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....