the heart of Southern Englishness where there are no poor people, everyone is white and the houses are thatched - its all a bit surreal. Later today I am taking a train to the North where reality will resume its grip and the accents will be less silly.

Oh - and just in case anyone was in any doubt as to how much fun you can have in the West Country here's a pic of me at the biggest Tank Museum in the world! (I know you're jealous Andrew and KB)

Juanathan

Cured!

When does one consider oneself cured of an affliction? Is pure absence of symptoms enough? Can we say that the epileptic, asthmatic, or liberal voter is cured simply because they haven't experienced their defining characteristics for a while? I don't know, but what I do know is that I just spent over 24 hours in the air without the slightest twitch, shake or stifled gasp of weak kneedness - CURED!

In fact, I really enjoyed it! I enjoyed the fact that I had two seats to myself from Syd to Tokyo. I enjoyed the faux Japanese food. I loved the Britishy types working on the BA flight, I loved it that the films on offer included All the Presidents Men and The Candidate (surely one of the best political campaign movies ever made - or only...) and I loved the space age beauty of the environmentally destructive Terminal 5 - phew

But I'm getting ahead of myself lets start at the start. I didn't leave Sydney on Tuesday night. Yes I was dropped at the Airport by Mr Bolwell stiffling our tears in manly fashion I waved adieu and strode through the doors to my new life - six hours later I joined 150 other grumpy passengers for an unscheduled night at the Novotel Brighton (nice beds) due to maintenance problems. I was less than chuffed as you can see here ...


As you can see I remained positive and in fact it was only 5 hours before we were all back on the bus heading for the airport and were processed in record time and were soon airborne.

Having missed my connection in Tokyo I got the treat of a night in Narita Nikko Airport hotel the highlight of which was my first experience of wearing a nightshirt..

I now find myself 24 hours later typing this entry watching the clouds trundle low over the slate roofs of North London whilst the dulcet tones of Test Match Special describe the 'action' at Lords as 'splendid' and 'quite marvelous' - and I am happy.

Tonight I go to Brighton to meet old friends and maybe have a pint or two - marvelous!

Freedom is ...

After six long years of employment by the taxpayers of Australia I have finally emerged blinking into the light of the post parliamentary life - and the sun feels good.

Whilst its probably an exaggeration to compare my time as a parliamentary staffer to being captive in an Austrian basement by a deranged incestuous mustache wearer, the sensation of liberation is nonetheless real.

Now that the pesky employment thing is out of the way I am able to concentrate on the real business of not working. I will of course try and apply myself to this most important of human activities with all the British gumption I can muster - stay glued to see how I go...

Welcome to your new lifestyle accessory

Hellooooo Sydney!!! (or wherever you are) LETS ROCK!! (or something)

I know you're excited. We all are.

The Jonjuan blog is THE lifestyle accessory of the moment. The exploits, the insights, the heady emotional journey that promises AND delivers.... 'n' stuff.

At the very least they'll be pictures of me and videos of...well me...and whimsical entries of the kind that only a man of lesuire could have time or inclincation to compose.

Be part of it and post your comments - it's sooo 2.0!

Jonjuan