The House Husband

So, someone decided it would be a jolly good jape to leave her laptop charger at the Canary Wharf flat this weekend. The same person who desperately needed it in order to work on her DBA essay.

After a quick, frantic search of all known computer outlets close to home, I decided it was an impossibility to buy a new one within the day (I will order one on the Net tonight) and foolishly offered to retrieve the old one. I figured it would take me a minimum of 3-4 hours.

We checked the Jubilee Line for any engineering work and, gloriously, it was only not working in the opposite direction from Waterloo. Not needing to go to Green Park (where the King lives), I was relieved. A quick trip into Waterloo, switch to the Tube and I’d be there in around 20 minutes. Easy. Oh those famous well laid plans. Why must they get up and run around like headless farm animals?

The trip into Waterloo was fine. I managed to get some work done amid the four carriage din of excited children and excessively loud grown ups and then made my way down to the bowels of the earth to the Jubilee Line. True to their word, the Jubilee Line heading west was not working but, with an air of superiority, I stood at the glass doors waiting for the eastbound train which was due in one minute.
I’d been standing there for five minutes, the crowds thickening around me, when an exasperated announcement fled from the speakers above my head.

“Because we couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery, a train has carked it at London Bridge and we can’t move it. You’ll have to now fend for yourselves. Losers.”

Lots of moans and a few, tourist utterances of disbelief, was all the reply from the passengers around me. I swiftly made a few calculations. Of course, I could have just left the Tube and hopped on a ferry (oh, how I wish I had) but I’d already swiped my Oyster and it would cost me a journey because of their incompetence. Bugger that, I thought as I headed towards the Northern Line.

I had to get to Bank in order to change to the DLR. The only direct train from Waterloo to Bank is the Waterloo and City line (it ONLY goes to Bank) but, as usual, it is shut down all weekend. There was nothing to be done but to go to Tottenham Court Road and switch to the Central Line.

A lot of people had the same idea. We all got to know each other pretty well on the Northern Line train. As did the others that boarded at Embankment. By the time I switched to the Central Line I was sweating profusely as were the people pressing up against me. It wasn’t pleasant. I tried to read but the fug beat me down with its insistent odour.

I couldn’t get to Bank soon enough and then started the very long walk to the DLR. Along platforms throbbing with pleasure-bound people out for a day of Tube riding until I reached the relative calm of the steel platform. A train was just leaving. I looked at the indicator board.

The next two trains were for Stratford. The third to somewhere else I’d never heard of. There was no sign of any trains to Canary Wharf. I spotted a chap in a bright yellow tabard and figured he’d know something. I was right. The DLR was not running between Bank and Canary Wharf today. I asked him if I could go to Stratford then go from Stratford to Canary Wharf, avoiding Bank but he just laughed, cruelly I thought. He then rattled off a sequence of trains and buses that I stopped listening to after the third interchange. I thanked him for his concern and headed for the comparative fresh air of the world outside.

I was standing in a part of London I didn’t recognise. I spotted a map. I had a choice. Walk about two miles to the river and get a ferry or catch the bus that was rapidly coming towards me which said Liverpool Street. Ever the simpleton, I hopped on the bus.

Liverpool Street Station on a Saturday is very crowded. People mill around the entrance and crowd the bus stops. Buses swirl down the street like a dropped gymnast’s ribbon with about as much movement. Across the road, and hopelessly out of reach, was a 135 to Canary Wharf.

The wait wasn’t THAT long, all things considered though I regretted not popping into the pub I was standing outside of for a swift pint. Eventually I boarded the next 135 that appeared among the constant stream of other red buses. It joined the traffic and began its stop start journey to Canary Wharf. I didn’t mind. I had my book (I’m reading Wicked and it’s very different to the musical and seriously not for kids) and the weather was ok. There weren’t many people on the bus. And I had refused to even glance at my watch. I didn’t want to know how long it had taken me so far.

The bus stopped at Canary Wharf Station which gives me two stops before I have to get off. Just as the bus pulled away from the curb the bus-voice lady said:

“This bus is now on diversion. Please listen for further announcements.”

I never heard any further announcements as I frantically watched out the window as the bus turned away from where I wanted to go. Naturally I hit the stop button – I wasn’t going any further than I had to. Fortunately, the bus stopped about three blocks from where I normally get off (normally! Ha! I’ve only taken the 135 this way once before!) and I was soon walking briskly towards the flat.

I walked into the flat (having collected the pile of mail clogging up the mailbox) and looked at my watch. It had taken me three hours. I put the kettle on, went to the loo and rang Mirinda. She wasn’t there. I sat and had a lovely cup of almost white coffee (she had only left a mere dribble of milk but then, she’d not exactly anticipated a guest) and went through the mail, disposing of the vast majority of it. I collected the Golden Fleece and, at 4:20, was once more on my way.

Eschewing any sort of land based transport, I set off for the Canary Wharf ferry stop. Not a pleasant walk when you go via the river – I’ll be so glad when they’ve finished building whatever monstrosity they’re building so I can walk by the water. At the pier I was met by a very long queue of Saturday afternoon tourists all asking the same questions and buying the same tickets from the same, single, guy at the window. Eventually the ferry arrived and, having queued for ten minutes, we (the girl in front and me) were told to buy our tickets on the ferry.

The ferry ride, though crowded, was very pleasant. Lucky Mirinda gets this every day, I thought as I drank the revolting lager they serve. There was even a liner docked just passed Tower Bridge which is not something you see every day.

The trip was pleasant and uneventful and eventually dropped me at the London Eye for transfer to Waterloo. I was in time for the 6pm train home. I will get home at about 7:30. Seven hours! The whole trip will have taken seven hours and, counting the car that Mirinda will pick me up in when I get home, eight bits of transport! The things I do for love. I reckon Boris owes me some money on my Oyster card. It took a bit of a beating today.

We have moved Mirinda into her new flat. I have to say that this has been the most painless move EVER. Though it took a little longer than both of us thought it would. This is mostly because of Transport for London but also because Mirinda has managed to acquire a lot of stuff in the short time she’s been at Florin Court.

Mirinda stayed in town Friday night so she could wash and pack, ready for me to arrive first thing. When I say first thing, I arrived at 11 but I was up early to take the poodles for a walk first thing. I was then on the train and then bus. And Mirinda had a surprise for me.

I had maintained that the move would take one trip in a taxi with two suitcases and a few bits and pieces. Boy, was I wrong. She’s already packed the two as well as having a whole collection of Hessian bags full of stuff. And the flat was still full of stuff!

Anyway, we took what we had and hailed a cab for the Isle of Dogs, arriving around 12. Mirinda collected the keys from the concierge, after a brief chat with a foul mouthed window cleaner who had a very original (ineffective) way of touting for business and we let ourselves in.

What a difference to Florin Court! In fact, the entire flat at Florin Court could probably fit into the new bedroom. There’s so much space that I’m sure it will take at least a month for Mirinda to fill it up. Here’s a picture of the lounge and kitchen, which is so much better than mine!

Lounge and kitchen of the new flat

After a short time emptying the bags, I left for another trip to Florin Court while Mirinda went shopping for essentials like sheets and food.

I walked across to the station at Canary Wharf to discover that the Jubilee Line was closed for maintenance. No problem, I figured. I’ll take the Dockland Light Railway to Bank then change for the Circle Line. This started well enough – a minute wait for the DLR train then an uneventful, though crowded, trip to Bank.

The thing with Bank station is that it involves a lot of walking. From one end to the other is about two miles through tunnels, up and down stairs and generally fighting people coming from both directions. I eventually arrived at the Circle Line platform to find out that the Circle Line is closed for maintenance all day as well.

I stood crying for a bit then tried to work out a way to get to Barbican without the Circle Line. Eventually I decided to walk. Fortunately the two suitcases I had with me were empty and on wheels.

It took me about 15 minutes and I quickly packed the suitcases with as much as I could then hailed a second cab to take me back to the Isle of Dogs, arriving at about 3. Mirinda had been busy, buying some lunch and visiting the world’s biggest Waitrose for some sheets and pillowslips.

After unpacking and planning the final move (on Wednesday) we left for home. This took four hours. Mainly because the Jubilee Line was closed.

We decided to take the ferry – big mistake! For a few reasons. It was the first Saturday of the school holidays, it was a Saturday in London and the Circle and Jubilee Lines were shut.

We only had a wait of 10 minutes for the next ferry but it was late and then didn’t pick anyone up! Ages later we finally managed to be among the 47 people who were allowed to join the next one.

The thing with the ferry is, after the first bit, it creeps along at about 1 knot for the rest of the journey. This is normally a pleasant little ride but not when you’ve been moving flat all day.

After a very long time we arrived at Waterloo and realised we’d just missed the 7pm train and had to wait half an hour. Mirinda went hunting for food while I waited with the empty suitcases.

We eventually walked into the house at 9pm and were attacked by two excited puppies. What a day. Personally, I blame Boris Johnson.

Just to end on a bright note, here’s the view from Mirinda’s new balcony.

The view from the balcony

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I see that Nicktor has starting making comments on the blog. Interestingly, he doesn’t seem to be able to spell his own name! Fair enough, I guess, he didn’t make it up in the first place.

Up and out of the hotel by 9 and at the ferry terminal by 9:30. We checked in and waited then queued and waited then went through security, just missing the bus to the ferry and so, we waited.

The bus returned for the second half of the foot passengers and we duly drove off for the three minute trip to the gangway. As soon as everyone was off the bus with their luggage, a woman with a scanning device told us all something in French and we all returned to the bus with our luggage. It was all a bit frantic and I wondered whether we were being taken back to the terminal for interrogation. Then, as the bus reversed, I spotted the gangway being taken away and realised we were going in the big entrance where the cars go.

This was the scene of more consternation as the bus driver attempted to reverse his vehicle. He eventually gave up after a lot of Gallic swearing and frustrated gesticulation and did a huge u-turn in front of the cars that were waiting to drive onto the ferry. We were unceremoniously dumped halfway up the ramp and made to drag our heavy bags up the corrugated surface meant to stop cars and trucks from slipping.

I was in something of a panic when I thought our only way to the top of the ferry was via the stairs until I spotted the lift. Normally I’d not worry but my injuries were starting to act up a bit with the constant heaving up and down of luggage and the lift was an essential rather than a luxury. It deposited us on the 6th floor where we dumped it for the duration of the trip.

After the first awful coffee since leaving the ferry many days ago, we found our reclining seats and reclined. We should be home in about 9 hours.

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The best bit of a holiday is getting home. After a long and uneventful ferry ride, we docked at Portsmouth Harbour, climbed aboard our waiting taxi and were driven home.

The house was still there (though silent without the poodles) and the mail was high, the grass has grown and the Verbascum banana custard is STILL growing!!!!

I have had no access to the Internet for the last 10 days but will update with my journal entries over the next few days.

Spent a lot of the day being damp and/or wet due to the rain which came and went. Worst weather day of the entire holiday…so far. Still, we never let that stop us.

Today was Isle de Brehat day. We took off up the main coast road to Paimpot and then out the other side towards the Pointe de l’Arcouest, from where the ferries leave. There is parking of various kinds; we took the 24 hour option and wandered down to the dock where we bought a ticket which includes a circumnavigation of the island before landing.

We managed to get a reasonable enough seat outside, on the top where we were entertained by the tannoy in French which we understood at the rate of about one word in 20. Made it very difficult so we gave up translating and made up our own version instead.

The Isle of Brehat at low tide, seen from the sea

It was very low tide so a lot of rocks were sticking up out of the water. They all disappear at high tide. The island is really two islands joined by a small bridge. When I say small, I mean very small. It’s about 15 metres and, while we were there, only crossed a load of mud.

We landed at the low tide dock which meant we had a long walk onto the island proper, along a winding dock where the high tide mark towers many metres above your head. The first thing you see is the Hotel Belle Vue so the first thing we did was sit down to lunch with the beautiful view looking back towards the mainland.

Lunch was lovely and the entertainment was pretty enthralling as well. A young couple were on the dock opposite having an argument. We couldn’t hear them so we had to make up most of the dialogue – actually ALL of the dialogue – but we could follow the action pretty closely from the body language. Not as closely as the two chaps standing about ten feet away from them who we should have quizzed. They’d have known what it was actually about.

Anyway, there was a lot of her with her arms crossed and him sitting, his legs hanging over the edge of the dock. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground and his hang dog expression was pitiful. And then he rose to his feet (he was at least twice her size) and the argument took on a more physical aspect. I don’t mean they started punching each other out! They just started waving their arms in the air.

At one stage he waved a load of objects at her that resembled cassette tapes. I can only assume he had made her a load of party tapes and she had left them behind and he was upset about it. Perhaps because she didn’t have a cassette player or didn’t know what a cassette player actually was. Then, having made the point about the party tapes, he deposited them in various places about his garments.

And then, just as we figured they had finished with each other for good and he was going to swim back to the mainland while she ended up working in the lighthouse at the bleak end of the island, they hugged. Then came the reconciliation. Lots of touching, hair brushing, kissing, hugging, lifting off the ground (he lifted her, she did not reciprocate) and, finally, they came over to the restaurant, sat near us and had lunch.

We finished our lunch, bemused and confused. We set off for the lighthouse via the bourg. The bourg in this case, is the centre of the island where the shops are. Interestingly the Isle de Brehat allows no cars. This is quite good as the island is not very big and the roads are minute. Sadly it means the locals take great joy in herding people off the small streets using their tractors. I don’t blame them. I think I would too. A lot of people visit this place and, apart from the people selling little for lots, it must drive the locals mad. Most of the ones I saw looked mad.

And I must not forget the bicycle riders. Millions of them. Like flies but far bigger. They fly all over the island, taking right of way unless surprised by a tractor, getting annoyed that some of us actually walk.

Just one of the annoying bike riders on the Isle of Brehat

I’m making it sound horrid but it wasn’t. The island is lovely and the walking fairly easy. It’s only small. It takes about an hour to walk the entire length! The houses are lovely and the absence of traffic is wonderful. The island is home to some beautiful wild flowers and tended gardens and lots of birds.

We walked all the way to the lighthouse Paon which looks like it was created as CGI for a Lord of the Rings film. It nestles into the pink granite like so much celluloid fakery. A wonderful structure, almost art nouveau in its design. To cap it all off, the rain started as we wandered around the base. Wind and rain lashing us from the sea, we fought to maintain our footing. Some less brave French tourists huddled under the only shelter on the lighthouse – the lintel over the door. It looked about as effective as a Kleenex.

Crazy tourists huddling for shelter under the lintel of the Paon Pharos

Damp and happy, we slowly wandered back, stopping for the smallest coffee I’ve ever had, in the smallest creperie just before the lighthouse. It was pretty strong just concentrated in a tiny cup – like an espresso – and took longer to wait for than to drink.

As we reached the dock for home we were greeted on our long march by the ticket collector from the ferry telling everyone to walk back, the dock had moved because of the rising tide. Mirinda was sure a sign would have worked better but I think this guy did a wonderful job pushing us all back. Besides the sign would get washed away twice a day.

We were a big throng, waiting to board the 5 o’clock ferry back to the mainland. Most of the throng was related to Stefan, who was nowhere to be found. Judging from the people who were very concerned about his whereabouts, I think he probably stayed on the island to escape them all.

We had our doubts we’d fit on the ferry but fit we did and we were soon chugging back to where the water had risen so much that the gangplank was almost vertical when we left the boat.

The dock at Pointe de l’Accouest at low tide, returning from the Isle of Brehat

Walking up to the car park was a bit of an adventure. I didn’t think walking up the road was a good idea so I followed a sign that pointed the way for pedestrians. When we reached a fork in this path with an arrow pointing right, Mirinda dismissed this vital bit of information, demanding that we go left. Left we went and the nicely laid path ended in a dead end. Clearly we were not the first stupid people who thought the path that headed towards the car park was, in fact, a path to the car park and not to a large metal shutter over an opening in the hill, because we found a path worn in the mud and between the trees leading us on, into the foliage around the car park. We slid down the final hill and found ourselves where we needed to be. As we reached the car, the rain started again.

As we pulled up by the car park kid to pay him, the rain came down harder than any rain I’ve ever seen in Europe. The car was slowly filling up with water as the kid counted out my change by the cent.

Only one slightly bizarre incident marred an otherwise uneventful drive home. At one stage a wood pigeon dive bombed the car. According to Mirinda, it suddenly dropped from a tree. I figure it must have been commiting suicide. It hit the side of the car, leaving traces of the white powder that birds lose from their wings when they run into windows, on the side of the car. Otherwise there was no other damage.

We had a rather disappointing dinner tonight. We had spotted an Italian restaurant on our first visit to Binic so we thought we might try it out tonight as a change from Breton food. I really, really wish we hadn’t. It was pretty bad. Mirinda had ravioli – the sauce wasn’t bad but the pasta and filling was not in the last tasty. I had saltimbocca, a favourite dish which I also cook. It wasn’t saltimbocca. Although it was veal, it was a different dish that the waiter had clearly taken down incorrectly, and it was tough. The sauce was not very nice. All round, the meal was ghastly. We didn’t bother with dessert, coffee or a tip.

We went to the ice cream place instead where Mirinda had white chocolate and Ferrera Rocher flavours and I had pink bubble gum and popcorn. Fabulous. I am SO going to miss the ice cream place at Binic.

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Sleep was disturbed! Mirinda woke in the middle of the night firmly believing there was a bush fire in the woods next to the chateau. It was not a bush fire, however, it was a bunch of mischievous cows out for a night on the razz. And, no, they weren’t trying to light cigarettes under the shelter of the trees. The flickering light was caused by loads of fishing boats out at sea. The bush fire noise was the cow’s hooves through the undergrowth as they walked deeper into the woods. This place is so ridiculously quiet that Mirinda was disturbed by their breathing. Needless to say, I slept through it all.

Actually I had a great idea for the first episode of a sitcom but I shall not write about it here!