I have a choice of sorts, either hang out in my room at the B&B and watch various BBC programs, usually involving extreme amounts of weather programming and such scintilating subjects as David "did he or didn't snort nose-candy and should we care" Cameron or ...
... go down the swan where there's wireless internet connectivity, get my email, continue to apply for jobs and have a chat with the bar staff or anyone else who happens to show any interest in talking about the weather, or David "did he or didn't he smoke a giggle stick" Cameron.
Of course, there's always "Natural" a coffee shop up in Wimbledon village with free wireless access, but somehow the thought of sitting having coffee at 6pm isn't as appealing as a nice pint of steamed larks vomit bitter.
Not much competition really.
Now, before you assume I'm a desperately lonely poor chap lost in London, let me be the first to say that I'm a moderately lonely slightly whimsical bloke found in London who does at least have an invite to a party on Saturday, so it's not all sad. I may wangle myself another dinner at friends during the week too if I drop some subtle hints such as "Cooking dinner anytime this week and can I come around sporting a cheap bottle of plonk ?"
After a day wobbling and lurching my way around several tube lines, District, Central, Victoria & Northern in search of a better wireless networking card and of course an all important meeting with a job recruitment agency (which went exceptionally well), I'm knackered.
Where does the time go in this city ?
It just vanishes. I can't put my finger on it. Certainly London moves fast, people don't amble around here, they power walk. Everyone walks fast, if you don't, you get bumped and piss people off. But here I sit in the pub and it is just so wonderfully relaxed.
Wonderful news too, Lisa the proprieter who has just introduced herself formally to me, is having a wine appreciation evening tonight starting at 7pm - it's free !
There's also free food. Hooraaah !
(I feel the word Hooraaah is possibly one which may still be in use in this neck of the woods, but probably only behind closed doors and possibly involving horse whips & leather boots.)
Life for a lonely sad saffa/engelsman like myself doesn't get much better than this. I fear I shall strike up many a wondering conversation tonight after quaffing wine, I'll have to attempt to remove the "boring fart talking about trying to find a job" hat and instead don my "desperate lunatic rambling wierdo trying too hard 10-sheets-to-the-wind" Stetson on.
Failing that, I'll retire to a corner wearing my red "tongue-sticking-out-corner-off-mouth-village-idiot" cap and mumble incoherently to myself about following in Brysons footsteps, except with half the writing talent, a lot less money and absolutely not one single ounce of notoriety.
Ahh well, I can dream. (about the notoriety, not the red cap ...)
