Escape from Crumbley Castle

Get me out of here, this home of geriatric crumblies slowly revolving around the dancefloor to music played by balding men.

Breakfast at 8.30, on the coach at 9.30, trapped for 2 hours listening to people talk about operations and death, followed by a brief burst of excitement in some hokey little scottish town, then it's back on the coach. Arrive at 17.00, dinner at 19.00, 'entertainment' at 20.30 and then bed.

Rinse and Repeat.

All the time, the scottish glens entice me, the fact that out there is wildlife, whiskey, walks, boats, young people. Glasgow just 50 miles down the road with bars, clubs and night life. City of culture.

This is a hotel of culture, but it's the kind you find in a petri dish, otherwise known as mould.

I wonder down the corridors chanting "Red ruuuum" "Reeeddd Ruuuuum" - I'd take that scenario over normality. Perhaps someone will break down my door with an axe this evening. I'll leap out the window running naked screaming for the hills, clutching bottles of single malt whiskey to my chest, being pelted with shortbread and haggis.

This is Scotland for christs sake, it's NOT supposed to be like this, is it?

Perhaps it is, which is why most Scottish people leave as soon as they get the chance.
How many lochs, glens, castles and wee twee towns can you really take before you either leave, or hit the bottle? It's no wonder that the Scottish perfected the art of Whiskey, there's fuck all else to do up here!

It's either that or start a fight, or do both.

I protest too much, I do. This is fantastic scenery, it really is, if I could actually get to WALK on some of it, instead of sitting on the coach for bum numbing hours with people a million years older than me.

"oooh, look dear, there's a deer, dear."
"Yes love, Agnes had hers taken out last week, she's been ever so poorly you know"
"oooh, look dear, isn't that a castle?"
"Yes love, my legs ache and my face is falling off, is it far to go?, I need to pee myself again"
"What dear?"
"I said isn't it a luverley twee dee dear"
"yes, yes it is, what day is it? I had a nice fish supper last millenium, it was ever so good, except for the bones, they get stuck in my ears you know."


ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Train Spotters / Day Trippers - a day on the Watercress Line.

Alton, Ropley, Medstead, Alresford - the trains on the Watercress line go back and forth on a relaxed journey back in time.

Cathy and I boarded the 'Bodmin West Country Class' at Alton on a perfect summer's day; the only dark clouds in sight were the smoke plumes from the engine.

As the train pulled slowly away from the station we made for the windows, cameras in hand to get the obligatory face full of smoke and to try to snap some action shots. The rolling green landscape was picture-book perfect, the progress slow but steady.

We wound past old abandoned rolling stock, rusting away slowly in the heat of the day. A lone man with a metal detector in a field didn't notice our passing, lost in the dream of finding treasure no doubt. The cows paid no heed, resting under the trees to escape the heat.

Shaking hairfuls of soot all over the train tables and seats, we decided to clamber off the Bodmin at the first stop, Ropley, to view the train yard.

The attention to detail on this route is unique. At each station stop, the staff are dressed 1920's style, complete with pocket watches on chains. Somehow it doesn't feel out of place as it is done with carefully studied English understatement. There isn't any feeling that this is all just a big show. The staff you meet are genuine, the trains and stations restored with care.
It's an underlying passion mixed with everyday sensibility.

Our fellow travellers were a great bunch. We were mistaken for real train spotters by some, as we were taking the types of photos more associated with enthusiasts.
If truth be told, we were just having fun with cameras, neither of us really knowing that much about trains, but we didn't want to spoil the expectations of that special "train spotter" breed and we shared the enthusiasm anyway.

The next train from Ropley was an old diesel which took us past Medstead to Alresford for our "half way stop" and a much needed pint of cider and bite to eat.

Alresford is an old market town with a wide high street, aptly named 'Broad street'
It sports a pink Barclays bank, which was amusing.

We headed for 'The Globe on the Lake' and arrived early enough to get a table in the garden, overlooking the Ducks, Swans, Geese and occasional Coot in a feeding frenzy. Small children, wielding chunks of bread, were having a riot of fun throwing it at the Ducks.

Dodging the wasps and midges, we enjoyed a tasty chicken pie and cold cider and eventually dragged ourselves away for the return journey.

We misjudged the train times, after having a half pint at 'The Swan Hotel' and decided that another half at 'The Horse & Groom' was in order.

The next train back was a Diesel, so we decided to stop at Medstead and wait for the final steam train. Medstead wasn't that memorable, aside from some of the old restored adverts at the station, one in particular, advertising 'Nosegay Tobacco'

As we boarded the train back to Alton, sharing cool white wine in plastic cups, we had a chat with a fellow couple. The husband had worked on the railways before retiring, so he had a few interesting stories to tell.

The journey back was too short. Ahh but for a few more hours gently rolling through the lush English countryside, with great company, in a timeless place.


All in all, it was a perfect day.

The Green Hills of Home

It's been eight months back "home" and I'm no closer to really understanding my connection to this island of my birth.

I suppose I'm a colonial in some odd way, with the blood of Africa somehow entrenched into my Phyche, for I cannot shake the deep marks that Africa has left on my personality. Not that I would want to do that, I love that aspect of my history.

Life in Africa as shaped me as surely as my English heritage has, but does it really matter?

I'm not sure, I haven't figured that one out yet. As much as I'd love to claim to be beyond these aspects of life, I'm not.

A personal history matters a great deal, it defines your personality, your outlook and thus, in a generic sense, your future.

I'd given up England as being my Home many years ago, having assimilated myself into life in South Africa, but below the surface there was always the Englishman. The full extent of what that means may never return, because again we come back around to "what does it matter?"

It matters a lot, it really does. As much as I'd love to declare myself "a citizen of the planet", life doesn't work that way.

I have these deep stirrings, this ancestral memory perhaps? - Bollocks I hear you say - but I truly feel like I belong in this land, which I never really did in South Africa. This is the land of my ancestors.

Everywhere I go, I'm reminded that this is home - there's no alien feeling at all, but often there's mild confusion and amusement as I try to figure out the huge gaps I have missing in my personal history of England.

I can chat with my fellow work mates and friends I've met and have a connection, but England and the UK have changed dramatically in the years I've been in South Africa. We have the common ground of youth - the TV programs, the cultural icons of years past, but 20 years away is a long time.

Sometimes that gap means nothing, other times it's like a chasm which will never be crossed.

This is the fifth time I've shipped back "home" and in some ways it's been the most difficult.

The brief history?

1976 (aged 8) - Family moves from England to South Africa
1978 - Family moves back to England
1981 - Family moves back to South Africa
1984 - Parents divorce, Mother returns to England
1989 - I return to England
1990 - I return to South Africa
1993 - I spend two months back in England
1998/2004 - A few weeks back in England
2005 - I return to England

Am I English, am I South African?

Well, right now, I'm English - adopt or die...

Steaming Hot...

This country just isn't geared toward hot weather.

It's been pretty damn warm for a few days - in fact, it's been bloody hot. I've faced worse, but in places where they are used to temperatures hitting the "high sweats"

In England, when the heat goes above 30, the government issues warnings - yep, no kidding.
The "Nanny State" kicks into gear and tells everyone to drink more water, keep out of the sun - basically, they tell everyone how to live thier lives. Gee, thanks Government, if you hadn't told me, I'd be out there naked in the sun, without fluids, running a country mile!

Hey England, it's called "heat" - get over it!

I must admit, it has been very difficult to sleep at night for a while and I have had a whinge or two myself, heck, I've had nightmares during this heat wave. Perhaps that's the odd thing?

An English heat wave seems to be worse at night, as the heat of the day radiates outward from the streets and buildings and we all get sweaty and start to stick to our beds (ick)

My solution so far is to consume lots of cider, but that's my solution for most things, so I suppose it doesn't count.

Opening the window at night isn't an option, too many bugs, too much noise.

So, as we face yet another night of radiated heat, I've cracked my fifth cider and shall remain steadfast in my quest to beat this heatwave by remaining drunk.

If only I could convince my boss of my grand scheme ...

Summer Haze, Lazy Daze

Another hot weekend, a lazy saturday.
Life is timeless sometimes, isn't that odd? - how time ceases to mean anything for a space of it's length, somehow content to acknowledge how slowly things change, amidst the incessant rush of perception.

Perhaps it's when you decide to ignore the clock and just exist, locking yourself into a bubble of just being.

Today is like that, it could last forever or a second and I wouldn't notice.

Maybe it's the snake bite?
I aquired 4 lagers from helping out my boss for his Monday meeting, driving to his house to fix a problem on the laptop.
Mixed with cold cider on a hot day, it's a wonderfully relaxing way to bide away the time.

I got Q magazine on a shopping trip after meeting Paul and sat in the hot sun on the deck dreaming of rock stardom while listening to the free CD. I was lost to time for a long moment, slowly sipping on amber brew and turning the pages, as the sun beat down.

The ideas flow again, pointless meandering "what if's" and grand schemes to conquer the world, thier birth place invented while mopping the kitchen floor and doing the laundry.

How many ideas sow seeds during mundane tasks?
I don't know, but I've had a few today.

Last night I dreamt I won the lottery, but I didn't win big, just £1408, so today I did a single line on a lottery ticket.
Just a dreamer, with reality firmly in sight. I did the quick pick thing and amazingly enough, 4 of the numbers are the same as last nights dream.

Summer Haze, Lazy Daze, Dreaming fool.
This moment could last forever, or until 7pm when Doctor Who is on.

Winter to Spring

450 miles for good cider

There's good cider and then there's jaw droppingly awesome cider, more akin to wine.

I'm busy sipping on Knights Malvern Gold which I aquired, oddly enough, near Malvern.

For those who think that the alcopops they sell in South Africa (and here) are cider, you just have to get yourself some of the real stuff. It ranges from absolutely rancid to ludicrously fine.

Hereford is real Cider country, but you can find local brews all over England. Most farmers markets these days will sell real cider - the stuff that is flat, strong and bitter sweet.

Some of the mass produced stuff isn't bad - a cold pint of pub cider on a sunny day is sheer bliss - but nothing can touch the real stuff.

This weekend I had a solid grounding in English Driving, from Hampshire via Berkshire, Oxfordshire and Warwickshire, through to Shropshire, into Worcestershire and back again. Long distance driving here is truly tiring as there is no unbroken stretches of road more than 10 miles in length, but that does make for a very interesting experience.
You have to constantly adjust speed as you approach towns and negotiate the millions of traffic islands dotted everywhere.

It's easily possible to completely forget London and realise what so many visitors to England never do really grasp, that the vast majority of England and Britain is countryside of breathtaking soft beauty. For many, there's the misconception of England as one great expanse of concrete.

You can spend a day in a 20km radius and not get to see all there is to offer, for in that small circle, you'll find at least one major town and 20 to 30 hamlets and villages.

Another amazing aspect is the changing countryside and architecture from one place to the next, still very noticable in these modern times of Burger King and Tescos.

As I have another glass of Malvern Gold, I reflect on a fairly rushed drive through the English Countryside and realise just how much there is to see of it.

Six Months to Somewhere?

So, it's been six months has it?
Something like that - feels like years, or days whichever way it falls in my head.

What have I achieved?

I'd say the single most interesting aspect of this move is my chill quotient, which has reached new heights of childomity I never thought possible.

I always knew I was a soft soul at heart, relaxed and slightly hippyfied, now I realise that it's true - I am. Joburg had really bought the worst out in myself due to the horrible stress of living in mild fear for so much of my time there.

For the second time, the spagetti in my pot fell out when I was draining it, into the sink. For the second time I calmly decided to cook another pot without any anger at all. Six months back, I would've been cursing like a mad thing. That means something, it means I'm just simply more at ease. Those little things are what count. Anger? - heck, yeah, I get angry, but the wild boiling anger has gone to be replaced with a more logical, less stressed version.

I'm still no closer to figuring out why I exist, but then, that's something that not many people ever do quite get to grips with. Greater minds than mine have grappled with the unanswerable question - why?

Pay it no mind, that's the general idea.

These days I figure my existence is merely to learn and experience whatever is thrown my way and also to just be overawed at everything around.

Often I feel insignificant when I view the great achievements that others have made compared to my meager offerings, but it doesn't get me down. Keep striving on and generally enjoy life as much as possible. If your not happy with something, try to change it.

Easy words to say, in the up and down world of mood swings, bad days, good days and humdrum living.

What always freaks me out is how such small things can derive such sheer pleasure. How on earth could looking over green fields populated by sheep and birds stir the heart to such a large degree?

Who knows.

I'm really nowhere, but that's ok - I'm alive, summer is on its way and there's things to learn, to see, to experience - is there really anything else needed?

Hmmm, no.

English Driving and Winchester

I finally got mobile yesterday, the proud owner of a '96 Fiat Hairdryer, otherwise known as a Punto.
It's not that bad and perfect to start off with. £1095 (About R12000) will get you a reasonable Jammy.
It's a 1.2, but has enough oomph to prevent becoming a moving obstacle on the motorway.

I decided to use the morning out to test the hairdryer/car under some typical English driving conditions. Unfortunately, it wasn't raining, so I had to scrap that idea.

I set off at 8.30, bright and sunny, scraped a layer of frost from the windscreen and proceeded to get lost. I'd drawn out a cunningly simplistic map, compliments of www.multimap.com. As I don't have a printer and haven't got around to buying a map book, it was always possible that I would drive off my pencil scribbled route into the great unknown (or a hedge)

It was deceptively simple, head south from Odiham, through South Warnborough, down to Alton, then take a right onto the A31 toward Four Oaks, New Arlesford, Itchen Stoke, Itchen Abbas, Martr Worthy (I kid you not), under the M3 and into Winchester.

Somewhere near Alton, after a brief unplanned detour around the town centre, I took a wrong turn.
I spent the next 30 minutes having a glorious time bumbling down narrow country lanes and discovering the most remarkable little villages and hamlets. Revisting my route now, it seems I somehow went too far South, into Bordon, then headed in the right direction in a roundabout route. I have no idea how I managed it, but I ended up getting to Old Arlesford without passing through a single village that is on the map.

From there it was easy going to Winchester and the roads were just fantasic fun with loads of narrow windy bits through the heart of rural Hampshire.

It seems the English have a bit of a problem with narrow country lanes, they all seem to want to go as fast as possible. Perhaps it's because there's little to no chance of being caught speeding. I kept to a reasonably sedate pace simply to enjoy the scenery.

I arrived in Winchester to partake in another marvel of English engineering, the multi-storey carpark, built by idiots who somehow managed to get the scale entirely wrong. I suspect that whoever designed them, has never had to use one. Fortunately, my little Fiat was small enough to negotiate turns about wide enough for sparrows to fart in. I squeezed into a parking space, paid my tithe for the pleasure of visiting the worlds stinkiest stairwell and headed for the famous Cathederal.

It truly is an impressive sight, which is more than can be said for some of the hotels dotted around it. How any architect can build a square brick block next to such a marvel is anyones guess.

I entered the cathederal just before Palm Sunday mass and spent 20 minutes just soaking in the scale of the interior.

After being suitably inspired at the workmanship, although not the religion behind it, I went to view the outside again. I was in time to see the Palm Sunday procession enter the grounds from the town on the way to mass, complete with brass band, palm fronds, money gathering urchins and the Lord Mayor sporting a silly hat and a gold fire poker under his arm.

Time to take my leave.

I headed back into the town to the Hampshire Farmers market, bustling with people being sold produce by real Hampshire Farmers. I had to partake in the shopping frenzy and aquired a bunch of sausages, a bag of spuds and a plastic container of real rotgut cider. "Old Sheepdogs Arse, 50% proof" or something like that.

I decided that I needed to test my car on the motorway, but first I had to find it. After negotiating my way out of the carpark built by morons for midgets, I decided to completely ignore all detour road sings and made two infuriating loops around the town centre, before finally deciding to head for Southampton, the wrong direction.

The method in this madness is something I've finally learnt about road signs here, they make absolutely no logical sense at all. In fact, the road out of Winchester to Southampton, also leads to the M3 to Basingstoke and London. You learn these things over time. I suspect the same people responsible for the car parks also have a few fingers in the road sign pie.

Motorways in England are the same as Highways in South Africa, full of dickheads. The kind of mentality to whom a following distance of 2 inches is great. The type of fool who will overtake trucks at a leisurely place. I assume they must be admiring the truck as they slowly pass it. "ohh, that's a loverly one Beth, it's got 18 wheels, just look at that beauty!"

I regretted taking the motorway, because it's just so lifeless and boring. The car handled fine, the engine didn't fall out and I didn't end up entangled in a mass of tin and plastic wearing a windscreen on my head, so I suppose it was worth testing the hairdryer at prolonged speed.

A good Sunday drive and morning out, now it's time to fry up some organic sausages and drink my rot gut cider ! - ooooaaaaarrr !

Culture assimilation

I thought I was English, heck, I KNOW I'm English, but really, what does it take to assimilate culture?

I'm not talking about high brow culture here, but the culture of everyday - the hello, the good morning, the how are you.

I'm confused to a marginal degree. This confusion is not a bad thing, it's just a mild interest in trying to figure my place in the scheme of this everyday culture.

I've been a white boy in Africa so long, it's all over me like a pair of kaffir takkies.

It seems that my English "front" is slipping somewhat, deep seated africanisms squeeze out without warning - out of the great blue yonder, dripping into my conversational tone.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not hiding anything, rather trying to layer more of the Engelsman over the Pommie, it's a natural enough thing, considering I am actually a pommie.

The guys at work know I'm pretty much a Souf Fafrican, if not by birth, by assimilation, but they also know me as a Brummie - my roots are here too.

If they notice the odd slang word in a sentence, the ones which are born of habit, they pay no mind.

I've been here six months and still catch myself saying "ya" or "fully" and a hundred other little slangisms which I've soaked in over the years.

Other times, I naturally come across as the perfect English gentleman.
The cultural magpie? The mimick?

Certainly I have a portion of that ability, to lay on attitudes for the moment, to play up to situations - but this africanism is bugging me.

My accent is all over the place not really knowing where to settle, yet it's not a conscious decision either way, rather, it fits the moment.

Since I arrived, I've pronounced Berkshire as Barkshire which is the correct way - I didn't even think about it, but now I'm slipping into the africanism for no reason I can fathom.

I keep saying "berk" and not "bark"

Perhaps, over time, the accent will settle, but I think the odd slang words will be around forever.

What does irk me, is that in any culture, there are just so many "in jokes" and these are often seasonal - they may be around for six months, or a year or even 10 years. A silly South African example is "And anuffer fing Darren" - I often find myself a bit lost, because I'm missing all those connections here, that "every day culture"

Hmmm, could be worse, I could be living in France ...

Country walks, deers and hawks

The weather is starting to turn as spring arrives with much needed rain.
Here in South East England, it's been dry for two years. It's hard for people to imagine England as being a dry place, the picture always presented is a green land with far too much rain.

The truth is that England has never really been afflicted by too much of the wet drippy stuff and droughts are frequent.

During a break in the weather late this morning, I squeezed my boots on and ventured outside without a jacket for the first time in months. It was overcast but bright and wonderfully fresh. The clocks had moved an hour forwards, so I decided to celebrate with a country ramble.

Doing "my bit" for recycling, I took a collection of bottles and magazines down to the recycling bin by the canal as part of my ramble. Can't say whether it makes me feel like I'm being a good "green" lad or not, considering I've had the washing machine rumbling away all day. I guess every little bit helps, doesn't it?

Who knows - perhaps when they collect those large plastic recycling bins, they take them to a land fill to be dumped with the rest of the areas garbage.

As I walked down the Basingstoke canal, toward Farnborough way, the signs of spring were everywhere. A lone swan eyed me up and down, ready to accost me for bits of bread. Under a bridge a school of fish were hanging around. Perhaps they were hiding from the fishermen?

The sun broke through the clouds and all was good with the world, as the distant hum of traffic faded and the green fields of England rose up around the canal banks.

I decided to take a pathway off the beaten track and into the forest. The signs of spring were everywhere, the trees in bud and forest flowers blooming and - mud.

I aquired an extra foot in height during my tramp through the forest, wet sticky mud clinging to the underside of my boots. I was more interested in not getting it all over my backside, as I slipped about dangerously close to puddles. I eventually gave up caring and gleefully loped along the muddy forest tracks. Ahhh, this is the life.

And then I spotted her, in a clearing in the forest, a deer. She was there for just a few seconds before trotting into the forest, suddenly it felt like I could've been hundreds of years back in time, ready to hunt. The distant drone of an aircraft quickly broke the moment and I rambled on.

Out onto the edge of open fields, spotting rabbits bounding into the brambles alongside a country road, I followed it for a while passing mansions with twee names and fancy cars in thier driveways. To the manor born!

Back onto the forest path I met a few other ramblers, "good morning, nice day for a walk" and was followed for a time by a few terriers, snuffling about in the undergrowth, tails wagging.

They say that the English countryside is in danger of vanishing forever, as the land gets evermore poplulated.

Perhaps a good dose of pandemic flu could assist nature in ridding her of a few million humans, for the idea of these little patches of country forever lost beneath a sea of car parks and housing developments is too scary to contemplate, too much has been lost already.

London Trip

It's been a busy few weeks, things are really hotting up workload wise, with some overtime due tommorrow.

I decided to get out of this small Hampshire village for a few hours and headed into London.

It's the same route I used to commute and I so stopped over in Wimbledon to change a few address details at my bank.

I was last there over two weeks ago and it immediately struck me how damn busy London is, it seems like an age ago that I was living there. It made a nice change from the slow pace of rural life, however, I found myself feeling relieved I no longer lived amongst all the mad hustle and bustle.

Some of the rural life must've rubbed of on me, as I got marked by a charity worker who I decided to listen to. 10 minutes later of talk about funds for the deaf and blind and me nodding, I eventually had to butt in and cut to the chase. This isn't the "give a few quid" type thing, but rather, you put down your banking details and setup a debit. You can go as little as £5 a month, but something about it seemed troublesome to me. There's so much bank fraud over here, the thought of putting my bank details onto a piece of paper on the high street didn't seem logical. It was all above board, that much was true, but I want as few debits as possible. They don't accept cash donations, so I had to prise myself away. I'll give to charity in other ways.

On the train, I got marked by a very irritating and persistant "Big Issue" vendor who smelt bad and seemed just a little unhinged, in the course of a 10 minute train journey, he asked me 3 times to buy a Big Issue, I declined. Too damn pushy. I don't like the "hard sell" patter, it turns me away. I gave a quid to a beggar instead.

After a stop in Earlsfield to pick up some post, I headed to the market, had a venison burger, a few pints and got a bunch of great food - herbs, cheese, vege. I also got a potted rosemary bush, which I intend to attempt to not kill off in a week.

I took a few photos and vids with my new digicam and really enjoyed the crowds for a while, meandering in and out of the market, trying sample produce, buying some olives - great stuff.

Not a massively eventful day, but I've got a chicken roasting in the oven on the go, some wine chilling in the fridge and some movies to watch.

The chicken is being slowly roasted with bay leaves, roscoff pink onions, portobello mushrooms, fresh crushed garlic, fresh thyme, a fresh lemon and some tasty roast spuds. - YUM.

Ahhh, the life of a single person - sometimes it really is great. But only sometimes ...

Musings and plannings

I'm already getting that damn "itch" about being stable again, the need to get out and about, after only two weeks in Odiham.

Too damn bad, I'm here for at least 6 months, so I best get settled in.

I'm made two sets of tentative "settling in" plans.

The first is a contact with a rather expensive guitar tutor, 5 miles from here, in Farnham.
Howard Johnstone is the tutor (here he is)
I had a quick chat with him yesterday, indicating my eagerness to get back into guitar and also to gig again, lets hope it works out for me.

The second contact works along with that and is rather odd. Although I can drive, I've decided to take a few lessons - it's called a "refresher course" and is something that I feel I need.
I could easily get into a car and start driving, but I've always been somewhat of a nervous driver, never really enjoying it much. Driving in the UK and South Africa are entirely different beasts.
This is the land of narrow lanes, large complicated roundabouts and lots of parallel parking. South Africa, on the other hand, is the land of wide roads, insane drivers and lots of parking.
I learnt to drive in that environment.

I'm the type of driver that is just too hyper-aware, to my detriment. I get so involved with watching what goes on around me, it makes me more prone to make mistakes. I tend to watch for the wrong things. Don't get me wrong, on a scale of 1 to 10, I'm about a 6, which makes me above average. The problem is my imagination gets the better of me. I really do feel like I'm hurtling along in a tin can, one step away from being mashed in a pile of metal at any given time. Hmmm, I suppose that's a reasonably healthy way of looking at it.

My weak points I'm aware of, my tendency to want to shift into the left lane while observing everything around me except for that "blind spot", however, my reactions are quick and effective, which has saved me from certain death a few times.

I'm also not that good at parking. Hey, I can reverse well enough, I just can't park that well, so that sets me apart from the cliched "woman driver" syndrome.

As a side note, statistics from insurance agencies have proven that women are better drivers than men. I feel the need to defend males here for a moment and say that women are just better at lying. There, now I feel better.

God, it sounds like I'm the crappest driver in the world. Oh well. From what I've seen, I'll be in my elephant over here in the UK, this being the land of stupid drivers, rather than mad reckless and stupid ones in unroadworthy cars, pissed out of their minds.

So, und zo, and so, hmmm, and here I sit in The George, a drunken sparrows fart flight to my front door, simply to get out of the house on a rainy Sunday afternoon and have a pint. If truth be told, also to have a smoke while enjoying a pint, as I don't smoke in my apartment. I have to go outside to smoke - an enforced regime which I will never change.

I stopped smoking about 4 years ago and started again about 2 months back. Stupid.
I'm now a reluctant smoker who enjoys it very much, but need to pack it in (excuse the pun) real soon. I can't bring myself to smoke normal cigarettes and so I've been smoking rollups.

There's a story behind that which I don't mind getting into and it involves skunk and a bit of hash, which I've sinced kicked in for good.

I've smoked the old herbal ciggie for the better part of twenty years and smoked the stupid cigarette for about the same amount of time.

I gave up smoking before a dental operation and what aided me in this was wacky weed.
It allowed me to still imbibe in the smoking ritual, while giving up the addiction to tobbaco.

The ol' 'erb in South Africa, or Dagga as it is known, is as cheap as chips, so smoking it "raw" is an option.

Over here in blighty, it's so damn expensive and also so bloody strong, that mixing it with tobacco is essential. So it was that an aquaintance was a big doob smoker and thus, so it was that I obtained on a few occassions, some super skunk/hash from this smoker.

It was no great suprise that I soon got hooked on tobacco again. This was cemented by a month in a shared household of smokers.

The herbal smokes are a thing of the past as I've realised they really are not helping my mental state and never have. In fact, they don't help anyones mental state. I've been "two" people for damn years and never realised it until now. Now new evidence linking dope to schizophrenia is all but fact, there's no reason to continue to punish myself.

I've never been easy with the herb and from what I've read, very few people actually are. The escape from reality has always been accompanied by discomfort around people and sometimes downright paranoia.

So, yeah, another pint please barman !

... crazy talk ...

Out of the frying pan, into Odiham

The pace of life just slowed down, dramatically.
Hmmm, maybe 'dramatically' is the wrong word, damn cliches.

Life here isn't so much slow, as predictably mellow. The High street is full of life and like most places in the UK, has more than it's fair share of cars, people and dogs.

It's a really quaint traditional English Town.

It sports a traditional butcher, with burly balding old gits manning the meat in white overalls and blue stripey bibs. There's the High Street pub, The George. A small Deli serves as one of the best places for a lunchtime sarnie and all the essentials of modern British life can be had at a slow pace with early closing times.

Tuesday lunchtime, I got a ridiculous amount of vege from the Tuesday market place for £5, some keys cut, 2lb of steak mince and a broom. It should be noted that the market is literally on my doorstep. I step out the front door onto the pavement and there it is.

It isn't exactly a massive affair, but rather a local farm produce setup of a few stalls which enjoys a brisk trade. This makes it all the more authentic, as it's clear that the locals get much of their fruit, vege and fish here each week. It felt more than a little odd and exciting to be able to buy my goods and in front of the market itself, unlock my front door and drop my goods just inside.

The ingredients for my supper tonight, a bolognaise, were all purchased within 2 minutes of my front door. Damn delicious it was too ! (more than enough left over for lunch tommorrow)

It's hard to explain this little piece of perfect England, because it really doesn't actually exist in perfection, it just feels like it should. Modern life is never far away and as I'm so fond of recalling, modern life is rubbish. Luckily it just about escapes the general horrors of British town life, being a very affluent place.

Last Sunday, I took a hike down to the canal to Odiham castle. The canal had a thin film of ice on the surface, which didn't deter the swans or the walkers from enjoying a bright sunny day. It was a good day out and I retired to the pub for a few pints before walking the 30 seconds to my front door.

It's all really rather bizarre. From the mad hustle and bustle of London, the dread worry of not finding work, sharing a house with five other people, to this.

A two bedroom two level apartment with all mod cons, a fantastic job, in a historically amazing Georgian town.

Please don't wake me up ...

... some days later ...

It's now been a week since I moved in here, getting used to village life. I took the bus into Camberley today, another very non-descript town, don't think I'll bother to return. Basingstoke will remain my main town to visit for shopping. Camberley is a bit grotty by the standards of the immediate area, or rather, boring and fugly.

Got talking to the Manager, Sean, at "The George" across the road from my apartment.
He's just taken over the place. Him and his wife have only been in England for 2 weeks, fresh from South Africa. Will definately visit more often for a chat, seems like a really good bloke. My curiosity is already getting the better of me, as I only managed a 5 minute chat (busy in here)

Sitting in the pub still, quaffing a pint of Courage Best. Think I'll try a pint of T.E.A next, I like the idea of an Ale with that name.

Still not missing South Africa, not even slightly, but I am missing family and friends, big time.
I'm sure in a few months, I'll get a twinge of the old homesick feelings for Joburg, maybe ?
Depends how things pan out here, but from the way it feels now, I'm in for the long haul.

Permanent job, six month apartment lease, a 12 month broadband contract and will most likely buy a cheap car as soon as I can get credit. The idea of buying a £500 car isn't attractive at all any more, it doesn't make a great deal of sense now I'm permanently employed. I'd rather opt for a cheap fairly modern second hand car and pay it off as quickly as possible. I need something that can do the mileage as I really want to get out and about travelling around the country on weekends, not to mention a hop into Europe every now and then.

So, there we go then, "yeah yeah yeah yeah", really fast, as they say here. (yeh-yeh-yeh-yeh)
It's kinda like the equivalent of "ya nee", my only problem, is I keep saying "yeh-yeh-yeh-no", like a saffa, or Vicky Pollard, "yeah but no but yeah but no but yeah"

Last night in Wimbledon

On the 18:01 back to Wimbledon for the final time listening to the Artic Monkeys, like much of Britain it seems. So far, it sounds good - first listen.

I've been battling with the dreaded UK credit system, where absolutely everything has to be backed up with "previous residence" and "credit history" - not easy when you've only been in the country 4 months. It's a total catch 22. If you've just arrived, how the hell can you have a credit history and a previous residence ?

Then again, not much makes sense over here, just like back in South Africa. I often wonder how anything ever gets done, until I realise it doesn't. Just go with the flow and keep your sense of humour. it's the first line of offense.

I finally convinced the credit check company that South Africa works a little differently to the UK and that I don't actually have any proof of residence on me. What irks me is that the banking institutions shift their fraud problems onto the consumer, under the guise of "protecting us"

I ended up with 60p in my wallet on Tuesday evening and a few thousand quid in the bank the next day, which was rather alarming. Talk about a close call.

Tommorrow I will be a resident of Odiham, Hook, Hampshire. I will probably go out of my mind after a few weeks of living in a tiny village, having spent the last four months in London. I've also realised that in such a small place, I will become known even if I don't realise it. I'm fairly certain that there is already word out that there's someone new moving into the vacant apartment on the High Street.

I'm looking forward to living there anyway. The idea of once again having my own space is wonderful.
I may become an eccentric, or rather, finally go over the edge after years of teetering on the brink. Perhaps I'll take on the roll of the village drunk/idiot. Every village needs one, perhaps they'll pay me if I dress the part. Then again, they may already have one. There's a bloke in the village who looks a lot like Keith Richards. He wears a fake leopard skin skull cap.

This is Britain, land of the eccentric anyone. I must admit, I do like that, although unfortunately it is tempered by Yob culture. Amidst the eccentric nuttery, there's the bland dimwit dickhead sheep, but that's another story.

I've applied for a phone and will soon apply for broadband. I was under the impression that this would be easy in a "1st world country", however, I ran into the same old bollocks as South Africa.

The first time I called to apply, I was told that the line in the apartment had been disconnected and an engineer would only be available in a month. Having learnt from experience in South Africa, I said "don't worry then", phoned again and got a different date for the engineer, 3 weeks from now.
Third time lucky then - I call again and this time, my line should be installed in 3 days.

Go figure, it's like a damn lottery.

Then again, It's entirely possible that I'll be shunted from phone pillar to phone post anyway and end up getting the line the day before I move out.

I was never under the impression that the UK would be wonderfully easy to get things done, but I didn't expect the problems I've encountered so far. There's red tape on the red tape.

A bit of money in the bank, however, seems to work wonders. Previous residence and credit history takes a backseat to the filthy lucre.

"No problem sir, I'm sure we can process your application"

"Yes, but I'm actually an evil terrorist with a long white scraggly santa beard and a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook in my 'bomb laden' backpack"

"Excuse me sir ?"

"I said 'can we fast track ?'"

"Certainly sir"

Youth fashion merry-go-round

Walking around a busy Camden Town late this morning, on a sunny mild day was a good place to try and pick up on youth fashion to see what's in, just for a laugh.

I kinda wished I was 24 again, with my long hair, docs, skinny frame and tight black jeans. I would've fitted right in, being considered "fashionable" 14 years later. Instead, my far chubbier frame was clad in hiking boots, black jeans and a stylish DKNY blue sweater and my hair a non-descript cut.

About the only "new" fashions I noted, was a mix of asian, punk and goth - think of the cartoons from The Gorillaz.

London is once again going through a sixties revival, but this time, it's head on direct copying. You could transplant the youths that follow this fashion into 1968 and they would look like they belonged. Shops selling army jackets, tight black jeans, winklepickers. Then there's the more "David Blunt" style - subdued casual 60's mixed 50's american college. Think of that famous Dylan album cover, the name of the album escapes me now - where's he's walking down the street with his girl, in a brown suede jacket. Freewheeling Bob Dylan ?

There were some old style punks in Camden, although I had a notion these were Eastern European. They were all working handing out various pamphlets, or holding up signs for the Doctor Martens shop. Quite sad really. Not exactly "youths" either, most looking in their 30's or 40's.

The occassional goth wandered past.

A horrible fashion trend, not really noticable in Camden, is the return of the 80's - not so much the big hair, but women in cowboy boots with jeans tucked into them and gaudy belts. It was horrifying then, it's even worse now. It's a kinda Britney Spears meets Pat Benatar.

The biggest overall "alternative" trend seems to be a relaxed 60's attire, a bit of early mod, a bit of late 60's stones. Bands like The Stokes look and sound almost identical to that era. I like it.
There are a few differences, hair gelled into scruffy ridges for instance.

But as usual, generally speaking, the majority of people are just casual. Only the few are fashionable.

Fashion has been this way for some time - there are very few clear cut overwhelming youth styles, it's all mixed up. There's no longer a clear definition, like Mod & Rocker, Punk and New Romantic, Skinhead and Hippy.

Of course, there's the tail end of the "chav" still happening, with a few sad losers hanging in, although the entire scene was always based on sad losers in burberry and bling in the first place.
The black fashions are very much sports orientated and form the bulk of the "hoody" style of dress, with the women in R&B atire. Sad white folk try to emulate this style, but not everyone can carry it off like 8 mile.
Then there's the skateboard crowd, following the US mid-70's fashion. Baseball sneakers, all round shoulder length scruffy hair, faded blue jeans and caps. Dogtown style. If I were 18 these days, I'd probably be into that.

Where I'll soon be living, I'd probably look best with grey hair, complete with bald patch, a zimmerframe, sensible brown lace up shoes, a chunky sweater and a suit jacket. I'll fit right into life on the High Street, Odiham.

Fasion left me behind 10 years ago, or rather, I left it behind. Good riddance too, for the most part. I'll be buried in my Jeans, favourite scruffy t-shirt and boots, unless it's summer time, then it'll be shorts and bare feet.

I've ended my day in London here at Nicholsons, on the banks of the Thames, for a bit of whale watching. Haven't seen one yet. I hope that lost "little" whale gets back out to sea.

Strange days indeed.

Traffic circles revisited ...

People spend days lost on roundabouts in the UK, as there are frequent rest and refuelling spots on the larger island groupings. In fact, I think they are considering a new adventure holiday where you spend a week driving round and round confusing traffic islands stopping for cookie and coffee breaks and the occassional refuel.

To add extra spice, these adventure holidays will be spent during a heatwave and the car seats will be plastic, circa 1970. Everyone will be forced to wear shorts three sizes too small. Whinging children will be loaned to those without them, preferably ones who get car sick and need the toilet all the time. These children will be supplied with sticky toffees, bottles of tartrazine, chocolate and noisy hand held games. As an optional extra, a sulky smelly teenager will be thrown into the mix.

If your single, you'll have the option between a russian partner (former soviet shotput champion or chain smoking vodka swilling swine) with stinking armpits who cannot speak a word of english, but insists on giving directions or, alternatively, a skinny moan-a-minute hypochondriac with a bad cough and hemmariods.

Everyone will be provided with either a 1:1000 scale map the size of a matchbox, or a 1:5 map which unfolds to roughly the same size as a football field and none of the roundabouts will be marked correctly.

All signposts will be obscured by trees or graffiti and random herds of cows and/or sheep will be let free onto various country lanes wide enough to allow two minis to scrape past each other.

The radio/tape deck will be permanently locked onto Shipping forecasts or Radio Twee, playing the Eurovision song contest losers from the past 3 decades.

Sounds like a typical holiday in the UK to me ...

Dali Universe

Found a cosy pub out of the wind and drizzle somewhere near embankment, called The Sherlock Holmes.
Nice pint of IPA after a few hours with Dali, crazy chap, but boy, can he sculpt !

It's not a huge exhibition, but gives you a feeling of the genius of Dali that no book could ever give. I'm not fanatical about his paintings and sketches, it's the sculptures I find so intruiging.

The exhibition takes you through some of the various phases and influences of Dali's work, "Sensuality and Femininity," "Religion and Mythology," and "Dreams and Fantasy.". The walls are all in black which I found a bit odd, to me, it didn't really match the work. I suppose it was to attempt to let the work stand out on it's own, but if felt more like a night club than a gallery. The passageway leading to the first gallery room wouldn't go amiss in the Doors nightclub, Marshall street, in the early 90's

My visuals of Dali's world would be sunny, bright and colourful, given the fact that he grew up in that environment.

Eggs, crutches, drawers, penises, vaginas, bums, boobs, ants, clocks, snails horses and of course, Gala.

"I do not understand, when I walk into a restaurant and order a grilled lobster, why I am not served a cooked telephone."

It would be too easy to label Dali as a madman, what scares me is the weight of his intellect, it's simply staggering.

I managed to spend two hours and went through the works on display twice, had a seat on a couch and took a sneaky photo or two, for keepsakes (naughty naughty)

The gallery has a shop, where, for a mere £8000 and upward, you can buy tiny replicas of sculptures and prints of sketches and paintings. I was tempted, but decided possibly next time would be better. I'll take a few plastic lobsters in with me to see if they'll take those instead of money.

All geared up, with somewhere to go.

So, I'm hired. I'm now officially a working man once again.
I start as web dev for a small design agency in a country village soon.
Due to some legal issues with the original contract I signed through an agent, there's some things for my employers to sort out before I start.

I have three more days to kill and what better place to do it than London ?

It's worked out perfectly, as the budget I set for this working week can now be transferred to exploring London for the next three days, as well as polishing off a few freelance web sites. It's also nicely timed as my next check for last years freelance will go into my account tommorrow. Sweet bliss !

But easy there cowboy, lets not go too far ahead of ourselves, that budget still needs to hold itself up on more than crutches and the urge to splurge needs to be tempered with some harsh realities. A little voice tells me to tighten that budget and save the cash I would have spent on transport. Another little voice says "Oh, c'mon, have a bit of fun, go mad !"
I'll take the middle road.

As much as I'd love to be noshing on some lovely pub grub right at this very moment, a cheap microwave pasta awaits at home, as the Dali Universe maybe tommorrows destination. I've been wanting to visit since I arrived, however the £8.50 entry charge has always steered me away.

A London Walk may possibly be Wednesdays activity, leaving Thursday for something like the Tower of London.

And how about a nice pot of tea and some toast with jam at the Natural cafe tommorrow morning ?

Sounds good.

It also affords me some time to try to figure out a few of the less pleasurable aspects of living in the UK - Tax, accommodation and getting a car.

The latter is something I'm dreading, as it's so easy to go wrong with a second hand car, especially when you don't have a great deal of knowledge about the subject. No doubt I'll go the tried and tested route, with a nippy low end of the market level Polo or Golf (low end of the market back in the mid 90's that is) - finding something decent under £700 will be a challenge, then there's insurance on top of that, which doesn't come cheap.

There's always a catch. Although second hand cars in the UK are vastly cheaper than South Africa, that difference is made up for with insurance and fuel costs, not to mention parking rates.

Accommodation is another sizzling cost. To afford myself the luxury of my own place, close to the area I'm working in, will mean a month of extremely low budget living.
The good side is that I'll be enjoying out a bit of a dream, living and working in the British countryside. As much as I enjoy London, relishing the idea of living and working in the city, I think it would drive me as mad as everyone else who has been here for a few years. I like the slower pace of Town life and London is a only a 90 minute train journey away.

This is what migrating is all about, the initial six month "settling in" time frame that either makes or breaks you. I must admit, I enjoy the challenge and don't intend to get "broken", unless someone else is buying the beers...

Pubs

The British pub ranges from the fabulous cosy wood lined historic building, through to the industrial pee stained pigsty and all the flavours inbetween.

From the downright unwelcoming, to the cheery welcome in.

I have walked into a pub where everyone in there stops what they are doing and turns around to stare. That was way back in the late 80's, during my long hair, tight jeans, leather jacket, very spotty phase. Me and 'partner in crime', David 'Goggs' Gogarty, a speccy short-shit with a big mouth, found ourselves in 'The White Lion' in Alcester.

Lord knows what possessed us to wonder in to the inn, but we must've looked terrible. Skinny, pasty faced, long haired misfits dressed in late 60's fashions.

I don't think I've made a beer disappear so fast in my life.

Another occassion was again with Goggs, down in Oxfordshire.
We decided to forgo the usual cheery pub and try 'The Red Lion' instead (the similar name should've warned us)

We found ourselves in what can only be described as a British version of 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre', or at least, that's how it felt.

The pub was staffed by a huge ugly woman and her two burly 'ooo-aaaar' sons and we were the only ones in the damn place. We were served stale beer and ended up sitting in their lounge in stoney silence. The lounge was furnished in 'late prehistoric' style, complete with clouds of dust as we sank into arm chairs that hadn't seen a clean since the days of Noah.

It was the most fearful and uncomfortable 20 minutes of my life. As we sat in silence, the two sons just glared at us blankly. I swear there was drool dripping out of the corners of their mouths. They sat in muddy boots and overalls, while the mother busied herself somewhere in the nether regions of the 'pub' cooking something that smelled foul, probably the last few patrons who wandered in.

Another time, once again with Goggs, we were sitting in a pub in Handsworth, Birmingham - a student and druggie local. I'd been living in a student squat for a month or so and both me and Goggs figured ourselves locals at the establishment.

It was trendy in the way that only students could consider it, run down and full of druggies and drunks. 'edgy and exciting' is the word that was used then. 'crap' is the word I'd use now.

We were having a noisy pint as usual when Goggs gets it into his mind to skin up a hash joint.
Next thing I know, there's this huge black guy dangling him by his neck. He'd hauled him right out of his chair and looked set to strangle him. The guy was one of the local drug dealers and Goggs had committed a grave sin. You don't light up a joint, on gear supplied by him, in his local pub.
Goggs was mortified and typical to him, swore blind at the guy behind his back and vowed never to go back to the pub. I found it fairly amusing that we were there the very next evening sitting with bunch of students. Never underestimate the danger of 'little man syndrome' - small stature, big gob.

Then we have the great pubs, legendary in fact.
Great Tew has a pub called 'The Falkland Arms' and it's setting couldn't be more picturesque.
It would not go amiss in The Shire. The pub is over 300 years old, in a tiny village complete with village green and giant oak tree.

You have to stoop to go through the door and the ceiling itself is only 7 foot high, crowded with tankards hanging on hooks. The proprieter looks the way I'd imagine 'Farmer Giles of Ham', short and stocky with a huge handle bar moustache.

Me and Micatyro found ourselves there for a few hours when visiting family in the UK. We were left to our own devices while Mom & Cy went off shopping. We got down to business right away, with two pints of 'Old Tanglefoot'
I got myself a clay pipe and tobacco and we settled into complete pub bliss. It really felt like we were back in time, in Olde England. We half expected a hobbit to wonder through selling pipe-weed.
The pipe I'd got was about a foot long, a working 1800's replica. Fantastic !

At this stage, we wondered why they called the beer 'old tanglefoot'
It took another pint to find out why. By that stage, it didn't matter that much anymore, so we had another one for good measure.

In our inebriated state, we wobbled out of the pub into a local shop where Micatyro had a great idea to buy some Dandelion wine - after all, we were back in time here, waaaay back in Olde England, so what better way to enjoy it ?

We popped the bottle in the car on the way back and ended up like a pair of school kids in the back of the bus, laughing and sneaking sips of wine all the way home.

Good times.

The Swan - Family lunch

Sitting in The Swan on a rainy Sunday afternoon, surrounded by the chatter of families and friends having lunch, feeling a bit lonely - sniff sniff, poor wickle me.

I seem to spend most of my time in pubs and coffee shops solo, ah well, no big deal.
At least I have people to chat with back at the house and when work starts, people at the office. Things will pick up once I get a few socials going, but what to choose ?

Joining a hiking club is a given, I need to try my hand (or at least my feet) at clambering over stiles and tramping through mud and bogs. Hiking folk are usually fairly eccentric, so I should be in good company. Instead of veldt skoene, khaki shorts and lager, it'll be stout boots, rain macs and bitter. Instead of snakes and spiders, er, sheep and rabbits ? Seems a bit tame. Then again, hiking in the moors in a gale force wind on a rainy day is anything but tame. The way I see it, you do this in order to more fully appreciate a nice pint of bitter in a cosy pub afterward.

Then there's the possibility of starting to play squash, do I really want to lunge around 4 white walls chasing a bouncy ball ? - possibly.

How about taking up the pottery lessons again ? - hmmm, nah. Too damn messy for my liking. I don't mind the creative bit, it's all the cleaning up after that gets me.

Amateur dramatics ? - I've had a lot of practice with a certain member of my family, so I may find myself reasonably good at it. But do I really want to lark about with a bunch of am-dram egos and get legless on red wine after ? - yeah, could be fun.

Guitar ? - I do need to get back into that again, as I really did enjoy being part of a band all those years ago. Guitar lessons may be a good break into the pub band scene. Perhaps I'll finally learn to play something, instead of noodling around with ideas of guitar grandeur while trying my best to ignore the fact that I actually need to learn the tough bits, like playing songs.

Travel ? - definately, but that'll be a solo pursuit. I fully intend to head into Europe in the summer time for a week or two, just me, my laptop and a camera. No ties, no discussing where to go next, just a free wheeling loner on well trodden paths.

In the interum, reality bites. A long cold winter stretches ahead with plenty to get sorted. Jan and Feb in the UK are foul months. Dark, wet and cold. The bright side is as usual, the pub.

I could wax lyrical about my love of pubs, the fact that they are an essential part of life in Blighty. To take the pubs away, would be to rip the very soul out of this country, just ask all the Saffas here. In fact, there's a table of them just across from me.

The other day, I had the "pleasure" of hearing a South African girl discussing her maid back in South Africa. In her mind, the maid had a great life - she was lucky - only working half day, getting loads of freebies from her Mom, but oh my, she was a terrible cleaner, doll !
"I mean, what would they do without us ?"
"We treat our maid very lekker, but she can't cook to save her lyf !"
"Ya, they jus don't appreciate things laaik we do, doll."

Some things just never change, however, on the whole, saffas are a good bunch and have a great time here. Heck, I'm one myself, sort of ...

The Globe, 2 months on

It's been two months since this blog :-
http://matthewtrow.blogspot.com/2005/11/from-wasteland-to-market-live-from.html

Hard to believe that time goes so quickly. I'm sitting in exactly the same spot as the last time, and took another photo of myself for the sake of comparsion.

So what has really changed ?

Aside from numerous blogs since then and keeping the promise to myself to write more often, no matter how dire or boring it sometimes may be, quite a lot.

I'm no longer in the B&B, but still in Wimbledon. I now am employed (almost), but have considerably less cash.

I can now consider myself comfortable with London, for the most part, but thankfully, it's still full of suprises.

I've written about the market here too often, so I'll just say I treated myself to a tasty falafel and got a small block of cheese. Oh yeah, and a pint which as per usual, I'm enjoying slowly.
Can't wait to visit here in Summer time.

It feels good to get out of the house for a bit. I was indoors for virtually the entire day on Friday, only venturing out to go to the supermarket (although, what's super about it is anyones guess). Bloody cold outside. Today is really miserable weather, perfect for spending an hour or two in the pub. Due to some clever spending yesterday, I can afford myself an extra pint, aint life sweet ?

Although having the luxury of spending time in a house where I can actually use the kitchen, after a few days pottering about, I get itchy feet and need to get out and about. No doubt I'll be inside the entire day tommorrow.

I still haven't aquired the London habit of lazing around in bed on weekend mornings and then going to bed in the small hours of the morning. I was up at 8am this morning and the next house mate to get up was around 11am. Usually crash around 1am.

It's an easy environment and one in a state of flux. I've arrived there at one of those "end of an era" times, when everyone is preparing to move on. The only person who is staying, if she can, is the Susan, the Spanish girl.

Everyone here is moving because of one person - Randal.
He's the catalyst in the house and the rest of the house mates, aside from me and Susan, are relatives and lifelong friends. He is in charge of the finances and is the type of person others follow. It's really odd that the couple who live here feel the need to move out even though they don't have to. They are not even going "up north" with Randal, so I have no idea why the hell they don't just stay ?

Too scared to accept the responsibility of taking over the finances of the house ? Not sure.
It's really rather silly, as it's an excellent place and it's not like they are moving job. Well, good luck for them putting themselves out for no reason. There's obviously a deeper reason.

Randals cousin, Rendon, is a youngster, so he's going up north too, following on Randals coat tails. He's only been in London two months and hasn't really got any direction yet. He's also at that age in life where he still has boundless energy, slams doors by accident, doesn't walk down stairs, but thunders down them and is so full of enthusiasm, it gets a bit tiresome after a while.

Randal is a really standup guy, he's going to assist Susan (who wants to stay) to get new people into the house, not only that, get in someone who is prepared to take over the house finances. He's none too pleased about it however. Can't say I blame him.
Susan has a bit of a language barrier, so I can understand her not wanting to take on the responsibility of dealing with the finances, but she is asking a lot.

I have a feeling that things are not going to go according to plan (they rarely do in these situations) - and that Susan will find herself looking for new digs, or returning to Spain.

Such is life in the "transient zone" - things change at a rapid clip. I'd hazard a guess that a million people are constantly moving accommodation from one moment to the next. Must be a lucrative market to be involved in. So lucrative in fact, that the law is about to change in favour of tenants. Landlords will no longer be able to hold onto deposits without very good reason.
Ask anyone who has lived here for some time and virtually all of them will have been ripped out of their deposits at least once, or will have waited months to get them back. It's a minefield out there with little in the favour of the tenant. To be fair, Landlords need to protect themselves too, however, there are far too many of them taking a chance.

London Moments

Walking back from the London Musuem late yesterday afternoon, I shielded myself from the cold and drizzle with my triple layer of clothes and Thinsulite headgear and just contemplated the city.

I chose to walk along Jubilee walk rather than the backstreets to Waterloo. The area around the station isn't all that savoury. A few too many high rise housing developments and a nasty looking social services building with drunks hanging around waiting for a handout. Not the best place to walk in the dark and damp.

It's hard to not be inspired by the London skyline. As I climbed the steps to Black Friars bridge and gazed across the Thames, it really tugged at my senses. Anyone who isn't reasonably awestruck by the river and lights has either lived in London too long, or is dead inside.

In the middle of the bridge, it was eerily quiet, until a siren burst through the dark in the distance, lights flashing.

It soon vanished and I was left alone gazing up the river.

On Jubliee walk, something made me turn around and I was transfixed by a view of St. Pauls and surroundings in the distance, the dirty river shifting along like something alive.

What a city.

Perhaps it was the visuals still in my mind from the museum, but you can feel a tangible sense of history in the air of a city that never stops changing. A city which has seen fire, famine, plague, war, wealth and poverty countless times over the centuries.

The trees near the London eye are strewn with blue and white lights, buildings in the distance are also lit up and the Oxo tower looks incredible. There's a story behind that. Apparently, London city buildings are not allowed to display huge logos in lights. The Oxo building cleverly got around that by constructing a series of windows which just happen to spell out Oxo in a vertical line. Then again, I did hear that on a tour boat some weeks back and the tour boat guides are notorious for their tall tales. (they probably moonlight as cabbies)

I arrived at Waterloo station nicely timed for rush hour, time to hook up the CD player and zone out.
The train back to Wimbledon was packed, but I found a seat and tried not to watch people trying not to watch people. As usual, there was some light relief when the train announced we were arriving at Waterloo as opposed to leaving.

That always amazes me about trains here. Everyone sits in stoic silence, either reading, listening to music or gazing into the middle distance. However, as soon as something vaguely different happens, people look up, laugh and smile at each other.
Just for that moment, everyone connects on the same level, then, just as quickly as it arrived, the moment passes.

I glanced up at the train adverts for the umpteenth time and had an urge to scribble a message over a smiling face of a person on a South West train advert. The advert said something along the lines of "we're doing our bit to keep your journey clean" and featured a "funny" photo of a doctor getting off a train, complete with white coat, rubber gloves and a stethoscope.

"We're doing our best to keep your pockets clean" - the various train companies just increased fares dramatically. Unfortunately, service remains as bad as ever.

I would've been nabbed, most certainly. My every move tracked by the CCTV cameras that infest the city, for our protection of course.

But that's another story and I best be careful, they could be tracking me right now as I type these subversive thoughts !

The London Museum

I took a good long walk to the London Museum today, as it seems I'll only start work tommorrow or Thursday.
May as well make use of the day to do something interesting.

It's worth a visit, currently free until February.

I always get a little confused by museums, never really sure what to take in or exactly what I may be getting out of my visit. It's like reading the history of the Roman empire as a short comic, albiet with better visuals.

The tour starts with a large video screen showing flyovers of "London before London", an impressive 3D rendering that spins you back to the ice age and then back to the present.

You then start on a well laid out path which takes you from 2000BC to the present.

It made me think of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent in Islington, 2 million years ago. I half expected to see an exhibit of a chesterfield sofa and Dent with a bone in his beard, alas, this wasn't covered.

There's something lacking in most museums and the London Museum is no exception - the ability to touch things.

I had a yearning to reach out to touch and wield a stoneage axe and wondered if they couldn't include an interactive section where you get to chop down a tree. Naturally this could lead to some complications, however, I remain dissapointed that this wasn't possible.

They have little replica rooms of what Roman life in Londinium may have been like.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could take part in it and recline on a sofa, eating grapes and then don a toga and attend an orgy ?

I'd decline an interactive version of the Black Death, however, it would be fine to throw rotting vege at someone in the docks (or someone in docs) and later have a pint with Wren.

Ah well, I'll have to settle with a walk in the rain to Waterloo station, 2006.
Now that's interactive !

Two for the price of one

The consumer society here has been honed to an alarming degree and nowhere is this more apparent than the supermarkets.

Virtually every product on the shelves has some sort of offer, the most common being "buy two, get one free"

It works on human greed at its most base level and really only serves to both entice people to buy more than they really need and also to fool people that they are getting a bargain.
You have to ask yourself why they don't just reduce the price of a single article instead of offering you a free one if you buy two ?

Cans of drink have had "33% extra" pasted on their rims for as long as I can remember, so why do it ?
If it were a short term tactic of selling a product at the same price as one without that extra 33%, I'd understand.

The persistance of .99 remains embedded in the psyche of marketing hype, so I figure we must all be subliminally fooled by it. £9.99 is 1p short of £10. A single penny.
Somehow, our minds seem, against our best wishes, to get lured toward £9. It works, despite the fact that we all know it shouldn't.

Therefore all these other enfuriating tactics also work.

Another aspect of shopping here that I haven't been lured into (not yet anyway), are saver cards, where if you buy a certain amount, you get discounts. Again, this is an attempt to make us buy more than we need. The mouth of the consumer constantly being force fed with enticements.
At every checkout till, the words "Have you got a Nectar card" or some such malarky.
I don't even know what one is, or where to get one and I haven't bothered to find out yet.

Is all this really different from markets of old ?

Did people a 100 years ago get a free sack of spuds with every piglet they purchased ?
Buy two kegs of ale, get a free cabbage ?

Perhaps they did, in fact, I'm certain that these same tactics have been with us for as long as we've bartered and traded for goods.

I'm not so certain that a piglet would have a branding of "33% extra" on it's hind quarters, although it's an interesting visual.

I recently wanted to buy a CD marking pen and for the life of me, I could only find them in packs of two. I asked the shop attendent if I couldn't just buy one, which confused the poor lout no end. He was about to consult his manager. Turns out, when I got home, one of them didn't work anyway, so I ended up with one for the price of two.

Works both ways I guess.

Escape to the pub

Sling the "new/old" laptop in the day pack and walk a mile to the pub to escape from the confines of my room for an hour or two. I've long given up the idea of trying to keep the laptop pristine, as the inevitable scratches have appeared on the casing, with no apparent cause. The DVD/CD combo is now just a DVD player, refusing to read CD's and the screens diagonal smudge of dark in the middle never actually was dirt, it was likely a defect I didn't pick up until a few weeks after purchase.

The "silver" touchpad left click button has worn away it's "silver" coating in one small section and I realise that all the reviews in the world never prepare you for the reality of life with a laptop.

It's served me well so far and was most definately instrumental in landing me a job, so I can't complain too much. What's more, it's capable of playing Quake4 and Half-Life2 and thus a great multimedia development platform. In a few months, I'll send it in to be fixed as party of my warranty, so no harm done.

Today is just one of those extra days that wasn't really required, except to perhaps rest after festive excess. Of that I'm glad, for I certainly felt like I'd been stretched a bit thin this morning, quite literally in fact.

The weight loss is now noticable to myself and a 3 mile walk is a light stroll I don't even notice, although I've long stopped trying to figure out how far I walk on an average day.

The budget I've set is functioning to a reasonable degree, this pint isn't really essential and I realise it's the small purchases that you never account for which can have the most impact on spending. My desk lamp globe went last night, so I need to factor in another £2 to get a new one into tommorrows budget. All the usual humdrum boring purchases have new meaning when your counting pennys.
Yesterday I spent £2 under budget and today as well, even after a pint, but the budget is worked out rather tenuously, on the premise that I get 50% up front on the last 6 days contracting I did. It will be paid, but will it arrive on time ?
Will I be stranded with no way to get to work next week ?
Nothing else for it but to tighten that budget a bit more, so no more pints until that money is in my account.

I hope it arrives soon, because a Pub really is a relaxing place to spend time writing.
The very idea of a pub is that of a haven, either after a long journey, a long day or to get out of the house for a while. That feeling is still very much alive in this country, the public house.

I have mixed feelings about the UK, but it's fairly obvious how it can be a great place to live - it all boils down to the quality of your lifestyle and what you want out of it.
To escape from the "rat race" requires an above average salary. To set up home in the countryside requires significantly more. It can be so damn irritating when you spot a small bedsit in the country village where your working that you just know you could afford on a first months salary, only to know that it will soon be taken. It's still advertised for £600 a month, right on the high street in Odiham, a stones throw from the offices. What a tease life can be.

For now, London is still an exciting place and the fact that I can explore the city for a few hours, have a pint and return with some food, all for just £10 including transport is something really quite remarkable.

The other day I found myself hanging around Jubilee walk, between Black Friars and London Bridge and beyond taking in the sights. Skateboarders and cyclists, mime artists and dancers, street markets, book sales, museums and cafes. The Thames rolled on by, crammed full of boats as Saint Pauls looked on and the eye slowly turned.

These moments make it worthwhile.

From tommorrow, it's down to hard graft to forge ahead into my career and the unknown.
It's an odd feeling to not quite know where I'll be living in February, but I really do hope it's my own little space. I can handle a few more months in shared accommodation if needs be, but I'd rather get settled, at least for longer than a month.

But let me not get ahead of myself, I still need to negotiate a deal with the partners of this small design company. While it's 90% certain there's an offer, that 10% in the gamble can always be a turning point.

And the long term plans ?
They still stand, now seeming so far in the distance, a small house near the sea in a sunny country with good prospects. To get there will require a lot of effort. Best not to think about it.

A quiet day in London

I used my new Cycle guide map today, unfortunately, I didn't have the cycle to go with it (There wasn't a free inflatable bike included with the map, or a shed-boat-shed-bike)

So, as part of my new found budget constraints, named "I'm nearly broke", instead of an all day £5.20 travelcard, I opted for an all day return, National Rail, for £3.10, which affords me ?
Yes, you guessed it, a slow pint of bitter to sup on as I type.

Yet again, I find myself at the Borough Market - I just love it here. Perhaps it's my fondness for good food and the fact that I need a break from the food I've been eating.
My diet for the last few weeks has been maily pita bread, but I've branched out into adventurous meals, such as mash and beans, spag bol and even a steak and kidney pie, all compliments of Tescos, Sainsburys and Marks & Sparks. Cheap, but satisfying, if you can ignore 1/2 the ingredients written in point 1 type on the packaging.

The market is my chance to escape into a world of fine foods and happy shoppers, with no trolleys and miserable people. Food makes people happy and nothing is better than a good old market.

The walk from Waterloo station is only 15 minutes through the side streets, down "The Cut" onto Union Avenue and up one of the small alleyways to Southwark Street. My map reading skills have improved and the cycle guide is brilliant, with no tourist tat cluttering it up.

The story behind that guide started on my second day, I was sending texts to Micatyro and he was doing some research. He texted me back that there's free cycle guide maps to be had. I was unfortunately unable to find one. 77 days later, I finally did, in Earls Court station.

Didn't take too long bro !

So if your in London on a hectic budget, keep your eyes open for them, maybe I was just unlucky in not finding one sooner. However, I did notice, of all the various leaflets at Earls Court, there were only two of the guides left, so I presume they go pretty fast.

It's very quiet in London today. As far as I know, the tube is "offline", the workers kindly deciding to strike from 12 noon today until 12 noon tommorrow, thus ruining New Years for thousands of revellers. All the tube stations I've passed so far seem to be empty, will check the news later to see if they did strike after all. Needless to say, if they are on strike, they will be VERY unpopular with Londoners when they do go back to work.

From where I sit, I can see the dirty old river rolling along through the window, the tide is coming in, so the water is just below the edge of the banks.

In summer, this pub must be almost impossible to get a seat at, but what a great place if you can, as there's an outside terrace right on the edge of the Thames. I've actually no idea what the pubs name is, even though I've been here four times over the months - Thames side I think.

As for this evening, off to friends at 9pm. At this stage, I'm just not interested in the idea of a party. Sad ?
No, not really. From what I've seen, there are more people dis-interested in the whole fiasco than anything else. It really is a high pressure event for many people, the feeling that you have to get blotto to see in the New Year.

As I mentioned in a previous Blog, I would love nothing more than to have a nice meal with friends and family and see in the New Year in a civilised manner, rather than watching people consume a river of booze and feeling rotten the next day.

Next year, perhaps I'll be able to have that civilised meal, until then, I'll have to go with the flow up the dirty old river, who knows, I may even enjoy myself !

Have a good one folks !

Talking about the weather

Weather in the UK is a strange beast which nobody seems to be able to get an exact handle on.

Compared to many places in the world, the climate is tame, yet the amount of time spent discussing it in detail would lead you to believe it has the most intense weather on the planet.

You can't help but get caught up in all the talk (and the weather itself) and I find myself scanning the BBC weather broadcasts 3 or 4 times a day.

The interest in the weather may because the forecasts are so frequently wrong and change so often from hour to hour, you may as well look out the window to decide what to wear and when to travel.

When I arrived here, the media was full of gloom about a winter countrywide shutdown, due to "the big freeze", a return to the 3 day week, gas shortages and death and mayhem on a grand scale.
It was suggested it would be the coldest weather since the 1950's, when one year, the Thames froze over.

It didn't happen (or at least, not yet)
Instead, December was normal to mild, with a cold snap just after Xmas which is set to ease from tonight.

5 days ago, the 5 day London forecast predicted today would have light snow. Over the following days, it went to heavy snow, sleet, rain, back to light snow, back to heavy snow and finally this morning, light snow.

In reality, it rained all morning.

There's just no making sense of it, even with all the money being thrown at the latest technology to attempt to predict what the weather has in store.

BBC TV weather is now like an advanced Google earth and gives you an accurate picture of a frequently inaccurate forecast. They may as well go back to manually sticking cloud and sun symbols onto the map, at least giving us the opportunity for a laugh when they start sliding out of place or fall off the map entirely.

So proud were the BBC of their new TV weather reporting system, they made a documentary about it, which you can view on the BBC weather website. I'm sure your all just dying to view it.

Personally, I think they should install webcams all over the country to look out for red skies at night, in the morning, cows lying down, birds flying backwards and pine cones opening and closing.
They could then use the data gathered to get a forecast about as accurate as a billion quid computer forecasting system.

I think I'll write to the BBC to suggest my idea. Perhaps they could even create a computer generated model of the cows, birds, skies and pine cones instead of watching the real ones in action.

At least I know what the weather will be like for the next hour or so, I just looked out the window and saw a herd of cows thundering down the road backwards. That means it's going to rain frogs in 30 minutes.