The British Library, quick thoughts

Just zipped here from Waterloo, where I did nothing but look. £12 for the London eye, £8.50 for Dali, £9 for the Aquarium (fish 'n chips not included) - walking is thankfully still free, as is the classic view of the HP sauce building which I caught in a classic rare photo that only about 123 million people have.

So, I'm inside the British Library and I haven't opened a single book yet. It's a bit overwhelming and I shall have to return early in the morning to spend a day here.

I'm upset that there's no free wireless access, so I'm using up my expensive (but cheapest that can be found), 4000 minutes for £40 BT Openzone.

I'm also starving, but £6 for a small wedge of bread with limp lettuce and a gulp of water is too much to bear. I'll hunt down a Tescos. Not quite as cultural as the Library, but a damn side cheaper.

I think it's international limping day here at BL, I've seen three people limp past in the last 10 minutes.

So what now ?

Hmm, pack up the laptop and stroll around. Possibly I'll open a book, but which one ?
There appears to be a slightly larger collection here than can be found at the central Randburg library. The building is a bit bigger too.

bb_matt limps off in search of rare reads and Tescos £1 salad sarnies ...

They think I'm a writer !

They think I'm a writer !

Well, wobble me backwards down the off-ramp, I've been called a writer !

What does a writer look like ?
From my limited experience about such things, a writer doesn't actually have a "look"
Certainly an image of sensible clothing with pipe accessories for men and bicycles for women comes to mind, along with heavy jackets, boots and scruffy plaid shirts, specs and wanton sex in green fields or barns seems to be the order of the day, but these ideas can be challenged in the same way that the longest sentence in the history of the world could do with a fullstop.

I suppose a plaid shirt with a black denim jacket containing a hash J as worn by a wildly drunk overweight oddball will have to suffice, I never was very good at naff.

Hold on, there's a problem here, I'm not a writer at all. I have no degree, have never been published ...

I'll just pretend, after all, I have to keep my fans happy ! (all 1 of them)

A little bit the worse for wear

I met an old friend today who I haven't seen for 5 years, so I'm a little bit tanked up for 7pm on a Thursday evening. Never mind. I don't feel like writing at all, but I'm trying to get myself to write regardless of my mood.

I'm really overwhelmed by the level of friendliness I'm finding on this rainy island, despite the fact that people say London is a lonely place.

I have been warned that I should give it more time - the initial social thing can die off in winter, but I'm not phased - can take or leave it.

I haven't had a place to call my own for almost a month and although I'm missing being able to sing odd songs, burp and fart at will and wonder around in my space swinging low, I'm happy as a smiling budda for now. I remain flexible as always, able to assimilate into whatever situation I find myself in.

I came here expecting the worst, but I arrived with an open mind and a purpose of sorts, perhaps that has helped me.

Raymond hasn't really changed, he's still a really down to earth stand-up guy. He still can't really judge people the way they are, but because he is such a damn fine person it makes him more accessible. I enjoy chatting with Ray. We can talk about anything. I will be meeting Jill on Sunday, Rays wife. We've always got on fine, but Jill is always on Rays case, yadda yadda yadda - non stop.

Grant called me earlier, my brothers brother-in-law, asking how I'm doing - I think he wanted to go for a pint, will maybe call him now to see if he wants to meet me in Wimbo for a pint, otherwise, there's always tommorrow. I'm a bit too pissed right now to meet anyone, to be honest.

So, I post this lacking in humour and any other type of enjoyable reading stakes because I owe it to myself to try to write under all conditions. Inspiration is miles away, there's none here at 19.04pm - maybe later ?

Possibly after a nice bite to eat.

Land of the rising damp (blah blah fishpaste)

Land of the rising damp

Brolly weather, that's what it is, black non-descript-bat-wing-portable-rain-avoider.
But guess what, I left the brolly at the B&B.

I've used it on and off about 10 times today, but still need to associate it with the 5 minute walk to the pub. I wasn't the only one to be caught out it seems. Then again, many British people seem to resign themselves to getting soaking wet in a country where the brolly is king, or at least as essential as shoes.

I'm late for my regular evening internet and "social" session, having actually done some constructive work today which felt rather good. Had a quick chat with one of the bar staff. She sounds Aussie to me, but is actually a Saffa who left for the UK when she was 10. Can't be more than 24 now, lovely girl. Went back on a tour of South Africa 3 years ago and drove up the coast by herself, visiting backpacking places along the way. She's looking for an Aussie to hook up with, as she fancies Perth and surroundings big time, but can't get the Visa. There's something special about pub workers, or maybe it's her smile.

But back on topic and back on track - rain. Always back to the rain.

I've been a lucky, lucky bastard. Eight days of mild weather on the trot, only getting caught in the rain once in Camden Town, near those odd Vampire type shops which seem to specialise in rubber, leather and the evil-but-not-really-cos-goths-are-nice gear.

But now the reality hits. It rains here in winter. It rains a lot.

A steady drenching rain of the type that's likely to find a gap between the back of your head and the back of your neck, rolling down the spine to induce a shiver-shudder.

It's pouring at a 20 degree angle, the type of rain that just doesn't happen in South Africa, save for perhaps the Western Cape.

How could I forget this simple fact ?
How could my memory loss be so great that I neglect to remember that it can rain in England for weeks on end, forget that brolly manoeuvring is the order of the day - left, right, up, down, shake, do the Brolly shake.

It's just a shake to the right, then a step to the left, lift the brolly above head, then take a lunge for the bus.

Ducks, weather for ducks. As I peer out the window, I can see a dirty duck waddling down the high street - oh wait, that's the pub signage, silly me.

Another night down The Swan then ?

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 ...)

Wells Bombardier

Rather fruity, with a hint of stale tea and more than a twinge of "ode to my smelly socks"
At £2.43 a pint it's certainly a tall order for those not acquainted with the British passtime of drinking flat luke warm brown water masquerading as beer.

To say that it is an acquired taste could be likened to saying that toenail clippings washed down with runny warwickshire cow pats is an acquired taste. However, millions of British people would attempt to acquire the taste regardless of its content, all the time vehemently defending their great beer heritage.

At this point, Germans would suddenly aquire something of their own, a short lived sense of humour as they belly laugh their way around the concept that Britain considers itself a country which brews good beer.

I must admit that half way through this pint I'm rather enjoying it. This can only be explained away by the fact that I would probably try runny cow pat and toenail clippings
(although possibly not warwickshire cow pats) if they served it lukewarm at £2.43 a pint.

Order another one ?
You must be joking mate !

I'll have a pint of reheated diced lancashire sheep poo with a hint of belly button fluff and salted cotswold gravel please.

Up and Out in London (but not Paris)

I had grand ambitions of getting my London Blog up and running on arrival, even going to the lengths of registering a .info domain and downloading some blog software to load onto it, but alas, the hours have flowed too fast.

I arrived on a oddly warm day for October at Heathrow and plunged head first into London. I have hardly had time to stop to think, let alone time for the luxury of writing a Blog, so this first London personal Blog entry is more of a primer for myself once I get settled.

This and several emails, forum messages and private forum messages will probably go into a "week one in London", however, it's more likely it'll be "month one"

I'm currently sitting in The Swan on Ridgway (yes, that's the correct spelling) inbetween Wimbledon and Wimbledon village, hammering away on my shiny new laptop (essential tool for a web dev guy) and quaffing pints of cider while nursing a fresh head cold, compliments of my first two rainy days in London - two out of four, not bad so far !

In four days, I've tubed and bused mostly non-tourist spots (do they exist in London ?), as the reality of the situation is that I need work and more permanent accommodation very quickly, having enough money to last 2 months.

This Blog is going badly so far - I just cannot think - too much is happening in my head, too many thoughts, not enough luxury to sit back and reflect.

About the best I can do is that London feels like a city with deep damp roots steeped in urgent history and ritual.
It has a feeling of solidity bordering on collapse, so very hard to explain right now, but I feel I shall get my head around what London is, to myself at least.

When I compare it to Joburg, it seems that Joburg could be wiped of the face of the ancient African Veldt and be lost without a trace, like so much dry grass blown by the wind, whereas London may sink into its soggy roots but would leave its mark on the landscape for a thousand years.

This city just doesn't ever stop. Even as I sleep, I'm restless. Dreams flowing fast and wild, no time to catch them to reflect.

The trains are the heartbeat of this city, so much so that a closure of the Northern Line makes headline news in the London rags.

Coffee, water, cider and sandwiches are fuelling my first few tender and tentative days. Loneliness, despite having some family here, is guaranteed in the short term and depression and elation are the bedfellows of that loneliness.

There is nothing quite like exploring London alone, until you reach a point where you would like to share your joy, joy perhaps rendered by a profound insight. These insights hit me continuously, such is the rich visual feast and fruity sounds that meet and greet at every corner on every street.

I need to gather these thoughts into cohesion, but I cannot. I'm lost in London and loving it.

Up and Out.