Postcards from Australia Part 3 - Jet Lag and the 50th Shade of Unfashionable Lateness

Dear Reader, 

When I last left you, breatheless with excitement no doubt, I had just vented with regards to inappropriate queuing behaviour outside airplane toilets. You will be pleased to hear this post contains no toilet humour of any sort, honest.

Having arrived at out hotel in sunny Sydney (even in Winter) at 9am local time we were more than a little miffed to find that our room would not be ready until Midday. Just what we needed to hear having been travelling for the best part of thirty hours. We camped in reception, looking moody and homeless and eventually had a room ready for about 10, amazing what a little bit of righteous indignation can do.

Jet lag is an amazing thing. We were meeting friends in the evening who were hardened travellers. They advised sleep, but only a little bit, a couple of hours a most. We managed five and then ventured out into the Sydney night. After the pleasant sunshine of the morning we were a little shocked to find that the evening was bloody freezing. Oh well. 

After a pleasant evening we returned to our hotel and the miracle of jet lag and a mini bar ensured we were tucked up in bed by 4am, awakening fresh as a daisy by 7am. Something was not right, but we were awake. So we trooped to Taroonga Zoo, after an ill-conceived walk to the ferry. The sun may have been out but Sydney's Main Street to the ferry was wreathed in shade (bloody cold again) and much further away than expected. This, coupled with my initial bold strides in completely the wrong direction (albeit on the right road) didn't help matters. 

We eventually arrived at the zoo cold and grumpy. A mood which was shared by the animals, most of whom were either asleep or hiding away.

The ferry terminal is bracketed on side by that venerable Australian landmark, the Sydney Opera House. Having set eyes on it close up for the first time, I realised it is much like a polar bear... I may need to explain. From a distance a polar bear looks pearly white and shiny, get up close (not too close) and the polar bear has a distinctly yellow tinge. The Opera House is much the same. Every photo I had ever seen portrays a brilliant white Opera House. Up close it is yellow, definitely yellow. Anyhoo...

At about 3pm we returned to our apartments, shattered and needing sleep. This was a little unfortunate, as we had to be in North Sydney for 7pm for a pre-wedding get together. 

We had a little snooze and woke up before 7pm, but only just. Jet lag had us in it's grip. Getting ready was a little bit like running through treacle, slow and sticky. 

Eventually we made it out into the Sydney night and arrived at the venue at 9.30pm. This gave us ample time to meet all the relatives of the happy couple as they were leaving.

Following this the Dear Lady Wife and I were treated to a night out in North Sydney with the lucky groom and one of the groomsman. Much fun was had as we were accosted in a pub by a man who thought he had solved the worlds problems by inventing an iPhone cover! This iPhone cover would change the world by reflecting microwave radiation generated by mobile phones away from the user. My suspicion was that he spent time at home with his head covered in tin foil (just for testing purposes). 

An amusing photo opportunity presented itself, unfortunately photos are a bit of a challenge in the dark but you get the idea...

Groom, Dear Lady Wife and Groomsman in spitroast shocker.

Infantile, I know, but there are some photos that you just can't resist. For some reason this amused me as well. Details for the caption competition will be disclosed shortly.

Insert caption here...

More soon Dear Reader.

xx

Postcards from Australia Part 2 - The Flight

Dear Reader,

When I last left you I had cleared security and boarded a flight to Australia. This was largely un-eventful with the exception of one issue which I refuse to let pass. Sadly this post involves toilet humour.

Strangely, just like the last post, this is in fact a queuing issue. So, at the back of our plane where we are sat there are two toilets. As the plane is wide, there is a middle bank of seats, resulting in queues naturally forming for the toilets on either side of the plane. These queues are managed by an old-fashioned thing called good manners. If you are at the front of your queue, then you are facing the leader of the other queue across the width of the plane. If a toilet becomes free then either you, or the person you are facing grabs a toilet, depending which of you was there first. Does any of the above sound like rocket-science beyond the grasp of the average tool-wielding chimp, let alone human?

The Nirvana we dreamed of

I have reached the front of the queue on my side of the plane. This position is by an exit door, so I spend my time watching nothing in particular whilst I wait for nature to take it's course in front of me. The lady facing me who shall be named Superbitch Lady A is, based on the system outlined above is after me. All is well in the world.

At this point the toilet in question becomes vacant. The door opens, someone leaves, avoiding the carnage that is about to ensue. Superbitch Lady A stares down Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B. Words are exchanged. Superbitch Lady A wins the war of words, taking the cubicle with her. Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B, remains stoically in front of me, intending to take the second available cubicle.

This is too much, at this point I have choices. I could make a scene, which would be a much larger scene as she has no intention of backing down twice, or back down. I choose a third option, being that we are close to landing, which is to wake the Dear Lady Wife from a deep slumber to tell her all about it. She is not amused.

Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B has not finished with me yet. When the plane lands it transpires that Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B is only sat a couple of rows in front of me. I am in the process of dis-embarking, about to pass the seat where Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B resides. She has not as yet retrieved here hand-baggage (which I presume to be a broom-stick and a very angry black cat) from the overhead storage lockers. Undoubtedly spying me with her third eye, she decides to start this process whilst I am parallel with her. She does this by throwing her not inconsidable body mass in my direction, propelling me into the right hand row of seats as she retrieves her items.

When I recover, and rejoin the shuffling ranks exiting the plane, I find myself behind her and her family. She only stops to talk for ten minutes to each flight attendant she passes on the way out of the plane, deploying that body mass in such a manner that means she won't be passed. I wonder whether urinating down her skirt is unacceptable behaviour on a long-haul flight, as I still haven't been.

Ah, this will be the luggage

Eventually we clear Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B and security and spot her and her brood once more awaiting the arrival of the luggage. Our cases emerge first, a small victory, but you have to hold on to what you can. As I leave the baggage area I spy a long item of luggage which definitely isn't a case wrapped in brown paper retrieved by Supermegabitchfacefromhell Lady B... Yep that'll be the broomstick.

 

Myself and the DLW are now in Australia. Who knows what will happen next. More soon Dear Reader.

Xx

 

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Postcards from Australia Part 1 - The Journey

Dear Reader,

A dear friend is getting hitched in Australia, which provided enough excuse for me and the Dear Lady Wife to finally make the journey from the UK to Sydney. This was an interesting journey, dotted with notable events, some of which I will attempt to recapture here.

 

We begin at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3. We have arrived unfashionably early, as we have many important supplies to acquire at the airport. The intention being to breeze through check-in and security leaving us two hours to eat and purchase the essentials for the trip.

 

Problems started almost immediately. We tried to check-in automatically, using the machine provided for the task. After what the machine described as a moment, but was in fact a string of moments joined together to form an eternity, our attempt failed. This excluded us from the short bag drop queue. The much longer check-in queue beckoned. This queue snaked towards the entrance of the departures hall. Apparently this was a problem to our airline, who came up with a novel solution. Solutions which sprung to my mind included opening more check-in desks, staffing the existing check-in desks with humans who possessed the ability to do the job and so on. The airline was way ahead of me though.

You may have encountered a device like before, it is called the tensabarrier. This device, linked to a huge number of it's friends are deployed in airports throughout the world to control tired and irritable travellers at check-in and security to stop riots from occurring. Sometimes, they are deployed for a bit of a laugh, which was the approach of the airline here. So, the check-in queue, which already resembles the world's largest conga line has spilled beyond the control of the tensabarrier colony currently deployed. We are currently queuing in the "beyond the conga line" part of the queue. A representative of the airline addresses the area "beyond the conga line", excited we think more of the numerous currently empty check-booths to our left will be opened and this is where we were going. We were wrong. A new colony of tensabarriers had been hastily assembled to control the area "beyond the conga line". We were now part of the "outer conga line". There is a gap of a couple of metres to the "inner conga line", this is the "conga-less zone", an area so riddled with unseen danger and peril that an airline attendant has to guide people across it. You can imagine my amusement.

Several months pass, during which time we cross the "conga-less zone" without incident, and approach the end of the "inner conga zone". At that point another attendant of the airline asks if anyone on the several flights preceding ours are in the queue. Several people behind us stick up their hands. I initially presume they are going to be told that they are too late for their flight and settle in for the wailing, shouting and fighting to ensue. Image my horror when it transpires they were being allowed to "conga line jump", thus further delaying our journey. By this point I was ready to have them shot.

A mere week later and the queue jumpers have been shot checked-in. We made the front of the line. As always, at this point all check-in desks are populated by family groups spanning five generations, all of whom have, unbelievably, considering how long they have been in the "inner conga line", not got their documentation to hand. I wonder whether tossing imaginary hand-grenades in an airport is an act of terrorism.

 

Then a gap, and we check-in. This takes less than a minute, which leads to question it was taking so long to check everyone else in. Never mind, we are through, to security, anyway.

 

I wish I could say this bit was easier, but I am not that good a liar. The signs on the walls make it quite clear what you must do before going through security. Strip down to bare essentials, no belts, shoes, whips, concealed hand-guns etc. Also no liquids, everyone clear on what a liquid is? It is the sloshy stuff that isn't solid. Why am I always waiting for someone to throw away three gallons of the sloshy stuff? Why do they always have to re-pack their hand luggage as a result of doing this? We clear security, leaving only twelve minutes to board. Just about enough time to have a meal and buy some magazines and make last call for boarding feeling thoroughly sweaty and bedraggled. It can only get better.

 

More soon Dear Reader.

Xx

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Cricket, Curry and the Crackheads

Dear Reader,

Recently, myself and a couple of compatriots decided to travel to Nottingham (UK) to watch some cricket. These compatriots were not the recently discussed Twinnies, they would never be seen at a cricket match. Actually, that is not strictly true, if I sold the concept of a cricket match as an afternoon in the sun with unlimited access to reasonable wine they might come, as long as I didn't mention the word cricket. Back to the plot, such as it is.

This is not a cricket blog and it is also not a photography blog, so let's start with the cricket. We, (England) lost. We had already achieved a cricketing objective, to win on this day would have been ruthless, a trait that, well, just isn't cricket.

Onto photography. I have a camera that has switches and settings and lenses, none of which I understand. It also has a mode labelled P, which I presume stands for Philistine, designed for the likes of me. This setting, which I never venture from, except by accident, allows me to take acceptable photos. Occasionally, entirely by accident, I manage to capture an image that might be better than acceptable, well, to me, anyway.

During the day, image too bright, typical me photo.

Same(ish) shot in the evening, actually looks OK, fluke, pure fluke.

Not only is it by chance, it is under the influence of alcohol. I was unaffected by the demon drink when I took the first one. Enough about photography, I have already written more about it than I can claim to understand. I nearly bought Photography for Dummies, but realised it was too high-brow. So, to the pulsating plot again.

Having observed the cricket, our next task is to return to our hotel to freshen / sober up before the evening festivities begin. Our transition to Trent Bridge just involved a taxi, our return journey would not be so straight-forward. There was walking, there was wailing, there were hills, curses and threats of imminent death to anyone who asked "are we nearly there yet?" 1.4 miles later we are back at the hotel.

Suitably refreshed, we venture out into the night. A bar we passed with a piano had attracted out attention. We entered and ordered drinks. I am fan of a decent gin and tonic, but had never been served one of these.

Yummy

The vegetable matter in the glass is cucumber. This may sound odd, it did to me, but try it, you won't regret it. Chewing all those cucumber slices gave us an appetite, so, regrettably, we returned to the night. A curry was required, and the options were few, well, one in fact.

So good they named it once.

We sat, pleased to see we were not the only people dining, a first big tick for the establishment. It was at this point that the big ticks sort of ran dry. Drinks were requested, and duly delivered. Then we came to order, which was a rather unusual experience. Having recently returned from a foreign clime, I was used to having to point at menus to get someone to understand what I desired. 

I was a little surprised to go through the same process with an extremely pleasant English girl who understood my sounds perfectly but had clearly never been to an Indian restaurant in her life. I was (for a change) pronouncing things perfectly, but she had no way of mapping this to the words on the menu as she had never heard most of them spoken. Apparently, I was speaking in a foreign language, which threw me a little. Eventually, some food arrived, which looked at least a little bit like what we asked for, complete with Pilau rice (delightfully pronounced pillow rice by our waitress). Thence to bed.

The following morning, I awake, intending to drive from Nottingham to a business meeting. This didn't turn out as planned. Approaching the car I note something odd. All of the detritus that normally resides in the passenger foot-well of my car (sandwich wrappers, empty water bottles etc) has mysteriously found its way onto the passenger seat. Has there been a hurricane, no, my car has been broken into, passenger window smashed and that side of the car generally examined for booty.

On the upside, there was no booty of any value. Also, I didn't have to make the business meeting. Most importantly, I got to meet representatives of Nottinghamshire Police Force. Minutes after reporting the offence they arrived in a nice squad car. Two strapping members of the force emerged and began to examine the area. 

Conversation ensues. Whenever faced with authority, no matter how innocent the encounter, my mind attempts to get me in trouble, constantly responding inappropriately during conversation. These responses fight with the correct responses, in short I have to concentrate. The conversation, along with the suppressed comebacks follow:

Policeman 1 (P1) stepping out of the patrol car: So, you have been broken into?

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Ah, so you listened to the radio in your car then?

Me, smiling sweetly: Indeed I have.

Policeman 2 (P2) also stepping out from the patrol car: Where did they get in?

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Perhaps you might want to deploy all those years of police training and work this one out for yourself.

Me, smiling sweetly: passenger front window, they smashed it and then rooted around in that part of the car.

P1, waving a torch with some importance: they were looking for whatever attaches to the sucker mount on your windscreen.

Me: Oh.

P2: You should never leave anything of any value visible.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: The sucker mount cost me 0.99, it is of no value.

Me: Nothing of any value was visible, there was nothing of any value in the car, that statement actually includes the car.

P1, noting I have left the area untouched: We can't do forensics, as there is no blood.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: You want blood, I can give you blood.

Me: That's a shame.

P2: We will get them though, it's the Crackheads.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Would this be the Crackheads of 24 Acacia Avenue? In which case go and arrest them.

Me: Oh.

P1: When we do get them, they will get a good kicking.

Evil me whose voice must be suppressed: Oh, yippee.

Me: Oh.

With this they return to their car and drive off. I make a number of phone calls regarding insurance and replacement of glass and then go to the nearest pub. On my return I realise that my parking ticket has expired. I approach the machine which states quite clearly that once a ticket has been paid for, I have 15 minutes to exit the car park. I have been messing around for three hours. Hmmm.

I then do something I have never done before, which is press the button on the ticket machine which puts you through to a human. Astonishingly, someone answers straight-away, maybe no-one ever presses this button. I explain the situation, at this point the conversation continued as below:

Car Park Ticket Machine: You should have informed somebody.
Me: I did inform somebody. I informed several somebodies. I informed the police, my insurance company the company who is replacing the glass, my employers and my Dear Lady Wife. Did I miss somebody?
Car Park Ticket Machine: Yes, you should have informed us.
Me: Oh really, would that have helped?
Car Park Ticket Machine: No, but if you are going to need a new ticket issued you are going to need to contact us.
Me: I'm sorry, I have not had my car broken into in a car park before. I was not aware this was standard practice. I have added you to the list of people I must contact in the event of this occurring again.
Car Park Ticket Machine (sighing): Press the lost ticket button, use that ticket to exit the car park.

This exchange puts me in a much better mood. I leave the City of Nottingham to get my glass replaced,  which occurs without incident.

More soon Dear Reader, xxx.

Postcards from Tenerife - Twinnies and a Car Journey

Dear Reader,

In my last post, I began my experience of being with the Twinnies, AKA Dear Lady Wife and Colleague, in a foreign land. We flew, we arrived and we hired a car. At the end of the last post we had acquired a hire car and began our journey. In short, we had to get from the hire car depot to the motorway, facing in the right direction, drive for about an hour and a bit, and then follow a map scribbled on a piece of paper. Like all good pirate maps, our destination was marked with an X.

Sounds simple enough, but, we have no SatNav, we have a map which has no detail, we have in the car two of the most incompetent people in the world when it comes to navigation and me. Things didn't start well.

Our not particularly glamorous car rental garage, which is a cross between the warehouse where everyone dies in Reservoir Dogs and the dispatch area from cult 70's comedy Taxi, provided us with some instructions for our escape / car rental. "Leff, leff, leff again, straight, head to airport and then keep on going," I was reliably informed by our rental person.

Everyone dies, my Ford focus is just out of shot to the left.

Leff? Leff? Leff again? 

Having departed we go leff, leff, then leff again. In short order we are on a dirt road with vultures circling and coyotes looking eager, this is not the plan. I backtrack, eventually we return to where we started.

The Twinnies, (one in the front, one in the back), find all this highly amusing, this is like some big adventure. After all, once this little issue is solved we will be there in no time. At this point I feel like Thelma and Louises' driver.

Having tried leff, leff and leff for the second time my only choices are leff or straight on. I didn't choose this the first time as arrows make it quite clear that the only way to turn is right. Not wanting to revise the expectations of vulture dinner-time unfairly I plump for right. Shortly we are forced leff and see signs for the motorway. Could this small but obvious flaw in the instructions not have been made clear from the start? A mere thirty minutes after picking up the car we have made the one kilometre transition to the motorway.

Now, it should all be plain sailing and for a while, it is. A wrinkle occurs about forty minutes in, I am not sure what happens, but we are not on a motorway any more but find ourselves plunging into a city called Santa Cruz. Whilst pleading with the now sleepy and slightly grumpy Twinnies to look at maps and provide advice, I plunge on through the city, reasoning that we will pick up the motorway on the other side.

I have since discovered there is no motorway on the other side of Santa Cruz. There is, however an extremely long and windy mountain hugging road which leads to the middle of nowhere (Tenerife, Northern tip). This discovery took approximately forty-five minutes. Another forty-five minutes later I discover  that the extremely long and mountain hugging road looks very similar going the other way. On the upside, there is a traffic lane between me and the sea, several hundred feet below.

Below is a map with some lines drawn on it. The red line indicates where we should have gone, the blue squiggles are an artists impression of the way we actually went.

Back on track, uneventful motorway follows, we eventually reach a signpost which points to the region where our villa is located. Neither Twinny can make sense of the map. I pull off at the first exit and demand to see it. I note a number at the bottom which appears to indicate a junction number, not far from where we are. Shortly after this we arrive at our villa, a mere three and a half hours after picking up the hire car.

They say practice makes perfect. When it comes to car journeys in foreign climes with Twinnies, I can attest to the truth of this saying. The return journey to the car rental desk / warehouse took a mere one hour and seven minutes.

More soon Dear Reader 

xxx

Postcards from Tenerife - Easyjet and the Twinnies

Dear Reader,

I find myself travelling again. Regrettably, I find myself once again on my least favourite orange coloured airline. I have spoken about these chaps before here, today they have some new surprises for me.

Today we have a new part to play, yay!

First we have to get to the airport. It is an early flight, the thought of which makes me shudder. The blow has been softened a little by spending the previous night in a hotel approximately four centimetres from the check-in desk. This does not prevent us having to get up three hours before we went to sleep so we are in time for our flight.

Having awoken, early and angry, we arrive at check-in to find our dear orange friends have requisitioned an entire hall of check-in desks for us to queue in, how thoughtful. What a shame they hadn't manned any of them. Given we were queueing within fifteen minutes of check-in opening I was somewhat disappointed to be dragged out of line when it became clear we would miss our flight if we stayed in the queue.

Dragged out and checked-in, we advance through security at high-speed. At this point we are united as a group, my good self, the Dear Lady Wife and her Twinny. 

I should break at this point and explain the Twinny. Twinny is a female colleague of the Dear Lady Wife and they share enough attributes to make the word Twinny seem appropriate. A  list of shared attributes follows:

• Shopping - preferably by mail order
• Lack of organisation
• Love of wine
• Love of animals (every single one, but especially cats and donkeys)
• Ability to wail at the slightest inconvenience
• Ability to meltdown at a slightly larger inconvenience
• Inability to make decisions.

I share most of these attributes so we get on well. For the journey we require magazines, speakers and something from the chemist. I do the speakers, DLW does the magazines and the Twinny does the chemist. We vow to meet somewhere. This doesn't happen. Last call for the flight is announced. I rendezvous with DLW, but no sign of the Twinny.

We run for the gate, making it with approximately three minutes to spare. Twinny, however has not arrived. We phone, she is still in the chemist haggling over the price of some unguent. Then her name comes over the tannoy... "RUN" we say. Having finalised her transaction, along with three or four others, she deigns to run. Having stood on the transfer bus for ten minutes, we see her appear at check-in. Astonishingly, she is only second to last. United again, we advance to the plane.

There were two special moments on the plane; for once I don`t just mean take off and landing. Our orange friends had gone above and beyond the call of duty. First, we ordered food, which in itself was not special. What was special was one of the food items. It was so special I had to capture a shot of the packaging.

WTF is this?

I have never heard the words meat, festival, arctic, bread and wedge used in the same sentence before, but there they were. I attempted to imagine what combination of ingredients could encompass such a grand and wordy title, I came up short. How many ingredients are required for a meat festival? Two of them, apparently. 

This astonishing artefact was in fact a lifeless chicken, ham and cheese sandwich in pitta bread with some leaves. Hardy a festival, but definitely a wedge. Below is the item in all it's glory. You will note a bite has been taken out of it. There were no more bites to follow.

Come to the Meat Festival...

Our second special moment came when the orange flight attendant attempted to sell some of their on-board wares. During his little speech he referred to page 494 of his brochure and announced the following... "We have a number of Loreal products at excellent duty free prices, and I know we have some Loreal fans on the plane today...". "HOW?" I couldn`t stop myself from asking out loud. Do you stop them in the check-in area, on the way to the flight? Do you suck out their minds when they check-in on-line in an attempt to get their buying preferences? I didn't get a suitable answer.

Eventually, we land and collect our belongings with surprisingly little hassle. I have a piece of paper which is our hire car voucher. It says that we should pick up our car from the Orinoco desk or something similar. The desk in question does not exist. After much wandering up and down the terminal looking lost, we locate someone who explains that Orinoco have a person who occasionally appears in the airport, waving a board. The Twinnies look less than impressed. As promised, the person eventually arrives. At this point, we are escorted to a mini-van, which may, or may not, take us to the fabled hire desk. We may be kidnapped; if only I was friends with Liam Neeson.

We arrive at what can only be described as an underground garage, located some distance from the airport. The possibility of kidnap looms larger. There is a desk, of sorts. Driving licenses are perused, papers signed and we are away in a car, on the wrong side of the road with no clue as to where we are going. Sat-Nav is neither an option on the car or as a stand-alone add-on. We are given a mysterious piece of paper with lines and pictures on it and ushered on our way. Apparently this is a map, I have heard of these but didn't think people still used them.

Thus ends the first part of our little adventure.

More soon Dear Reader.

xxx

Postcards From Marbella Part 2 - Flying

Dear Reader, 

The last time I shared, I and the Dear Lady Wife were beginning the process of flying off to Marbella for a wedding. We had booked the tickets and accommodation. This was an epic journey in itself, but there is much more to come.

I have previously posted  about the joys of the DLW's preparation for a night out. Now we have to consider the much more exotic beast which is the DLW's preparation for a holiday. To prepare for a night out there is a list of things which need to be done, as below:

• Nails - potentially
• Hair - obligatory
• Waxing or shaving - the mere thought makes me shudder so I will not dwell
• Shopping, online - a whole host of objects are required that bizarrely the Dear Lady Wife appears not to be in possession of...
• Clothes
• Handbag
• Shoes
• Make-up
• Hair products
• Moisturisers, balms, ointments and other unguents to be applied to face, hands, skin etc.

To prepare for a holiday, some mathematical constants need to be applied to the list above and some new items will need to be added. The constants that can be applied to a given item in the above list are [Days Away] and [Panic Factor]. Note that [Panic Factor] is always a variable.

• Nails - absolutely
• Hair - obligatory
• Waxing or shaving - the mere thought makes me shudder so I will not dwell, this is now obligatory
• Shopping, online - a whole host of objects are required that bizarrely the Dear Lady Wife appears not to be in possession of * [Days Away] * [Panic Factor]
• Clothes * [Days Away] * [Panic Factor]
• Handbag * [Days Away] * [Panic Factor]
• Shoes * [Days Away] * [Panic Factor]
• Make-up * [Days Away]
• Hair products  * [Days Away]
• Moisturisers, balms, ointments and other unguents to be applied to face, hands, skin etc  * [Days Away]
• Plugs for foreign destination. Just in case, it is necessary to bring every foreign plug for every foreign destination we have ever visited just in case our European hotel is having its electricity piped in from Thailand, or San Francisco, you never know, right?
• Plasters and tissues, always plasters, always tissues. 
• Something to repel mosquitoes, regardless of where we are going.
• Jabs, there must be jabs.

There will also be a fake tanning session, as  previously posted  much to my chagrin. On this occasion we are visiting a sunny country, which means there will be an interesting metamorphis of the DLWs skin color. She will arrive faux brown, get lighter as it washes off, before catching up with where she started from with real tan. The irony of this is never lost on me. 

Then there is packing. I am not responsible for this, I am just the cup that receives DLW's frustration. My cup doth runneth over. I do have a purpose though, I am the finder, the fetcher and the carrier. Once this is all done we rush, hotfoot to the airport. It should be noted, for accuracy, that neither my feet, or the DLW's feet actually get hot on the way to the airport, making the word hotfoot in the previous sentence seem rather unnecessary. Has anybody literally run hotfoot anywhere? Never mind.


So to the terminal, at an airport that is occupied, neigh dominated, by a budget airline who shall remain nameless.

Damn spellchecker.

We breeze through check in, glide through security and are ensconced in our seats comfy and warm, a mere ten minutes after entering the terminal. The flight takes off immediately and we are are whisked to our destination. Then, I woke up, screaming, because the nirvana of air travel had so cruelly been plucked from my grasp. 


Let's try again, tearing apart the last paragraph activity, by painful activity.


Breeze Through Check In

This should be the easiest bit, to be fair it actually is. It still isn't as smooth as it should be though. I present my email confirmation on a piece of paper as requested. A lady of indeterminate age (due to exaggerated make-up and botox) regards with me a fixed and startled expression (which I hope is because of the botox, not my appearence.) "Is there just one of you flying today?" She demands without a single facial movement. "Erm, no, two." I respond, weakly, gesturing at the now fuming DLW and cases clearly belonging to two people. Some huffing and swearing follows, eventually a new question emerges. "Are there two of you flying today?" No shit Sherlock, I mutter under my breath, but the bags are eventually checked in.

There will be questions. Pay attention.

Glide Through Security

Perhaps this was a definition of the word glide I wasn't previously aware of. This definition involved scuttling, shuffling, some more scuttling and some more shuffling. A little shimmy and some swaying. All this over a period of about thirty minutes. Eventually there was some undressing and some awkward silences. Finally we were through security.

Shuffle, scuttle, perhaps a sashay, if you're feeling brave.

Ensconced In Our Seats - Part 1
This is actually the best bit. Having escaped security with out clothes (if not our dignity) intact we are in the shopping heaven that is the airport. There will be no ensconcing, but there will be shopping. The finest available provider of books and literature will furnish the DLW with Heat magazine and a bottle of water. The finest chemist will furnish us with extra plasters and mosquito repellent (you can't be too sure). An electrical outlet will look bemused as the the DLW explains her destination, along with her existing collection of travel plugs and demands variants, just in case.

Ensconced In Our Seats - Part 2
Now we must make our way to the gate. Our flight is boarding immediately (allegedly.) Upon arrival at the said gate it appears boarding means sitting in four extremely uncomfortable chairs which have been taken, or standing around. In the blink of an eye executed by an eyelid welded open by a crowbar traversing an eyeball covered in molasses things start to occur. More botox and exaggerated make-up (and that is just the boys) appear at some door. The smell of orange is cloying. Could we perhaps re-convene at another departure gate in a different postcode, suggests an orange, apparently the airplane driver got lost. We all tramp to our new departure gate.

There is a concept called speedy boarding touted by our flight operator who shall remain nameless. I am not sure who this applies to and neither does anyone else. When the gate eventually opens, boarding is the usual undignified fight for survival that typifies most budget airlines.

The Flight Takes Off Immediately
No, it doesn't. An eternity passes, then we start to move. Not at any great speed. The pilot must be getting paid by the hour, so insists on inching down the runway and most off rural Hertfordshire at approximately four miles an hour. Maybe he is lost as well. Another three eternities pass, finally the proverbial pedal is applied to the proverbial metal and we are off.

This has taken a while Dear Reader, I am sure you are breathless from the excitement, as am I.

More soon xxx

Postcards From Marbella Part 1 - Getting There

Dear Reader, 

A combination of sporting events, weddings and lofty goals have recently kept me quiet. When I say quiet, what I mean to say is I have been recovering from hangovers in darkened rooms for what seems like weeks.

Time to emerge, blinking into the sunlight, like a mole who set his alarm wrong, or an underground traveller on a sunny day.

Oooh, it's a bit bright out here!

Let's begin with the wedding... it is no ordinary wedding, as if there is such a thing. The thing that makes this special (apart from the people, obviously) is the venue. Not the church itself (although it was pretty damn spectacular) but the location. It is in Marbella, Spain.

Marbella, from this point forward shall be referred to as Marbs, not because I am a lazy but because the Dear Lady Wife has just learnt the cast of her favourite program are filming there. They refer to it as Marbs, so Marbs it is. Who am I to argue with the collective intellect that is the cast of The Only Way Is Essex?

The location implies an extended wedding agenda, including pre-meet, wedding and post party. Basically a wedding over three days, which is fine. It also means travel, my least favourite form of travel, the foreign variety.

To get to this wedding I, and the DLW have to to get on a plane which will whisk us to our destination. This should be the easy bit, however before this can happen we have to book flights, we have to book hotels and then we have to prepare.

To avoid total meltdown due to stress we split into two teams, I get flights, DLW gets accommodation. I do well, within one hour of starting the process, I have narrowed down the list of possibilities from many to some. To the untrained eye, this might not seem like a lot of progress, but trust me it is. I have eliminated all return flight options due to either the departure or return time being unacceptable. I have booked the outbound flight and I am working on the return.

This is not me, but the smoke is pretty accurate.

Having used the word meltdown in the previous paragraph, it can be assumed that I find this sort of thing stressful. I hate filling out forms; when it comes to searching for a flight, let alone booking one, there are many forms. If I actually book a flight, there are many more. To deal with this stress a bottle of wine may have been opened, followed by another. I am not certain how many, but this information has been verified and logged by UN trained observers. 

There is a point in time when you should stop trying to make purchases on the internet under the influence of wine. UN trained observers should step in. They should say something UN trained observer like. "Son, you've booked enough flights for one night. Come back tomorrow." Or something similar. They didn't, so I made a mistake.

I was searching for a one way flight from Marbs back to the UK, I made the mistake of attempting to do this through the providers website. If I searched for flights returning on the Saturday, then a red line of text would appear saying, we haven't got anything on the date specified but here is a totally unrelated flight to a different destination a year later which you might be interested in. OK, you have an eccentric search engine. If I wanted a flight in 2014 from Dubrovnik I probably would have asked for it, but no matter, you have alerted me to this in big red letters.

Dubrovnik, looks lovely, should go, but I need to be in Marbs.

I actually wanted to return on the Sunday so I changed the search criteria. Do you know what that nasty website did? It suggested a random flight, without the warning message. In a frenzy of excitement I booked it. It was not until I printed the confirmation email, having handed over a large amount of cash I realised that I and the DLW would be flying from Dubrovnik at some point in 2014.

This, to the untrained eye, may make me appear to be a complete idiot. This is why you should not book flights under the influence of wine. Booking flights is like operating heavy machinery, dangerous if you are using medication.

So, I need to cancel. Which means I need to speak to a human, and the human operated telephone service closed for the evening 30 minutes ago. I have failed in my task and I must reconvene the following day.

This experience deserves a post all its own. It has a working title Would I rather stick cocktail sticks in my eye or cancel a flight with a budget airline I booked whilst tipsy the night before.... Discuss. Like I said, its just a working title.

Suffice to say, the cancellation was agreed, an appropriate flight was purchased, we are on our way.

This feels like a lot of words already Dear Reader. This is going to be an epic with a number of parts.

More soon xxx

Navigation

Dear Reader,

Once upon a time there were no satellite navigation systems and your phone was just a phone. During those days people lived in caves and huddled round fires for warmth. When they needed to visit another cave they had to use strange pieces of paper with lines and symbols on them called maps. Maps came in two sizes, far too big and far too small, there was no in-between. If people travelled by car, someone would be nominated the navigator, who would be the master or mistress of the map. Heated exchanges would often be conducted between the driver and the navigator. Phrases such as "I meant the other left" were commonly used. It was a dark and mysterious time. People were often late for appointments.

An all too-common discussion regarding left and right.

Oh, the irony.

The Dear Lady Wife would use me as navigator even if I wasn't there. She had long ago decided that the symbols and lines on maps were just that, symbols and lines. They were also not to be trusted. A phone conversation would take place shortly before the DLW was due to arrive at her destination. A transcript is needed:

DLW: I am out of the underground and I walked the way you told me. I cannot see my destination.

Moi: What can you see?

DLW: Buildings, shops, a street magician.

Moi: I was hoping for a street name. 

DLW: Oh, Frog Street. 

Moi: You are heading in the opposite direction to which we discussed.

DLW: Are you sure your map is not upside down.

Moi: It's on a computer screen.

DLW: Well you clearly told me the wrong thing this morning otherwise I wouldn't be here now!

I can only assume that wherever DLW is when these conversations take place there is so much background noise that it is hard to hear the sound of her own voice. As a consequence she feels the need to screech. I miss those conversations.

Now people live in houses and shiny tower blocks and they have central heating. Huddling round fires is a lifestyle choice. Being late for appointments is a lifestyle choice. One contributor to this dramatic change in fortune is the invention of satellite navigation systems. 

There is nothing more comforting than being told where to go (in the nicest possible way.) Alternatively I can view a map that is the right size without killing myself. I do not have to understand geography anymore. If I visit the same faraway place twice I do not have to retain the route in my mind. As a consequence I can fill this now under-used portion of my brain with more important things like cricket stats.

Lovely Sat-Nav

In the hands of the DLW the satellite navigation system takes on a different, evil persona. Sat-nav can lie, tell half-truths, even speak in tongues. It can be deliberately upside-down, get confused between left and right, it can even lose contact with the sky. It can attempt sat-nav suicide by willfully throwing itself off the dashboard into the footwell of the car at a vital moment. It has even been known to mime.

DLW Sat-Nav

None of this has ever happened to me. The DLW has a special relationship with sat-nav, it is a relationship that needs counselling. As a result we still have those lovely conversations that I miss so much and that is good.

Tomorrow, Dear Reader, I will be ogling the letter O.

xx

Llama

Dear Reader,

Once again on a deadline, fishing for anything that inspires me and I came up with Llama. I have always liked the animal, without ever touching one but also the word. So I googled it. Apparently it wasn't just me. The word llama will yield a number of interesting and some what bizarre results.

We have to begin with my first exposure to all worlds Llama. This happened when I was first exposed to a computer and the special talents of a man called Jeff Minter. Those of a non-geek mentality might want to bail out for a paragraph or so. Jeff Minter eventually, ran Llamasoft, provider of some very fine computer software, first for the ZX81, and later for the Commodore 64, Atari ST and others. One of the things that attracted about the games were the titles. Revenge of the Mutant Camels, Metagalactic Llamas Battle at the Edge of Time, and Sheep in Space still make me chuckle. I note Llamasoft lives still and is currently reproducing all of is classic stuff as i-Phone apps. I will be downloading once space becomes available on my rather clutttered phone. Also on the site is a rather entertaining biography of Jeff, by Jeff. 

Then there is the nice people at Llamas with Hats whose YouTube animations are a joy to behold. Judging by the number of hits, it isn't just me...

So we have two llamas, one mild-mannered and the other a little psychotic and they both wear hats.

Then there is the song. If you have recently recovered from an irritating song related addiction DO NOT click the link below...

Then there was my honeymoon. I didn't go to Peru, (or wherever this particular animal hails from) because I didn't need to. The Llama's close cousin, the Alpaca had a herd in the UK in Devon, where we spent a couple of days on our mini honeymoon before our full-gas run through South-East Asia. I picked this location for two reasons, the alpacas and the private jacuzzi. So, first the jacuzzi... It was certainly private as it was housed in an outhouse / private building a significant distance from the rest of the accommodation. It was in fact, in a field. It did everything it said on the tin, I just needed to look at the tin more closely. 

The main reason for the trip, was the Alpacas who were friendly, allegedly. They were in fact cute, but only from a distance. More stand-offish than friendly. Oh well.

See what I mean? Cute.

The more astute and regular visitors to this blog would know that this is an A-Z challenge post. It should have been posted yesterday. I am late. Perhaps slightly too far under the influence of wine last night I did publish this to my test blog, but not the live one. Better late than never I suppose. Normal service will be resumed later when I will be munching on the letter M.

Till later Dear Reader.

xx

Belgium

Dear Reader, 

How did this come to pass? Why am I thinking of Belgium? Apart from the fact it begins with B. I had written something else, but it has been rejected by my editing department (dear lady wife) and now I have to come up with something else. So, Belgium...

It has a flag!

I have some personal experience of Belgium. I once had to visit a client in Belgium, near Brussels. Due to the combined incompetence of myself and people who assisted in arranging my diary, a hotel had not been booked and nothing appeared to be available. Apparently this regularly happens in Brussels when highly important EU meetings take place (more about these highly important meetings later). The client said they would find something for me utilising their local knowledge, which they did.

I arrive in Brussels, spend the day with aforementioned client and then journey to my hotel. Except it wasn't a hotel, it wasn't even a Bed & Breakfast, it was a youth hostel. I got a strange look from the lady manning reception, no doubt wondering why someone smartly dressed in a suit with a laptop would want to stay there.

Things went rapidly downhill as I was shown to my "room".  When you stay in a hotel you may also be shown to your "room". Room in this case is a little mis-leading. After all this is in fact somewhere that you spend the entire evening, (if there is room service). It is, at the very least, your bedroom and your bathroom. It will probably have a desk and tea-making facilities. You will, for a small fee, be able to access the internet, making it an office as well. Finally you can settle in for the evening and perhaps hire a movie meaning it can sort of be a lounge as well. The point being laboured here is that it is more than just a "room".

My room in the youth hostel was a "room" pure, and simple. Bedroom, to be precise. There  were no tea-making facilities, there was no internet, there was a microscopically small television, showing local Belgian television without sub-titles. No Sky Sports for me, definitely no movies. No room service, no restaurant and no bar. If I wished to use the toilet or the shower, there were shared facilities at the end of hall. Unlike most hotel rooms, however, the owners had kindly catered for the meteorologist in me. Belgium, and most of mainland Europe was in the middle of a very cold snap. I could, if I so desired gauge just how cold it was by measuring the thickness of the ice on the inside of the windows. This would prove to be very useful information to me, as, without room service, a restaurant or a bar, I would definitely be going outside. I was quite hungry, ravenous in fact, above all else though, I needed a drink.

I was back, a few weeks later, to complete my assignment. On this occasion, there were no important EU meetings taking place (some would say that was always the case), consequently I was sequestered in a perfectly serviceable hotel. There are many in Brussels, if you book in advance and remember not to clash with one of those oh, so important meetings.

Having shared my most miserable night away from home, it's only fair I turn my attention to why Brussels was booked to the hilt on a weekday.  

Brussels is the administrative hub of both the European Union and  NATO. The European Union, or EU for short likes to create some order out of the chaos presented by 27 member countries, each with their own cultural, ethnic and social make-ups. It likes to do this in very long meetings, over a numbers of days, often about the most trivial things. I sense that a list of more infamous debating topics are required. There will be bullet points. The precise shape, size and position of these bullet points has no doubt been debated long into the night, possibly at the expense of a comfy hotel room for me. So:

• The curve of the banana. Straight bananas are acceptable, it is the degree of crookedness which was at issue. Depending on the class of banana, differing degrees of crookedness are allowed. Class 1 bananas can have "slight deviations of shape". Class 2 bananas may have full on "defects of shape". When it comes to bananas the acceptable degree of curvature has never been defined. 
• The curve of the cucumber. Unlike the banana, this has been defined. Class I and Extra Class cucumbers can bend by 10mm per 10 cm of length. Class II cucumbers can bend twice as much.
• The hydrating effects of water. Producers of bottled water are now forbidden from claiming that this is true and face up to two years in jail if they do.
• Prunes are not laxatives. Apparently not, there is insufficient evidence to link consumption of prunes with bowel movements. Hmmm.

Apparently the banana rule has since been relaxed as the EU was worried that two many perfectably eatable bananas were being disposed of unnecessarily. 

Too bendy, bendy enough, too bendy, quite bendy, who knows?

I don't know what EU discussion was so important that everyone had to stay overnight, consequently booking all of the OK hotels and displacing me to a youth hostel and nor do I care. Unless the discussion was about the acceptable thickness of ice permitted on the inside windows of guest rooms in youth hostels, in which case I might have listened very closely to the outcome, very closely indeed. 

More tomorrow Dear Reader, as we enter the crazy world of the Letter C

xx

Postcards From Venice - Our Feathered Enemies

Dear Reader, 

Whilst wandering around the streets and piazzas of Venice I noticed something interesting about the feathered inhabitants of the city. There were a lot of pigeons and also quite a few seagulls wandering about and generally making a nuisance of themselves. They nearly all had one thing in common. They were fat. 

Venetian Pigeon - Chubby

London Pigeon - The Lighter Variety

Being a regular to visitor to London I get to see a lot of pigeons on my travels. London pigeons are straggly little beasts in comparison to their Venetian counterparts. I wondered why this would be and I think I have an answer: the motor car. London pigeons are constantly being harassed by the motor car. Being rather foolish animals you will often find pigeons wandering about in the road looking for little tidbits of food. If the London pigeon wishes to live a full and rewarding life then he better be able to move quickly to get out of the way of cars. Cars do not stop for pigeons. Well, not in London anyway.

The life of the Venetian pigeon is conducted at a far more relaxed pace. The Venetian pigeon has to avoid the feet of tourists and the occasional over enthusiastic dog but that is about it. For a Venetian pigeon to reach a ripe old age, he really needs to go to the gym.

The slower paced life of the Venetian pigeon has other consequences as well. Not for the pigeons themselves but for the many people who visit Venice, including us. In a previous post I related some of the issues my dear lady wife Smiffy had with flying insects whilst in Thailand. A variation of this behavior was exhibited whilst in Venice. The problem here was that as the pigeons were a little overweight they didn't seem too bothered about flying at high altitude. No, they seemed quite happy to cruise along at tourist head height.

Another problem also manifested itself whilst wandering the narrow Venetian lanes. Pigeons on the ground. When on the ground the Venetian pigeon will attempt to walk (waddle, actually) very slowly out of your way. This evasive maneuver would occasionally put itself in the way of another threat which it hadn't spotted previously. A form of panic then sets in which the pigeon will attempt to escape by taking off, without any great consideration of direction as it is (quite literally) in a bit of a flap.

The consequence of all this is that Smiffys' progress through the streets of Venice was erratic to say the least. There would be backwards walking, walking behind me, stopping, running, diagonal darting and all manner of other tactics to avoid the Venetian pigeon. A soundtrack consisting of screeches, sighs, cries of 'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee kamikaze bloody thing!', instructions to stop, duck or run would also emanate from my much harassed wife.

Venetian seagulls are also worth mentioning. They are also fat and prone to flying at tourist eye-level. Not only are they fat, they are large, about the same size as an Alsatian. They are also insane. I saw one fly off with a small child whilst her mother was buying an ice cream. Having been liberated of several hundred Euros for the ice cream, she turns to find Penelope gone. This sort of thing is so common in Venice that it didn't even make the papers. By this sort of thing, I mean the kidnap of a small child by a seagull, not the cost of the ice cream. Both incidents would have made front page news in the UK.

It occurs to me that I may have made that last bit up.

Venetian Seagulls Larking About.

Or did I?

More soon Dear Reader. xx