Despite how openly I write about what I think and feel, I actually have little idea who is reading all this. I know my mum does (because she ‘Likes’ them all on Facebook, and relates the stories back to me when I see her 🙂 ) but beyond that, I really have no idea. People rarely comment on the actual blog itself, occasionally they comment on Facebook or Twitter (where I publicise the updates) but beyond that, I suspect the blog goes relatively unread. I therefore feel quite safe in writing this next one. That may sound ludicrous given that it’ll be published in the public domain, but I don’t think of it that way – I think of my blog as being like a diary. Regardless of whoever else may or may not read it, I go back and re-read my posts from time-to-time; that was the whole point in writing it!

So what’s ‘the emotional one’ all about? In a word, Simon. No surprise there then! If there’s a chink in my armour, it’s Simon. My late brother was my best friend, and no-one has or will even come close to beating him at that, not even (when we were together) my husband.

Simon was slightly older than me – enough for him to feel in charge (at best) and ‘always should’ve known better’ (at worst).  Yet we were close enough in age to get on like mates. When he went to college, I used to go clubbing with him and his mates. This caused much amusement when I’d occasionally get mistaken for ‘the new bird’ (to which he’d generally respond with “sod off, that’s our kid”) or I’d get approached by interested potentials, only to see him step in a warn them off.

When I was 11 and Simon 13, we moved 200 miles away from the place we’d grown up and started a new life in Yorkshire. Whilst this meant we got a better quality of life, at the time I hated it because I had my heart set on going to Northgate (the sport’s academy-style school with facilities second to none). Simon on the other hand, was over the moon, as it meant he could do what he’d loved as a small boy and farm. And he did it, and loved it, for a long time. Not too bothered with school, he picked up a job on a local farm, took on a day release NVQ course, and got himself an HND in what he wanted to do. After working on local farms, huge estates down south and even the Royal Agricultural Society in Stoneleigh, he moved into Agronomy (the equivalent of being a vet for crops, as opposed to animals). However, this was cut sadly short, when Simon died at the age of just 23.

I remember this like it was yesterday.

It was my 21^st birthday on Friday 27^th March. A few of my York friends came down to Nottingham for it, but Simon was working, so he said he’d come and collect me the following Friday, and bring me home for the Easter holidays. Fine by me – my brother coming to pick me up was far cooler than my parents, any day, and I got to smoke in the car going home – happy days. (I was a student then, smoking was accepted by all but my mother!)

The following Friday, it got to about 5ish and I was starting to wonder why I hadn’t heard from him. In a twisted kind of irony, the year before, I remember having a conversation with my flat mate, Alex, in her yellow bedroom, after Simon had had an accident at work and fractured his skull. The conversation went along the lines of “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him…” the kind of conversation you have when you never actually dream that it’d really happen. Well here we were, one year on, and I was suddenly recalling that conversation. After a few hours, the phone rang and it was my dad, I think, it could’ve been mum, that bit’s a bit blurry because what they told me literally knocked me from my feet. Simon had fallen earlier in the day, hit his head, and suffered concussion. Whilst he soon came round, the doctors decided it wise to transfer him to York hospital to be on the safe side. Whilst on the way to York, Simon became ‘agitated’ and fell into a coma. My dad was with him, and says he said goodbye to Simon then, as we want’ to regain consciousness after that point. By the time he got to York, he was transferred to the Neuro Intensive Care unit at Leeds General Infirmary, which had been open only a few days. So was the best possible place he could be. He’s been examined on arrival at Leeds and the doctors identified swelling in his brain, which with a skull in the way, had nowhere to swell and was therefore putting pressure on Simon’s brain. This could cause serious complications so he was immediately rushed into theatre so that part of his skull could be removed, giving his brain space to swell. Whilst Simon was in theatre, there was little mum and dad could do, so that’s when they’d come and get me, and take me back up to Leeds with them, to wait for Simon to come out of theatre. Right. OK.

At that point, when I put the phone down, it hadn’t really sunk in. I’m not sure if I really realised the seriousness of the situation, or whether I was in shock. But I just sat down on the sofa on the right in the living room, with my flatmates around me, all staring at me, as if waiting for me to scream. I don’t think I did. But the following 90 minutes waiting for mum and dad to come and get me were perhaps the longest of my life.

The journey back to Leeds was weird. We didn’t cry or get panicky. Mum and dad were incredibly calm and I just asked lots of questions. (That was nothing new – mum always said Simon was her ‘how’ and I was her ‘why’!) So by the time we got back to Leeds, I knew as much as they did, and was kind of prepared for what to see. After all, only a year before, I’d seen Simon in hospital in York with a bandage round his head, looking like Basil Fawlty!

Only this time felt more serious. There were more nurses. There was more equipment around him. He wasn’t awake. The side of his head was yellow. He had tubes and cables everywhere. He didn’t look like Simon. But I didn’t want to leave his side.

For the next nine days, I went home in the middle of the night, got a couple of hours sleep, went to work for a few hours then drove back to Leeds for tea time, then stayed with Simon until silly am (whilst mum and dad got some sleep in the family room), before heading back to work. On the drive, I made various phone calls to update friends and family. The updates were generally the same – Simon was still in a drug-induced coma. They were intentionally keeping him asleep to give his brain time to settle down. Every time they reduced his sedative, his brain activity went off the scale – he was fitting in his sleep – so they’d send him back under for another few hours and wait for him to settle. So that was the routing for a week or so.

There were a couple of highlight moments in what became our new routine… the nurses were so supportive, that I brought them a basket full of mini chocolate eggs – it was nearly Easter after all – the chocolate lasted just half an hour! Such a simple thing but went down so well, I still do this (take them Easter Eggs every year)…

Because Simon hadn’t got me a birthday present, I bought a CD and told him he could pay me back for it when he woke up. Knowing it was one he’d like (and undoubtedly swipe when I wasn’t looking), I took it into the hospital and played it quietly beside his bed. The Best of James. I still love it…

Simon was a traditionalist. So if he’d known that one of the nburses caring for him was male, he’d have frowned. But knowing that said nurse was also homosexual would’ve scared the tractor out of Simon’s yard! So when the nurses asked if we wanted to bring Simon’s own boxer shorts in (rather than him wearing horrid hospital gowns all the time), what did we do? We gave the nurse Simon’s reed satin boxers…!

There were some signs of life, well we like to think there were. Simon and dad often used to discuss Assumpter Fitzgerald (of Balykissangel fame); Simon claiming that she liked the younger man, dad convinced of the opposite… So when in hospital, if someone mentioned Assumpter, Simon’s levels would blip on the monitors! His hearlt would literally skip a beat!

Unfortunately though, despite our chatting to him, when the nurses showed us his brain scans, there were black areas at the front and at the bottom at the back. This meant that, if he was ever able to wake up, those parts of his brain were badly damaged, perhaps even dead, and therefore his long-term memory would be affected… he wouldn’t be able to talk, walk and was unlikely to know who we were. In simple terms, if he woke up, he wouldn’t be the Simon we knew; there was a high possibility he’d be in a vegetative state and need constant care. I’m sure mum and dad discussed this with each other, as I did with myself. I was doing my finals; they were coursework heavy, so I could do them from home, move back and look after Simon. Mum and dad’s house was big enough for us all – we’d all lived there for 12 years, so it was doable. But it was never really talked about much.

I hardly slept on Easter Saturday night. Nor did mum and dad. Simon had been in Leeds for 8 days and hadn’t really improved. So when the phone range around 7am, I just ran into their bedroom, knowing it’d be the hospital. It was. Simon’s kidneys had failed overnight. The doctors could send him into theatre for a transplant, if a donor could be found, but it wouldn’t change his neurological condition. If anything, the additional trauma of further surgery could be risky in itself…

At this point, it only took us a short time to agree that this was Simon’s way of saying he’d had enough. He was done with fighting. He’d been fighting a hypoglycaemic condition for the past seven years, that was probably what made him fall and hit his head in the first place, who knows. Either way, we were sure he’d had enough. So when asked whether we wanted the doctors to treat his kidneys, we said no. We knew what this meant and the doctors suggested, therefore, that we make our way to the hospital as he may not have long left.

I don’t think we spoke between that call and getting to the hospital. It’s not often that mum doesn’t ‘direct’ dad in multi storey car parks, or dad avoids selecting some decent tunes for the radio. But we just drove there in silence. When we got there, the doctors said his condition had deteriorated and he had maybe 30 minutes or so left with us. Mum sat beside him, hoding his right hand;p dad stood behind his pillow, holding his head; I sat opposite mum holding his left hand. His head was tilted ever-so-slightly towards the left and when the final moment came, it was nothing like Casualty! There were no alarms, no crazy manoeuvres on the monitors, no-one rushing about. The nurses just pulled the curtains round and turned the volume down on the machines, switched the monitors off so we couldn’t see the levels, and left us to it. After a short time, no idea how long, one eye twitched, he drew a short breath and that was it. Whilst the twitch was probably a muscle spasm or something, I like to think he winked at me. But he was gone. And that was it. We sat with him for a few minutes before the nurses came in and suggested we give them a few minutes to clean him up and get rid of the machines and tubes, then we could stay with him as long as we wanted to.

So we went downstairs. Mum and dad went to make some calls, I headed for the door to go for a cigarette, just as my then boyfriend Neil walked in. Bless him, he’d driven up from Birmingham to be with and support us over Easter.  He arrived just a few minutes too late to see Simon, but stayed with us whilst we say our goodbyes to Simon. Neil then drove me to the pub and I got drunk. Very drunk. Last orders that day didn’t count. It probably didn’t take much to get me drunk. I was so exhausted and emotionally drained. There was so much to do from that point, arranging Simon’s funeral and everything, but at that point I wasn’t interested. I remember feeling remarkably calm, I don’t think I had much emotion left in me at that point. So I just drank, and talked about him, a lot.

* * * * *

Today is 5^th August. It’s two days before Simon’s birthday. At this time of year, sometimes I’m absolutely fine. But in the years that have passed since Simon died, I still never know how I’m going to feel from one day to the next.

This year is a tough one. I’ve no idea why. Maybe it’s because I’ve had so much change in my own life in the past year or so, that I’m less settled and therefore more susceptible to my emotions? I don’t know – but I’m not going to over analyse it! I lost my brother and best friend, and it hurts. Still. It always will. The gaps between feeling low get longer as time goes on, but they never stop.

I think about Simon every day. I have a photo of he and I beside my bed, and I always will. I have another photo of him beside my make-up box on my dressing table, and I always will. When I worked on the Olympic Park for two weeks, I took him with me. He’s in my wallet. He’s in my head and he’s in my heart every second of every day.

I occasionally wonder what he’d be like now, but I only have to look at his 23-year-old godson Tom (who was just eight when Simon died) and I get a pretty fair idea. I wonder how Simon and I would get on as we got older, and I only have to look at Tom and his sister Sophie (who are equally as close as Simon and I were) and I get a pretty fair idea. I wonder what he’d be like if he became a father, and I only have to look at his best friend Jolly (who now has a little girl called Lily) and I get a pretty fair idea. But whilst I love these guys, for who they are, how much they support me, and how much they still love and remember Simon; they’re not him.

Anyone who has lost someone so close will know that they can never be replaced. You never get over it, you just get used to it. So whilst the days you feel low get fewer, they never stop. Today was one of those days. I’m hoping tomorrow will be better and that, by Wednesday, I’ll be back to my usual bounce. I better be, it’s Simon’s birthday so it’d be rude not to raise a glass right?!

Here endeth the emotional one! Tomorrow’s another day 🙂 xx

AN: I’m not going to re-read or spell check this one, it’s going up as is, so whatever typos or syntax errors are in there, can stay!

It’s fine, I’ll go straight from work…

Flying from Luton. Never done that before. Flying with an unknown (or at least, unheard of) airline. Haven’t done that before either. Heading straight from work (where I’m notorious for saying “I really need to be away on time tonight…” and rarely achieving it) to catch a flight. Now that has to be asking for trouble, right? Especially given my recent tendency for Anneka Rice-style dashes across London.

So tonight, I’m flying to Budapest, with Wizz Air, at 8.30pm, from Luton after a day in the office on the other side of London. This has trouble written all over it.

Having declined team drinks after work, I decide that, for once, maybe I should take a leisurely trip across town? I check Google to find the quickest route from the Wharf to Luton Airport, and am advised to change at London Bridge, picking up the Thameslink to Luton Parkway, and then taking the shuttle to the airport. Seems logical.

Unfortunately, Google hasn’t experienced London Bridge station at the moment: refurbishment + school children / tourists + rush hour = mayhem. But I have a deal with myself that I always walk up the escalators at Waterloo and London Bridge (in a lame attempt to redeem any lack of gym attendance). So despite my case being heavy, I carry it and walk up to the main concourse, only to find that the 17:36 doesn’t seem to exist? And the next train to Luton is apparently 18:10? Back to the Jubilee line and my sense of calm is starting to go! Having lost 20 minutes, I check my phone to see what time the Thameslink leaves West Hampstead… No signal. Bugger. Well I’m sure they’re pretty frequent, so I’ll head up there anyway.

I get to West Hampstead, leave the underground station and walk over to the overground station. I buy my ticket but the boards show no trains to Luton? Apparently, I’m at the wrong station… there’s another one? How big is West Hampstead?! Next street on the left and I finally find platform 2, and have 3 minutes to find calm before the 18:18 arrives. I eventually make Luton at 19:10, plenty of time before my 20:30 flight departs, so I check in, head through security, locate the nearest bar and cop a squat with a G&T.

Luton airport – about as much character as Kidderminster

At this point, I want to find something funny to write about Luton. But I can’t. There’s no abuse being hurled from a Yorkshire wheelchair, it’s not silly o’clock in the morning, so I can’t laugh at those ‘starting early’ and everyone just seems quite normal. In fact, this is the problem with Luton airport, there’s nothing about it. It’s just lots of people waiting to board their flights. They don’t seem over-excited, they aren’t drinking too much and they’re not overly ignorant or uncouth. It’s not until I’m at the boarding gate that I realise why.

I’m flying with Wizz Air, an airline I’ve never heard of before this trip and one who I’ve never seen advertise in the UK. This is because Wizz Air is a foreign airline. Eastern European in fact, although in my admittedly uneducated manner, I’ve no idea whereabouts in Europe. Most of my fellow travelers are Hungarian, Bulgarian, Romanian, Polish, Lithuanian, and from various other European destinations.

Now I’m not sure whether Luton Airport has done this intentionally to cause entertainment to their otherwise relatively bored staff. Or perhaps it’s just because many of their flights are operated by Wizz Air. Either way, the entertainment at the boarding gate is pretty funny.

We are queuing at gate 22, on one side of a narrow corridor, and just meters away from gate 21 across the way. In fact, the only separation is from the retractable fabric barrier under which numerous small people are running wild.

Our flight departs to Budapest at 20:30. Across the way, the 20:25 departure to Bucharest is also gathering a queue. You know what’s coming! As the Bucharest flight starts to board, the attendants at the front of the queue are periodically referring passengers to our queue. At this point, realising that some of them have been in the wrong queue, some of our passengers awaiting the Budapest flight from gate 22 suddenly start to wonder if they’re actually in the right queue? Unfortunately, because this is Luton, there are no departure boards down this corridor, so they can’t see anywhere to check. And the delightful Doris, who periodically tries to explain the proceedings over the tanoy in her local dialect, only adds to the poor Europeans’ confusion. Basically, I reckon if you’re hoping to get to Bucharest you’re in trouble; by the time our flight to Budapest boards, if a passenger discovers that they were in the wrong queue it’s too late. Whereas, if you’re in the Bucharest queue but wanting to come to Budapest, at least you have half a chance of still crossing over the corridor and catching the slightly later flight. Of course, this could in fact be Luton trying to be clever, thinking that by boarding both flights in such close proximity, they have the chance to swap passengers if needs be. Ah the joys of flight security and efficiency… hats off to Wizz Air!

Bilingual demonstrations – brilliant!

Safely on board the right flight and in my seat (I hope), my attention switches to the cabin crew. I’ve often wondered why every airline always seems to converse in English.  I’ve flown with airlines from other countries before, but they’ve always spoken and provided on-board information in English. I appreciate that the first global language (or that which is most widely spoken) is English. But what happens if most of your passengers are of another nationality? What happens then? Well now I know.

None of our flight crew are English. And I appear to be in the minority back here in the cabin too. Being a European airline, I’m wondering how this will work. The captain indeed welcomes us in English, but then proceeds to provide the very same speech in Hungarian. I am, of course, making a couple of assumptions here: one is that he’s speaking Hungarian – I wouldn’t have a clue; and the other is that it’s the same speech – he could be saying “thank god we’re leaving this dreary place, sorry for any confusion in the boarding queue, this was just to give those Lutonians something to do, anyway, feel free to ignore any English passengers, they haven’t a clue what I’m saying to you right now, so give them a wink and let’s get them wondering…”

AN: worth noting that I didn’t get any winks, and had I done, I’d never have known why anyway!

We then move on to the safety demonstration. Now this is good. The voiceover repeats things a step at a time, in both languages. “Your life jacket is located under your seat. Place the life jacket over your head, tie around your waste and fasten in a bow at the side.” *Cabin attendant demonstrates the act  / joy / relief of finding a life jacket beneath the seat, then places it over their head (life jacket, not seat) and demonstrates fastening of bow* The voiceover then repeats  these statements in Hungarian… *Cabin attendant unties and removes life jacket replaces beneath seat, then repeats demonstration of finding life jacket beneath seat, places it back over their head, reties bow etc* — god help them if they got the bow in a knot on the English demonstration; the poor Hungarians wouldn’t have a clue what to do in the event of landing on water…

A-ha, the drinks trolley. Lovely. Time for my second (third?) Gin & Tonic (the in-flight drink of choice for so many). What? They’ve no gin? No tonic? Ah yes, it’s a European airline isn’t it? So they serve three or four different varieties of whiskey, vodka or schnapps, but no gin. They do offer wine though, so I opt for red. And it’s actually pretty good – a nice little French number which is perfectly drinkable. So I sit back and enjoy the sip and quickly nod off.

When I wake, we’re starting out descent into Budapest (relief – it’s not Bucharest) and as usual, my excitement levels lift – it’s an F1 weekend, it’s hot (even at midnight) and I’m a smiling Boxy…

#letsgoracing xx

30 jagerbombs and a bed full of sesame seeds

I’d planned to do very little last weekend. The sun was forecast and I intended to spend Saturday lying in another of London’s parks, and Sunday preparing for Budapest.

Since when did I ever do very little? It didn’t happen.

The fun begins when I get a text from a friend who lives in Dubai, saying he’s in London on Saturday, if I’m around? This particular friend is of the rugby fraternity, meaning alcohol is bound to be involved somewhere, and most likely in large quantities.

I am not disappointed. We arrange to meet at the 8 Bells at lunchtime. Great, I can nip up to the West End to return those bits I bought 4 weeks ago and haven’t yet managed to take back. Perfect. So I pack my bag full of returns and head for the pub.

Cash. Hmm, will the pub take plastic? Most in London do, but rather than get caught short in discover otherwise, I first head in the other direction to the cashpoint. Luckily, James and Jo are still in their previous establishment, so his brief text of “running late, with you shortly” turns into “sod it, meet us here as we’re still drinking”.

Between then and midnight, our challenge of ‘doing pubs you’ve never been in before’ is an obvious winner… Really? I’ve only lived here a few months, why did I think this would be a good idea? Seven pubs later, said the Putney challenge takes us way beyond sobority and the following morning’s text of “the last pub’s tab alone included 30 Jagerbombs” pretty much sums up the proceedings.

I wake up Sunday morning, accompanied by an empty Pad Thai box and a bed full of sesame seeds… lovely. Needless to say, I now feel even more like doing very little.

The Wind in the Willows

That’s until I get a text from Oxfordshire, simply saying “On the river again, if you fancy cruising?” A day on a boat, undoubtedly drinking, in the sunshine… Tough call… I’m in – what’s the plan, Stan? Unfortunately for me, Stan’s plan means I need to arrive in Didcot at the same time as another friend who’s also boat-bound. Only, said friend arrives at 10:55. And what time is it now? 10:30. And another Anneka Rice style dash is on – start the clock…

Showered, changed, and desperately trying to forget what I drank last night, I’m running across Paddington to make the 11:36. I make it at 11:29, impressed, knackered – stop the clock!

11:36 cancelled. Bugger. But there’s an 11:40 departing from platform 13 in 7 minutes – start the clock!

Where the hell is platform 13? About as far from the main concourse as possible, with the exception (you’d think) of platform 14, which actually turns out to be closer than 13. Either way, I’m running. Again. Still trying desperately to ignore the hangover and hope there’s somewhere on platform 13 to buy a bottle of Evian. There isn’t. But I get a seat, on the 11:40 to Oxford, stopping at Ealing Broadway, Slough, Maidenhead, Maidenhead plus a bit further, Maidenhead’s outer suburbs… getting into Didcot Parkway a good half hour after the 12:04. At this point, with a hangover, who’s run half way across London, without finding a bottle of water, not having had breakfast, and knowing the lift from Didcot to Sutton will have gone, so a taxi will be needed, eating into any beer funds for the day, I could be getting slightly frustrated. But I soon reach Didcot, hail a cab, and head for the George in Sutton Courtenay. In glorious sunshine, I plonk myself on a bench outside, with an ice cold Crabbies, open my Budapest Rough Guide and read. Paul and Gareth soon arrive and we head for the boat.

AN: given there are two of them, and lock keepers at each stop, I consider it acceptable to play lady muck – that’s fair, right? So I bask in the sun doing nothing but keep refreshed 😉

We sail down to the next pub, to meet Debs and the girls. Rude not to sample a swift half whilst we wait, right? Agreed. They join us for a half before we set off to meet Simon at the next pub. Simon has a long boat called Charlie. And it’s beautiful. And best admired from the riverbank, where we enjoy the delights of the beer garden before heading up the road for some lunch. Once back aboard, we return Gareth, Debs and the girls to their car at the Plough, sample a swift one, and head back to Sutton.

Unfortunately, by this time, the lock keepers have shut-up shop and left the boats to man the locks themselves. So in the dark, lit by little more than head torches, we set about Culham lock. At this point, I still have hope and intention of making the last train back to London. However, 40 minutes later, and the lock is still filling up, my outlook changes to contingency measures. Right, if we get back to Sutton, we’re guaranteed a mooring overnight. From there, I can get a cab to pick me up first thing, to take me to Didcot to meet the first train back to town, plan.

If Carlsberg did Anneka Rice… perhaps best not think about that…?

Well it would’ve been, except the local taxis are clearly not short of business, and thus unwilling to get up at 5am. Bugger. Luckily, a friend in Sutton does the station run every morning, as she works in the city. So I hail a lift and make the 6:41 to Paddington. This is like doing the walk of shame, only I’m not guilty, I look respectable and I’m actually heading to the same place as most of my fellow commuters! The only difference (other than the fact that they’re all in suits and I’m in shorts, shirt and Pradas) is that my commute this morning needs to go via Putney to change and grab my ID pass! Start the clock…

I arrive in Paddington around 7:30, make Putney by 8am, am back out of the door by 8:30 and am at my desk in time for my first meeting of the day at 9:30… Stop the clock!

I don’t know about Anneka, but by 9:45 I could have murdered a Carlsberg!

So another weekend doing nothing, yet I still haven’t managed to get my returns back to the West End and haven’t planned or packed for Budapest yet. I do love living life to the full.

Boxy xx

Having not learnt my lesson last time, I’ve booked another early morning flight out of London – this time from Gatwick. I don’t take the easy option, do I? I’m so used to jumping into Bruno and hitting the motorway, that when I was asked to go up to Glasgow for the day with work, my response of “is there a travel policy I need to be aware of, or shall I just book a train?” was laughed out of the bank by my manager, to the response of “Train? Do you not like flying or something?” Clearly, my colleagues at Barclays don’t know me too well yet.

So I book a flight from Gatwick to Glasgow and, in true tight Northerner fashion, I book the most cost-effective flights there are… the 7am out of London, returning at 21:00. It’ll be a long day. I doubt that Mr Jenkins will be aware of my efforts, nor is he likely to thank me for them. But in spirit of our values, I’m thinking about the bottom line and putting the needs of my customer before those of my wine. Own! My own 😉

The only snag with this itinerary, once again, is that London’s impressive public transport network doesn’t wake up before 5am, so my alarm goes off at 4:15 and by the time my seatback is in the upright position, my tray table is stowed and my seatbelt is fastened; I’m out for the count, bound for Glasgow.

I’m not really sure what to expect? Last time I visited Glasgow, I was about 10 and en route to the Isle of Skye. My only memories of the city were Easterhouse – what an awful place – and that everything seemed very cold. Since then, the majority of my time in Scotland has been spent in Aberdeen – the granite city – and Inverness – where there’s little to do but race the Northern Constabulary down the A5 towards Aviemore. Needless to say, I don’t like Scotland much.

Redemption required

If my Internet-savvy Gramps is reading this (and it’s more likely than Andy Murray winning Wimbledon, seriously) he’ll be cursing at this point! He and my Nannan live in Perth, Scotland. Gramps was… (Was? Is? Not quite sure) …recognised by the British Army as being quite a smart chap, and on the odd occasion when he’s taken me to Stirling for lunch at the Officers’ Mess, I’ve been treated rather well. Also, for some reason, Gramps is one of few non-Scots who is ‘allowed’ to wear the Black Watch tartan. But rather than a kilt, Gramps has tartan trousers – and they look fab.

They also have some stunning scenery. Fact. I can’t deny that driving over the mountains from Pitlochery to Braemar, listening to U2’s Joshua Tree, I am still lost for words.

Any just outside Perth, on a Hill called Moncrief, there’s a plaque and one (of many) trees to commemorate my late brother. I’ve never been, but seen the plaque twinkle many times, looking from my Nannan’s kitchen window.

So I really shouldn’t slate the Scotts, nor Scotland, but for some reason, I just can’t say I like the place. I’ve yet to meet anyone who feels like I do. Most people love it. And in fairness, I did love Skye, every year we went there when I was little. But the rest of Scotland, the Scots can keep. I’d rather go to Ireland.

Sorry Gramps!

Taxis in Glasgow are like buses…

So I shan’t bore with what I did at work today, but the journey home starts well.

I come downstairs to reception, and ask the nich young chap on reception if he could order me a taxi back to the airport. “Erm, yes, I guess?” he replies, “have you got a number?”

Hang on, I live 500 miles away, he knows this because he signed me in from Canary Wharf this morning. So I reply “I’m afraid not, I live in London, so not too familiar with Glaswegian taxi firms, I’m afraid. Do you have a company you usually use?” Poor boy looks totally bemused. The sense of power he feels by wearing a Land Securities blazer (which is too big for him) with a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt (which I bet he uses to chat to his mates in the pub down the road… “that’s a big 10-4 rubber duckie”) are actually just for show. I’ve found the chink is his armour. He’s actually not that bright. SO I rummage in my wallet, find the receipt from the airport taxi firm I used this morning, and call myself a taxi. Fortunately, my local Power Ranger has some use – I can’t understand a word the taxi firm say when they answer, so I pass my phone across and let him explain where I am.

Waiting in the sunshine (yes, it’s sunnier here than in London!) outside, I get a call from Gary, the taxi driver, telling me he’s 10 minutes away. Seeing an airport taxi pulling up outside the main door, I ask “you haven’t just pulled up outside, have you?” to which he replies “no, don’t get into a cab with anyone but Gary!” Right, I have my orders! So I wait.

In due course, Gary arrives, just as my phone rings again. Same number. Different taxi driver. “Rebecca? I’m outside, is that you standing up the road?” Now I’m confused. Gary has pulled up in front of me, whilst another taxi is 10 feet away, but with ‘Airport Taxi’ livery on their vehicles. It’s like Scottish buses; you wait for ages, then two turn up at once, and they’re not even buses, they’re taxis! I pick the closest – it’s Gary – and we head back to the airport.

SqeezyJet to Glasgow airport

So, after a few blog updates about Yorkshire Airlines, and the excitement that is Leeds Bradford INTERNATIONAL Airport, today I experienced another ‘new’ airport.

My first impression of Glasgow airport, was that it was right up there with Leeds for manliness – by this I mean, every man needs a shed. Leeds Bradford is a shed. Or it was, until Jet2 (aka Yorkshire Airlines) started flying Hale and Pace out to exotic locations.  

Glasgow airport is very similar. But more orange. As I approach the gate, the walls are bare breeze block, painted orange. The ceiling is a pitched metal roof, with plastic skylights. The carpet is threadbare. Yet people still chose to sit on the floor, rather than on the chairs? Is that a Scottish thing?

The décor on the wall shows a word cloud of the desirable locations to which you can fly, with SqueezyJet, from Glasgow. Inverness. Maastricht. You get the picture.

Having said this, when I arrive back at the airport to return home, I’m taken aback by the contrast between departures and arrivals. Whilst the arrivals (I want to say lounge, but it’d be a huge overstatement) gate feels like a painted shed, the departures terminal has more technology than Gatwick. To get to security, unmanned scanners scan your boarding card, be it a paper version or on your mobile device. Security itself is über-efficient, and I’m through in minutes. I guess is down to the attempted terrorist attack a few years ago, where some idiot tried to drive into the terminal with an explosive device. Luckily, they didn’t do much damage, just instigated a worthwhile upgrade to the technology in the airport, making a better traveller experience. Until you get through security, then it’s back to basics and more like Leeds Bradford again.

So I return to the orange shed, wait for my orange bird to open its doors, and hop on board.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, my name’s Reuben and I’m your cabin manager today…” is Reuben male or female? I’m honestly not quite sure. I’m on the row 26, right at the back, and aside from feeling naughty, I’m blind as a bat and a bit tipsy from necking the red wine I bought in departures just seconds before my flight was called.

To my left is Theo. A quiet chap, who looks frightened to death, but bears a slight resemblance to he of Dragon fame. To my right, a petite frame, wearing a beige mac, and bearinbg a slight resemblance to Holly Golightly. Just without the Pradas. Neither speaks. Perhaps they’d chat to each other? But I’m sitting between them, have just ordered a coffee (trying to sober up) and am typing away on Vesper, hoping to God they’re not reading what I’m writing about them!

At this point, I’m giving up on trying to type whilst being paranoid that my coffee is going to spill all over Holly’s beige mac. So I close Vesper’s lid and sit with my Starbucks.

By the time my coffee is cool enough to consume, the captain comes over the tannoy “cabin crew prepare for landing” and I’m asked to ensure my seat back is in the upright position, my tray table is stowed, my seatbelt is fastened, my electrical devices are switched off, and Reuben is shaking a bag at me, waiting for my rubbish and empty (empty?) coffee carton.

We touch down and I switch on my phone. I’m meant to be meeting my SW19 partner in crime at Waterloo once we land, so I’d logging off and planning another (these are becoming an enjoyable habit) crazy Anneka Rice style dash across London’s train network!

Last one there buys the first round, and Sarah’s already specified hers is a G&T…

TTFN Boxy xx

Twittering with the Aussies

So I made a rash promise on Facebook this week, to write a blog update today.  I do miss writing my blog, because I love just talking about what I think, see and do. It’s almost like having an imaginary friend or a diary, with whom you can just chat or just twitter (in the literal sense, if such exists? ‘Twittering’ could easily have just been a term introduced by my father, grandfather, great grandfather etc which I’ve used for as long as I can remember…) I digress. Not unusually. Anyway.

So, I’m sitting in the kitchen at home – home now meaning Putney – and am chatting to Kari (my flatmate) about nothingness. L;ike the fact that we both think we need new kitchen knives (it’s been bothering me since I moved in, on one hand because I know I have an expensive knife block in my lockup in York, complete with sharpener to keep them in good shape (also good for Geena Davis moments* and letting off steam); and on the other hand, because most of our knives here are serrated, making the simple option of buying a sharpener, pointless.

Our conversation moves onto sport – not unusual living with two Australians! – and I smile as I’m asked who’d won the rugby yesterday. In the interest of international peace and relationship management, I pointed out that, in the first half the ref had played by Southern Hemisphere rules, giving the Wallabies the advantage, so the unfortunate slippage causing them to miss the final (match-winning) kick was only fair justice, and made for a more even game / result…) The conversation moves swiftly on.

It’s that time again

So on Thursday, I have my best mate coming to stay. Very exciting, it’s that time again… The sun isn’t anywhere to be seen, yet strawberries are on sale, Pimms ads are appearing all over the place and quite appropriately for Sarah and I, there are also more Spritz ads this year too…? Yes, my SW19 partner-in-crime and I will soon be heading towards the All England Club.

This year, however, we won’t be camping in ‘The Queue’. We usually do this on the Sunday/Monday between weeks 1 and 2, it’s become tradition, and even if we get tickets for another day, we’d want to camp anyway because it’s such immense fun! Calls of “let me out!” and the fizz of people in the next tent opening another Stella before the sun’s even up, all add to the attraction. However, whilst Sarah’s husband usually has no choice but to accept me kidnapping his wife on the night of his birthday every year. This year is his 40^th and therefore sacrosanct.  Luckily, we got Centre Court tickets through the public ballot, and therefore won’t miss out on the tennis. Any because I’m now living in SW, we have accommodation and can both drink, as neither of us have to drive back to Yorkshire – bonus!

So Kari and I are discussing buses. Living at the bottom of Putney Hill, the route to SW19 should just be up the hill and across a couple of blocks, I think? So getting there must be a doddle, right? We’ll just jump on a bus up the hill. That said, this is me; I rarely leave the house without a plan of action! It’s not that I’m obsessed with planning, we just live up eight flights of stairs, so you kinda need to know what you’re going to do before you leave, as the prospect of having to come back upstairs when you forget something, is far from appealing!

So I’m going on a recce of South London.

Avoidance tactics

It’s worth noting here, that my original plan for today was to find a gym I will actually use. My Fitness First membership expires in July, and I joined the gym at work over a month ago, but since moving to London I haven’t used either. The closest FF I can use is either Victoria or Hammersmith, neither of which is in the right direction or close enough to easily just go. The work gym is in the basement of our building in Canary Wharf, making it close enough, but after work I just want to get home and hit the sack. In the morning, I get up at 6:15 as it is, so getting up any earlier so I can go before work is a non-starter! Also the treadmills there are no good for interval training, which is what I spend 90% of my gym time doing. So whilst I’m currently paying for two gym memberships (both subsidised) I’d rather pay for one I know I’ll actually use! However, every time I say I’m going to sort this, something more exciting comes up, hence I’m still paying for two gym memberships and complaining about the strange disappearance of my toned stomach…?!

So correction; today I’m going on a recce to find a gym and play on the busses!

Laters, Rxx

*the Long Kiss Goodnight

My first weekend living in Putney, being in Putney. I moved in two weeks ago, but spent most of my time driving up and down to York collecting thing (like parking tickets and speeding tickets), forgetting things (like keys), and generally doing what I usually do. So despite being ‘in residence’ it didn’t actually feel like being here.

Last weekend, I disappeared off to Barcelona again at silly o’clock Saturday morning, returning Tuesday, then saw out my final few days with Xerox, chuntering about the South Circular (I’ve commuted hours in the car before, and commuted across London before, but averaging 7mph drove Bruno crazy!).

So I drove to Uxbridge for the last time on Friday, and have since been car-less (for the first time since I was 17) and have not jet-setted off anywhere for at least a week. I think this therefore qualifies me as a resident.

If it didn’t, just to make sure, I’ve just deposited my bike at Putney Cycles for a service, meaning that shanks’s pony really is my only form of transport. The sun is out, so rather than walk home, I decide to go for a little wander in Putney.

Shoe restrictions

I’m a creature of habit. I’m always up for trying new things, sure, but if I find something I like, I tend to stick with it. So jeans. I did have a purge when I moved, getting rid of two pairs to bring my collection down to just 26 pairs… I’d got back up to 27 within four days, sorry. But unlike most ladies, with shoes I’m at the other extreme. I own fewer pairs of shoes than pairs of jeans. This currently comprises five trainers/pumps, three flats, two flip flops, four boots (excluding my amazing brown MinP cowgirl beauties, which I eventually binned after being told by four cobblers that the heel was irreparable – felt like a yellow pages ad. They were my faves. Gutted doesn’t come close), two courts, three workshoes and two heels. By the order listed, you can perhaps tell that I tend to buy shoes in which I feel comfortable rather than buying shoes and having to keep a spare pair in my bag as the preferred pair are unwearable.

AN: one of my mates down here will appreciate this, as he has a thing about people who wear trainers with suits on their way to work! Causes much entertainment and debate!

Anyway. Today, I decide that one of the aforementioned pairs of flats should at least be given an outing (I’ve actually never worn them, they just looked nice and comfy…) So I pop on the black lacy flats and head downstairs for my bike.

It’s not until I’ve dropped my bike off… (hang on, I sense a name coming on here; the car was Bruno, SatNav was Bella, I’m thinking Bambi for the bike? Thoughts?) …and I walk to the end of the road. Ah b’Jesus, my feet are already screaming at me! Right, so a long walk along the river is out then, as is a wander up the high street (I’ve only been as far as the station so far). Ok so How much can I explore between here and home?

The rowing club meets play your cards right… double entendre?

Walking home, I walk past three bars: Thai Square, the Star & Garter and the Duke’s Head. Thai Square was the first reason I liked Putney – 13 years ago, I went in there on a hen do and loved it (think it was just a bar then). But the other two I’ve never tried. So today I decide to try one on the way past. The Star & Garter looks a bit quiet (more Friday night bar than Sunday afternoon pub?) so I carry on. The Duke’s Head looks much the same, more large pub and entrance is on the main road (not the Embankment where I am) but they have what appears to be a basement bar, with tables and chairs outside by the river. So I figure that looks worth a try…

The Rowing Club

Erm. Ok, so not what I expected? Outside is heaving, with all tables taken and people standing on the riverside pavement enjoying a beer. Inside, aside from being empty, is playing chillout / R&B music, like you’d expect in a bar in town early evening, and the decor kind of reflects that too? The building has a more exposed brickwork theme which doesn’t seem to match? But the bar is the best bit – surrounded by white bulbs, it’s reminiscent of Bruce’s play your cards right and throws me completely! So I think I’ll test the water… The outside suggests conservative relaxation, the I side more like a lost pimp. I order a coffee… The barmaid (?) looks at me bemused. Tell me she knows what coffee is? And responds with “uh, you have to go upstairs for that” brilliant! This is going to be fun! I cant leave now, so my response is simply “better have a Peroni then hadn’t I?!” Maid pours my pint and sits it on the bar in from of me, muttering something about £3.81… I hand over four pound coins and a penny… She walks off to the till and looks at the cash in her hand as though it’s Rubbels… Eventually she drops it into the till and comes back with 11p (?) saying “you gave me too much” drops it into my hand, looks at the two chaps either side of me and suddenly looks like she’s been presented with Giles Brandreth’s tie breaker – who does she serve next?… Brilliant! I have to come back here one evening, just to see if the bizarre choice of decor has a purpose…

Ttfn B xx

Update:

A couple have just walked in, had a good look round, and as they left I heard him say “yeah this is a bit weird…” I rest my case!

Last year, I visited 12 countries, as many airports, and was only denied a stamp in my passport on one occasion. But you’d think this means I’m a dam hand at navigating airports, right? Nope. On the contrary, I can never remember which airport is which, and I haven’t visited many airports more than twice. However, on arrival at Barcelona, it all comes flooding back… I land in T1 and remember that the train to Sants goes from T2 (I flew in/out of there last time), and there’s a shuttle bus going round the terminals (the driver of which has little personality or much senses of humour when it comes to confusing his passengers, especially those wanting to board his busy bus with their bicycles), and when you get into T2 there’s a raised walkway to take you across to the station (which has a decidedly musty smell and a very uneven floor), and that said walkway is accessed from the end of the check-in hall (which I walked up and down at least twice last time, looking for the way through to security) and the automated ticket machines are a far better bet than queuing at the wrong ticket booth, twice.

So I get to the station without looking at a sign or asking for directions. I feel pleased with myself and, in the daring hope that I’m blending in as a local, I suddenly have a pang of sympathy for the poor chap in front of me, who can’t fathom how to get the ticket machine to display in English, even though he’s pressed the button with flags on it? He stands and stares at the machine, confusion building on his face, and I can just see the cogs turning in his head. “I pressed the button but nothing changed? Maybe if I press it again, it’ll work. Maybe I didn’t press it hard enough?” He’s still confused, and whilst it’s amusing trying to guess what he’s thinking, the queue behind us is building. So I give up on my attempt not to appear a foreigner, and I explain that every time he presses the button, the small word at the top of the screen is changing to say “Product combinations” in various languages. When he recognises the English variant, he also clocks that the buttons have also changed, and one of these says “other tickets”. He selects this and he’s off… no really, he’s giving up and going to a booth! Don’t do it! They’ll trick you! They’ll wait until you’re at the front of the queue then tell you you need to be at a different booth! Trust me! No? Tempted to watch his unfortunate episode continue, I simply buy my ticket and wander off down to the platform.

After not too long, the train pulls in, I board and find a seat. We’re only minutes into our journey, when I hear what sounds like Clouseau tuning up his strat… ah I’d forgotten about this from the airport train last time – serenade from an old chap playing a violin. He’s actually quite good! Not convinced the passengers around him are too interested though; most are wearing headphones and probably listening to One Direction or Enrique. Oh hang on, he’s changing his style… he’s gone from Vivaldi’s Autumn, to something vaguely resembling Bach’s Toccata & Fuge… Is he trying to wake everyone up, or simply demonstrate his skills? Not sure but he’s also trying the classic lean in tactics too, to make sure the people he’s serenading are aware he’s there. Meanwhile they’re trying desperately to ignore that he’s there, so they don’t feel obliged to hand over any money! It reminds me of Manuel and Polly entertaining the guests at Fawlty Towers on gourmet night when Basil dives out for a duck!

Ole! Bxx

It’s been a long time since I had to get up early, and have my wits about me. So in the back of my mind, I was convinced that, this morning, something would not go according to plan.

I live 10 miles from the world’s busiest airport – getting there will be easy…

My flight to Barcelona is scheduled to leave T5 at 07:10. So I need to be at Heathrow for around 05:30 / 05:45. Challenge #1. My first flight as a London resident, I just assumed that getting from Putney to Heathrow would be straightforward, right? Wrong. The first tube westbound on the Piccadilly line starts at 05:30, but sets off from Acton, not the city. So I’d need to get to Acton by 05:25, which means getting a bus. But again, at that time in the morning, buses are still in night bus mode, and it’s Saturday, meaning not all routes are running that early. So I’d have to head into town, change, then head back out of town. Basically, I’d need to leave Putney at about 3am to hit Heathrow (10 miles away) at 05:45… erm, No.

So I look at car parking – I still have Bruno until next Friday, so I could always drive, right? But psychologically, the idea feels wrong – this is London; everyone’s told me I wouldn’t need a car living here. So to resort to driving 10 miles to the airport just feels wrong, especially when I’ve managed to do without the car on flights to Australia, Abu Dhabi and Budapest, flying from Stansted, Leeds Bradford and Gatwick, whilst living in Yorkshire… erm, No.

So the alternative is a taxi. Black cabs are notoriously expensive, so I look at Addison Lee, which proves to be more expensive than four days in T5’s on-site car park! So I check out local cab firms in Putney… with no idea which are reputable, reliable, or even still in business, I’m working blind. Then I figure, why not ask a local – obvious, right? So I ask my flatmate, Anna, who has lived in Putney for six years. She readily hands over the names of three firms, with varying degrees of ‘recommendation’ ranging from “they’re cheap and you may even get there in one piece” to “ he’s a darling and will look after you”. The latter, Robert, sounds preferable and when I tell Anna it’s for an early morning airport run, she says “ah yeah, I’d definitely use Robert for something like that”. So I text Robert and he responds almost immediately, saying it’s no problem, he’ll pick me up at 05:10. I feel very smug at having organised this four days in advance, until I get a text from Robert on Friday night to say he’d forgotten he’s going out and therefore won’t be up early enough! But he’s arranged for his friend Matt to do it instead. Hmmm… suddenly I start thinking (yes I know, at 36 it’s about time…) I’m being passed from one stranger to another, it’s all very friendly, should I be a bit more cautious? Pah; thinking back to Honkers last year, and the point I made about daring to try things and go with it, I figure that Robert’s been recommended by Anna, and is now trying to keep my business having made a boo boo. I also recall the number of times I’ve said I prefer to use a supplier who’s cocked-up before, and made good, as you know you can rely on them if things go pear-shaped. Therefore I decide not to worry about whether Matt will turn up in a 1982 Nissan Sunny, without a driving licence, and turn out to be an axe murderer. Taxi sorted.

Early night required… dream on, it’s an #f1weekend!

You’d think I would be a pro at packing by now, but the weather forecast for this weekend in Barcelona is not looking typical. It’s 17 degrees, with sunshine and showers. That’s not right? I only do sunny Grand Prix, except Spa, where I take more layers than sunscreen. My approach to F1 is to buty the cheap tickets, which get you into the circuit, then let you wander round, find a spot, throw down a rug, have a picnic and enjoy the race and a day in the sunshine. Rain? In Spain? That wasn’t in the plan. For a start, my waterproofs and F1 umbrella (yes, I have a designated race brolly, which is short enough to fit in my hand luggage ort across the back of a motorbike, yet still opens up to be a big golf-sized shelter) are all now in storage in Yorkshire, as I hadn’t expected to need them until Germany in July. Bugger. So what do I pack?

In true feminine fashion, I spend at least two hours bringing out all kinds of outfits, laying them on my bed and pondering. Over a glass of something cold. With the radio on. And intermittent yakking with Anna. And a phone call to the Mercedes garage to see what the weather’s doing in Barcelona. Eventually, at around 11:30, I zip up my case and fall into bed. As soon as I close my eyes I remember at least two things I’ve forgotten to pack. But because I’ve painted my toenails this evening, I’ve been barefoot for the past three hours and my feet (and the rest of me) are freezing, so there’s no way I’m hopping back out of bed to grab my Barca guide and Mercedes hat now… I’ll have to remember them in the morning.

I double-check my alarm (which I set whilst at work earlier, in case I forgot to do it tonight) and discover that I’d clearly been distracted earlier, having set it for 14:07 (no, I’ve no idea either?!!) so I reset it for 04:30, tweet that I need to be up early (you never know, if Lewis sees it he might just drop me a call at 04:31 to make sure I’m up?… I live in hope…) and I close my eyes again.

At approximately 01:30 I open them again., reach for my phone (clock), chunter a bit, and close my eyes again. Half an hour later, I’m convinced I’ve slept in and reach for the phone again. Nope, I’m still early. This routine continues until 04:30, when I’m awoken from a deep sleep by Fleetwood Mac screaming “Chaaaaaain, keep us together, running in the shadows” and I drag myself out of bed, straight to the cupboard to retrieve my Barca guide and hat, then wonder what else I’ve forgotten.

Sunrise in London

Convinced I’ve left nothing, but deciding to throw in a light cardigan just in case it’s chilly, I zip up my case, neck a glass of Barocca, and my phone bleeps. Lewis! He remembered! No, it’s Matt, telling me he’s downstairs and ready when I am. He’s 10 minutes early. I’m impressed. I totter downstairs and out onto the riverbank…

And am immediately happier. Not only has Matt turned out to be in a shirt and tie, driving a black Mercedes E Class, but the sun is just coming up over the river, it’s rained overnight (so the air smells fresh) and Putney bridge looks just beautiful with the morning sun reflecting of its brickwork.

AN: I have a thing about bridges, no idea why, but I just love them. I loved the Orwell bridge in Ipswich when I was 10, I loved the bridges in Bordeaux when there on holiday in my teens, and my favourite of York’s bridges is Ouse bridge, where I could sit for hours and just look at it. Sorry, I’ll get my coat!

Putney bridge bears a vague resemblance to Ouse bridge, and this morning ti’s a welcome sight as my eyes become accustomed to daybreak. Matt takes my case, opens the car door, and I wonder what the flip I was worried about! In the car, he tells me that both he and Robert used to work for a local Putney firm, but have since set up on their own in Mayfair… makes sense now, Anna uses them for clients, they were always going to be respectable weren’t they?

BA do paperless, well; sorry Xerox!

Matt drops me at Heathrow and I head straight through security. This is the first time I’ve gone totally paperless but unlike the taxi, I’m not at all worried. The BA app on my iPhone lets me monitor and check-in for all my forthcoming flights, as well as creating digital boarding card, showing gate / boarding details and live updates. I’ve used this before, but always had a printed boarding card on me too, just as a back-up (I have to keep Xerox in the paper business for one more week, don’t I?!) But last time I tried the digital boarding card, I had a slight snagette. My 13:30 flight was delayed to 14:15 and as BA updated the airport information boards, my app kept in sync and was also updating… but by the time we eventually boarded (14:17), all passengers were at the gate so they stopped updating the information boards and my app therefore assumed we’d boarded. My boarding card and flight details were thus archived and my ‘next flight’ information had moved on to show the return leg of my journey. At this point, I was still queuing at the gate, so when asked for my boarding card, I had to rummage around for the paper version in my handbag, as the digital version was no longer available from my phone. Not great BA – bug fix required!

So today I’m giving it another go, without a safety net. I hold my phone over the sensor as I go through security, and it beeps me through. I hold it over the tills in duty free (Chanel top-up and Anthon Bergs are a necessity, right?) and my transaction processes without issue. I hold it on the scanner at the gate, and am ushered straight down the tunnel onto the plane, and with a final wave of my phone in front of the welcoming BA cabin attendants, I’m in my seat in no time, and with no paper. I’m impressed BA, I like this. Just need to ensure my battery is charged (as we all know that’s going to happen at some point, right?!)

Not convinced I’m quite awake yet, but pleasantly surprised that my anticipated logistical stumbles have not materialised, I’m sitting in my window seat and the pleasantry that is our BA Captain comes over the tanoy: “Good Morning ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and a very warm welcome on board this British Airways flight to Barcelona. We are on time this morning, and the kind crew here at London Heathrow have managed to squeeze us a nice early take-off slot, in around 25 minutes’ time. We have about 20 minutes to taxi down to the runway before we take to the skies, so please ensure you give our cabin team your full attention this morning as they take you through the safety procedures. The weather in Barcelona is a little cloudy but a pleasant 17 degrees. As we get a bit closer, I’ll come back to you with more information about the local weather and our arrival time. In the meantime, thank you for choosing to fly with British Airways, and just sit back and enjoy your flight.” I do like BA – they speak to passengers as though this was their first ever flight, not as though they’re reading the same script over and over again, with little tone, pitch change or meaning to what they’re actually saying. Instead, BA always seems welcoming, friendly, respectful and have a touch of the old English classicism about them. I like this. A lot. So I’ll do as I’m told; I’ll pay attention, then sit back and enjoy my flight. (I didn’t realise the escape slides could be inflated manually? You learn something new every time. A-ha, breakfast…)

Adios amigos Bxx

…there is no stopping in the white zone.

Anyone who has seen the epic 80s movie Airplane! will recognise why this made me giggle; I look out if the window while the ground crew prepare the plane for departure, to see this chap! I want to slide the window back and hand him my AmEx card, a la Captain Clarence Over!

We have clearance Clarence.
Roger Roger.
What’s our vector Victor?

Brilliant xx

A week on Friday, a few work friends are coming out for drinks at Charing Cross after my last day at Xerox. So challenge for today is to find / recce a few pubs to find a venue. But before I drink, I must eat, right? So I grab a Pret and cop a squat on the steps outside the National Gallery.

In the name of JESUS

A great place to people watch… Opposite me is a girl reading a book. Why not find a bench? Somewhere quiet? Or at least in the sun? No, god knows what she’s reading but I hope it’s good!

There’s a crowd gathered watching a street entertainer; can’t see what he’s up to but the periodic roars of laughter suggest he’s good, either that or they’re laughing at Brian…

Wandering round pulling a wheelie case, holding a big red microphone, Brian is blessing people, places, things, anything, everything… “in the name of JESUS” where the stress he puts on the first syllable of the word sounds more like James Earl Jones than Eric Idle. I’m just waiting for him to bless the Cheesemakers, I’ll be happy then, they have a hell of a time…

I finish my Tuna Nicoise, take in the view, then decide its time to recce. So I head for Charing Cross station and look for Gordon’s Wine Bar (recommended by a highly reputable London-based Events company called Plain Jane). I’m told it’s cheese & wine but no beer, which may rule it out for next Friday, but I may need to know of it for future reference right?

Gordon’s looks fab but I’m more intrigued by what I spot outside… the Victoria Embankment Gardens – hidden gem or what? This place is fab! Riverside location, stripey deck chairs to take the weight off, and plenty of space for me to throw down my scarf and cop a squat on the grass 🙂

Freda, Barry and Bon Jovi

Before long, Freda and Barry rock up; a middle-aged couple whose lack of shopping bags tells me they’re just out strollin’. As they sit down on the bench in front of me, Barry does the classic ‘arms in the air’ yawn, returning his right arm behind Freda – smooth Barry, smooth…

Luckily for Barry, we have cabaret… On the next bench is Jon, perhaps a little worse for wear, but happy as a clam belting out Bon Jovi’s “Always” (at least i think that’s what it was; not quite in tune, lyrics weren’t far off, but everyone is smiling so who cares!)

Before I know it, I’ve been here an hour, still not tried any pubs, but having a chilled out afternoon. Next time the sun goes behind a cloud, I’ll head over and sample a cava at Gordon’s…

Ttfn Bxx