The House Husband

This morning, I decided to put a load of washing on before I went shopping. I filled the basket up from the bedroom with a black load and was about to put it in the machine when I realised I’d forgotten something. I put the basket down and went back upstairs to retrieve my trackies. Upon my return, greeting me with a mischievous grin was Carmen, all curled up and snugly in the basket, soaking in the human smells.

But I like it here!

I can’t remember her ever doing this before (although, Day-z can often be found curled up in a pile of dirty washing if it’s left in a pile on the floor) and wonder if she’s somehow telling me not to wash our clothes because she prefers them smelly.

I asked her if she wanted to get out now but her only reply was to lay her head down and feign sleep. She moved pretty quickly when I picked the basket up and leapt out looking a bit upset.

I suddenly realise that I haven’t mentioned Dawn’s marmalade. She posted a blip the other day and, in her comment, mentioned she’d been making some. She’s not exactly what you’d call a country kitchen, Kirstie Allsop, WI, jam making type so it came as a bit of a surprise. My comment in reply was that I hoped I’d get to taste it.

On Thursday she handed me a jar with the warning that it was too thick. I told her it was probably in her imagination because it looked fine. I can confirm that she’s mad. Thick? It was perfect! Not too sweet, nice and orange-y, tangy in the right way, perfectly spreadable. I’m not a big marmalade (or jam for that matter) fan but it sure tasted good on my toast.

I think she should add a secret ingredient and call it Dawn-alade.

Ignoring the dire weather warnings from the BBC (we have been on an amber alert since last night; not that I know what that means after all, on the roads it means make sure there’s no pedestrians and proceed as if green) I caught the train into town to visit with the patient at the quarantine hut. It was very clear first thing this morning, looking like anything but snow but as I left home, the clouds, with big bulbous bits of grey had appeared.

The trip across town was, remarkably effortless. Generally, the Jubilee Line is not my friend on weekends but it was running a good service today and I hopped on a tube train almost immediately. Strangely, I can’t say the same for Starbucks. Very unusually, they took an age to get the coffees out. It could have been because one of the staff was a trainee.

At the flat I was very glad to see a much improved Mirinda. She claims it’s a combination of a vast collection of drugs, not leaving the flat for four days and the absence of stairs. Unlike home, if she wants to move from bedroom to lounge, it’s just through a door. At home she’d have to climb up and down the stairs.
Whatever the cause, she is a lot better and should reach her goal of returning to work on Monday. Of course, the other reason for her improvement could be the ingesting of ice cream and cup cakes, a universal cure if ever I heard one.

While I visited, we watched a wonderful film called The Chorus. Susanne recommended it to Mirinda years ago and we’ve only just got around to watching it. It’s a lovely French film that we thoroughly recommend to anyone who loves a story about ordinary people making a difference against the odds. It is beautiful. The music and singing is haunting. And the acting is superb. How they manage to get such brilliant performances out of little kids, I’ll never know. I always remember the youngsters Mirinda tried to teach in the mountains. They hid any talent for performance well away from any public scrutiny.

It was nominated for the Best Foreign Language film at the Oscars and I’m amazed it didn’t win. The one that did was a Spanish film called The Sea Inside which I’ve never heard of. It’s the true story of a guy fighting for 30 years in favour of euthanasia and his own right to die. Doesn’t sound very entertaining if you ask me. I prefer The Chorus.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, even visiting hours, so I was all too soon on my way back home. The weather had turned even colder. Mirinda stepped out on the (steel) balcony in her bare feet and instantly regretted it. Fortunately I wore my big Russian great coat so was snugly and warm.

Coming out of the Jubilee Line at Waterloo, I walked by the big entrance and it was snowing. Very lightly and without much effort, but it could have been a portent. A big electronic sign in the main station proclaimed that all was well but if the weather was to deteriorate, things could get bad. That’s like saying, if you stand under running water, you’ll get wet! A stupid sign if ever I saw one. I texted Mirinda to let her know and missed a wonderful cultural reference she made.

As is normal in England, the train was very toasty. What’s not normal is that it was announced 20 minutes before it was due to leave so I didn’t have to stand around on the breezy concourse for very long.

During the trip home, Mirinda sent me a text to say the snow had started at Canary Wharf. By the time I reached Farnham, the snow was starting to settle. I knew I’d timed it right. Any later and I think this post may have had a different ending.

Walking across the railway crossing was a slippery affair so I decided to get a taxi home. This turned out to be a very good idea as our street was covered in snow, forcing the taxi driver to slow right down. I almost slipped over just walking across our drive. It would have been an awful walk home.

Of course the poodles were outside and covered in snow.

Our street, just before I went to bed

Today was pretty near as perfect a day as you could wish for. Even the weather proved reliable…if you ignore the wet bit, which didn’t really dampen our spirits any. Even the mad person who accompanied us in the first class carriage as far as Surbiton, didn’t put any negative spin upon the day.

Actually, before I start waxing lyrical about this perfect day, I should explain that I do not work alone at the Science Museum. I merely mentioned that Nick (and everyone else except Barbara) was on holiday last week and, therefore, would not be there. He was there this week and will be (holidays excepted) every other week after that.

Anyway, enough of that…today we took an early train up to London for a wonderful day of various things we love doing. First up, we journeyed over to Shoreditch to visit the Geffrye Museum. This involved catching a bus along with a couple of ladies who were out and about, flaunting their bus passes and bragging about their free day out in London.

There was a chap on the bus who turned out to be doing a survey of people travelling on route 243. He was slightly odd because he didn’t bother stating what he was doing. I thought he was a ticket inspector and held out my Oyster card obediently but he then started asking how I paid for it. Now, this isn’t as simple a question as you’d expect because I don’t, exactly, top it up, this happens automatically when it falls below £5 in credit.

Eventually, after babbling away for a bit and realising he didn’t actually have any idea what I was going on about, I told him it wasn’t a weekly. This seemed to make him happy. After a few more questions, he moved on to the two ladies in front of us, the ones out for the day for free, and they went through the same palaver.

Eventually we reached bus stop KA (I really have no idea what this means) and hopped off, waving the odd chap goodbye and wandering down the road, pursued by the two ladies, heading towards the Geffrye. This part of Kingsland Road was surprisingly quiet. It’s hard to imagine that a little over a week ago, there were riots a little way further down.

The Geffrye Museum is an amazing place. Mirinda has been before a couple of times and told me about it but nothing really prepares you for your first vision of this huge expanse of land in London just across the road from a load of 1970′s brutalist style council flats.

The Geffrye Museum, Shoreditch

Originally, the building was a series of almshouses in the 18th century. They were built in 1714 by the Ironmonger’s Company with money left to them for this purpose, by Sir Robert Geffrye. They were used for nearly 200 years by up to 50 people at a time. In the early 20th century, the area had become quite horrible and unsavoury so the building was sold and the almshouses moved.

The buildings were destined for demolition but were saved at the last moment by a petition organised by the Arts & Crafts movement, who wanted the whole place preserved as a peaceful green area in an otherwise densely populated pit. It worked (the petition) and it was turned into a museum which opened its doors for the first time in 1914.

What makes this museum so special is that each room along the corridor is furnished and decorated in different periods, showing the development of the middle classes of society. I stress the lower case ‘middle classes’ as they are referring to people in the middle of the socio-economic world rather than the Middle Classes, with leading caps, that the Victorians created.

Each room is accompanied by wonderful cut away diagrams of a typical house of the relevant period, showing the development of houses into what we have today. The older ones were all very dark. The Victorians filled theirs up with as much stuff as they could. My favourite was the 1930-40 room.

I’ve tried to get a shot of two rooms in order to show how it’s laid out. These displays are in the modern extension rather than the original building, though, to be fair, the original isn’t curved so it’s impossible to get two rooms together. The room on the left is 1950-60 and the one on the right is today.

1950 - today at the Geffrye Museum

As well as the rooms there is an extensive garden (we’ll have to see that next time as we ran out of any today) which has an interesting garden room that overlooks it. It is a lovely curving room that has just enough room for seats all around and a selection of books to read while you pretend you live there.

The Garden Room, Geffrye Museum

The interesting part is the mural. And the interesting part of the mural is the mysterious duckwoman.

Strange mural creature

I have no idea what this means. The rest of the mural looked fine but, after Mirinda pointed this out to me, I had to get a shot of her. It’s not just the fact that it is a duck in a dress, wearing a bonnet but the strange parasol as well. She is holding it as if it’s some sort of long distance microphone device, pointing towards those making their evil plans. There was nothing (I could see) that explains her. I call her Duck Woman.

We also popped downstairs to the special exhibition which is due to finish soon. It is a Japanese house. Sort of. It shows how our general view of the minimalist house in Japan is a myth. That the Japanese have houses full of stuff, just like us. In fact, if you really want to buy a Japanese person a gift, make it something edible or drinkable because they truly will appreciate it. Honestly. That’s straight from the Japanese.

They have more storage than living space. The more things they acquire, the greater the need for storage and the decrease in living space as their storage boxes take over. I realise we in the west do the same but the Japanese seemed to have made an art of it.

My favourite part of the Japanese home is the entrance hall, where a cupboard stands, upon which are placed charms and statues which ward off evil spirits, keeping them out of the rest of the house. I bought a lucky cat in the gift shop to go on our junior Jali, alongside the red Buddha from New York. I don’t want Aunt Vera coming inside to get me.

Time had well and truly flown and we had to make swift tracks to make it to the next part of our day. Lunch. But not just any old lunch. Lunch at the Savoy. However, first, Mirinda insisted in answering this woman’s survey about the museum just on the threshold of freedom that is the main entrance.

Mirinda in the keyhole

That’s her, inside the big keyhole, gritting her teeth and answering questions in order to tailor the museum experience more to the liking of the casual visitor who answers surveys. I waited outside almost taking a self portrait by a tree. I took too long to decide to do it and was interrupted by Mirinda’s arrival and subsequent dash for the bus.

The Savoy was beckoning. Actually, the Savoy somehow knew my name. When I booked lunch the other day, the woman on the phone asked for my phone number, which I gave her and she then called me Gary Cook. This is odd for a number of reasons. Firstly I hadn’t given her my name, secondly, I’ve never been to the Savoy before and thirdly, the phone is in Mirinda’s name. It seems the Savoy knows things that other restaurants (and hotels) can only dream about.

The Savoy is interesting because the land it stands on was given to Peter of Savoy by Henry III in 1246. peter built what became known as the Savoy Palace on the site. Of course this has long since gone but the name has endured. The hotel that stands there now, was completed in 1889 and was the first luxury hotel in Britain. It was built on the proceeds of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that Richard D’Oyly Carte produced at the Savoy Theatre next door.

We were booked into the Savoy Grill for 12:30 and what a lovely place! I felt a little under dressed though the dress code is smart casual and I was pretty much that. Still, I was a bit conspicuous for being about the only male without a tie. Still, the staff still served us and smiled and were generally happy.

Under dressed at the Savoy

Mirinda was very happy with the food, I was not as enthused. Not that it was in any way horrible. In fact the dessert (Eton mess) was fabulous but the main meal was let down by the lack of a fruit sauce and the starter was a bit weird. However, the wine was superb and the service excellent.

But, most important, I had crispy pigs head croquettes for starter, grouse breasts with bread sauce and wine jus on a bed of watercress and pate for the main, and the Eton mess. Mirinda had mint and courgette soup with walnuts for starter, the grouse for main and bomb Alaska on pineapple for dessert. It was, actually, really lovely. But I was unable to describe how crispy pigs head tastes.

We spent about an hour and a half at the Savoy, eating, drinking and chatting before it was time to move on to our next event. As we started to leave we were informed that it was pouring with rain outside. I went outside and, it was. All the porters were lined up outside, waiting for taxis, not wanting to venture out beyond the roof. This chap decided to try and scrape something off the side of the fountain. I don’t know what or why but thought it looked interesting given his outfit.

Porter at the Savoy

Eventually, we made it to a Boots store where we (along with a few others) bought a couple of umbrellas and then wandered across the Strand and headed up to Aldwych. We had booked in to see Butley at the Duchess Theatre but Mirinda had slotted in a bit of walking around time before we were due to sit in the theatre. So we wandered around Covent Garden in the rain, trying to avoid the thousands of tourists huddled in the little available shelter.

Butley is a play written by Simon Gray. It’s one of those parts that I really wish I could have played. I think I would have suited him perfectly. Still, I wasn’t in it today and, instead, we saw Dominic West who was pretty good. Though I did think he was acting a slob rather than being one. It’s a rather fine detail but pretty much the only criticism I can find for his performance. In fact, he was excellent.

Although the play was written in 1970, it hasn’t aged and is relevant today as it was then. It is also incredibly funny. It’s the first time either of us have seen it performed on stage. We have both read the script and I have seen Alan Bates in the movie version.

Also superb, I thought, was Penny Downie who played Edna. A difficult part and one that needs to get the audience onside which she did very well. I liked her performance very much. Particularly her final scene with Butley. When she tells him she no longer visits Ursula in her cottage in Ockham in ‘that way’ because Ursula got married, she oozes lost chances and regrets.

Martin Hutson as Joseph was also very good. As a foil for Butley, I thought he worked extremely well. It isn’t easy when the character you’re working with is so big and all encompassing but Martin managed it well, I thought. He makes a lot of the humour work as he plays the straight man to Butley’s clown perfectly.

We both enjoyed the play a lot, laughing almost continuously (except for the bits that weren’t funny) from start to finish. I am SO glad we went and saw it.

And then, finally, it was time to wander across Waterloo bridge, climb aboard a South West Trains train and head on home.

We decided to pay the small upgrade fee in order to sit happily comfortable in first class. We hadn’t allowed for the lunatic that entered the carriage just before we left Waterloo. This guy jiggled and sang and tapped out a beat and generally made annoying gestures to the wall in that way that people with personal stereos sometimes do because they don’t realise the rest of the world can see but not (really) hear them. Except he didn’t have a personal stereo. Whatever he was hearing was locked deep inside his head. I think it was an evil spirit. He needs a lucky cat.

I watched him slyly as I pretended to read. His face alternated between screwed up pain and fear and delirious happiness. He was clearly possessed and we were very, very pleased when he left the train at Surbiton. The rest of the trip home was, thankfully, uneventful.

But what a day! And, I think, my longest blog entry EVER! As Mirinda said, it’s basically an essay.

We finally finished Twin Peaks tonight. Mirinda wasn’t too happy with the ending. I quite liked it but then I love Jacobean tragedy.

Meanwhile, at the Science Museum…the PCF records are complete! I finished the amendments Nick left for me on the acrylics, and completed the three mixed media and single tempura record. That’s the complete list of 288 objects. It’s been a long haul but (apart from anything Nick finds wrong next week) it’s great to have completed it. Now it’s back to the PRIME list.

This is where I started. It’s a print out of the old database (900+ pages long) and is used as the basis for updating the artworks on MIMSY. As I said to Nick, this will be a lot easier having completed the PCF records since I now know an awful lot more about the system, the structure and art in general.

Speaking of art, I popped over to the V&A again at lunchtime, cruising through the European Art 1500-1800 galleries on level 1. At least that’s where I think I was. You go in one door then wander around, lost in time and space for so long, eventually emerging nowhere near where you started that it’s next to impossible to discern an overarching subject heading.

Not that I’m complaining! I love the way the V&A meanders. You’re never sure where you are or surprises await you around each column or through the next arch.

Detail of a woman doll which sat opposite a man doll - sort of Tudor Ken & Barbie

The galleries I wandered through today were all quite dark. Apart from protecting some of the objects, this quite nicely replicates the interiors of the times – I have no idea whether this is intentional or not. There’s even a full size Jacobean room which is full of dark, oppressive timber.

A baby mourns the dead (1680-1720)

There’s some very interesting clothing from the English Civil War including a suit of half armour which was used in tournaments. Unlike jousting, these later tournaments only required that the top half of the combatants were shielded. I quite liked the inclusion of a rest for the soldier’s lance which appears to be welded onto the breastplate.

King's Head - not the pub

The V&A collection is amazingly diverse. In order to get to the first floor I had to go through a couple of Asian galleries and the difference in historic human representation between the east and the west is extraordinary.

And the opposite is true as well. Something that surprised me was a religious icon purporting to be Krishna & some woman at the magic wishing tree receiving some sort of gift from the gods but to my western eyes, it looked exactly like Adam & Eve.

Coming home, the train was very slow (I don’t know why) and the woman standing behind my seat didn’t stop sighing all the way to Surbiton. She told the guard she’d given up her seat and then not been able to get another. The guard was a lot more polite than I would have been. The thing is, there’d be lots of seats at the front of the train but the Surbiton people apparently need to be down the back. I guess it’s where the exit is located. Still, if you choose to stand on a crowded train, you really can’t complain.

In comparison to yesterday, it was very warm today. By the time I walked in the door, the sweat was streaming down my face. As I mounted the stairs, Mirinda stood outside the bedroom putting on a fleece. Go figure.

Apart from the half term crowds (it seems to me that there are far too many half term periods in England; when do the kids learn anything?) it was the perfect day to visit London. Even the train journey into Waterloo was enjoyable. Well, apart from guard who insisted on telling us that the arrival time into Waterloo was “oh nine fifty nine”. While that was tiresome, I’m the first to acknowledge he was 100% correct – as I left the train, the station clocked over to 09:59. Impressive!

I didn’t have long to wait for a Jubilee line tube either. I arrived at Canary Wharf 20 minutes later (10:19). When I emerged from the bowels of the earth, the first thing that struck me was the extreme blue of the sky and the skyscrapers glinting into it. Everything looked absolutely stunning.

Halfway across the sexy bridge at Canary Wharf

I was so struck, I blipped the impressive HSBC building and its sexy curved corners. But I had a mission before meeting Mirinda at the flat. I was searching for ODHs. I didn’t know they were called ODHs. I was looking for those sets of hooks that go over doors. Eventually, at John Dyas (which is what I call Robert Dyas…or the other way around) I found what I was looking for. Four glinting ODHs, made specifically for the most common of door widths.

This harks back to my attempt to purchase door hooks for the flat at Poirot’s place. The ‘common size’ hooks didn’t fit. I assumed that was because the Poirot flat was built in the 1920s and, therefore, was of an older, thicker commonality. Modern doors are clearly thinner (40 mm according to ODH literature). I managed to bodge the hooks a bit – not easy without a vice, dolly and ball-pin hammer but I sort of managed, though the door had to stay open.

The flat at Canary Wharf, however, was built in 2005 and so the doors (you’d think) would conform to a more modern standard; particularly as there appears to be well over a hundred flats in the complex, each with at least four internal doors. You’d think so, wouldn’t you. Well, you’d be wrong.

Either the builder decided to buy a few thousand non-standard doors or the ODH people have no idea what they’re talking about. None of them fitted. The doors are thicker than 40mm. They are the same as the doors at Poirot’s flat. Perhaps the builder bought a job lot from a stripped out building from the 1920s. That seems far more likely than the fact that the ODHs are not of a standard size. Surely.

Anyway, casting aside the disappointment of the ODH fiasco, we eventually left for lunch at the Turkish place (Tavez café/deli) not far from the flat where we had a delicious pide each, some Turkish salad and coffee.

Actually, Mirinda had a latte while I had a real, sludgy Turkish coffee. It instantly took me back to James Balian and his week old brew of splodge sat atop his hob, bubbling away like a New Zealand mud pool. Sweet, thick, black and with a layer of something almost living at the bottom of the cup. This layer is not for drinking as it constantly releases more and more flavour throughout the life of the drink. It is also not a good idea to drink immediately after stirring Turkish coffee. Fortunately this is a lesson I learned many years ago. It was delicious.

From the café we strolled slowly down to the Canary Wharf dock to catch the ferry. This is Mirinda’s usual mode of commuting and is wonderful on a day like today. Though at this time of day, you are wrestling with tourists for the right to sit outside. Fortunately we won today and I took some video in order to show what a lovely journey to work she has.

It seems that youtube is now chucking ads into the videos! Just click the tiny ‘x’ if an ad appears. The music is Clannad singing Many Roads.

The train ride home was interesting.

A few phone calls…I had a guy having a conference call regarding a new computer install and the inherent problems associated with that. Five times he asked for a password to access something but they never let him have it. Another guy was having an argument with an associate about another person who never turns up for meetings. And a third guy who is in training and made about 30 calls trying to organise a training day.

A few chavs…an entire family of spotty, tattoo marked, feet on the seats, noisy, horrid chavs who I thought would leave the train at Aldershot but stayed on till Farnham and then couldn’t work out how to get their stroller out of the carriage.

That makes it sound quite unbearable when it was actually not too bad – I was typing this post and hardly noticed them!

Oh, and I noticed at 7pm that the pips are back. I need to find out more…

So you try and do the right thing. Save the planet, they say. Stop taking planes everywhere. Relax on a train and arrive refreshed. Some of that is true as long as you don’t end up in Italy. Once the Italian service industry strikes, there’s no going back.

When I originally booked the tickets for our return from Venice to Paris, the Man in Seat 61 informed me that I seriously did not want a couchette which is a six berth cabin. As a child or grotty teenager, you don’t mind sharing with complete strangers but as adults…well you like to think you’ve earned a certain amount of privacy and dignity. So I tried to book a double berth for Friday. The train was booked out of two berths and only had couchettes.

We almost changed our minds about the trip at this stage (or if only…) but decided to try coming back a day early and spending it in Paris. I went back into the mire that is the Italian railway booking system and I found one! I squealed with delight. A double berth. Just us in (relative) comfort, chugging through the night to Paris Bercy (a station we’d not yet visited.

Passengers eagerly waiting to be disappointed

Imagine my horror when we climbed aboard the train to find we’d been allocated a six berth couchette, sharing with a French couple who also believed they had booked a double. All along the carriage, people were saying the same. There was a lot of confusion and no help from any staff. In fact the French couple asked a couple of guys in uniform if they were part of the train crew and they said no. We then saw them on the train as we headed for Milan. It’s quite frustrating being irate when there’s no-one around to berate.

At the end of each carriage there is a small cabin with a single bunk which is for sick people. It’s very basic but at least it’s private. I put Mirinda and the luggage in there and went in search of someone in authority. I figured maybe I could find out why the carriages were attached wrong or if I could upgrade to first class. The only person I found was a tiny woman covered in her bits and pieces of authority – a whistle, a stick with a flag on it, a bunch of keys and a hat – but she ignored me. Eventually I returned to Mirinda in the hospital wagon and we discussed our plans as the train pulled out of Venice station.

It was a sad way to end our stay in Venice. Being disappointed in the Smelly City had meant I was rather looking forward to the novelty of catching a sleeper train to Paris. And the smell was pretty bad today as it was the hottest so far. I can only imagine (and hope I never experience) the stench in the height of summer. The sight of hundreds of gondola riding tourists who have paid an absolute fortune to glide morosely down an open sewer would be a little bit more than I could bear. I’m really not sure why people would not only willingly subject themselves to it but also be pleased to pay ridiculous amounts of money for the privilege.

Don’t get me wrong, today was not all bad. We decided to attempt a visit to the Doge’s Palace and even managed to rise early enough to beat the crowds. I’m very glad we did. It’s an amazing place. And just shows how inhumane people can be while patting themselves on the back and keeping the rest of us firmly under the thumb. At least now that Venice is a crumbling, smelly wreck, we peasants can see the grandeur with which these awful people surrounded themselves.

Looking down into the courtyard of the Doge's Palace, Venice

There is some truly wonderful art in the Palace: Titian, Bellini, a humanist called Battista to name but three. But it nearly all celebrates the triumph of the aristocracy over everyone else. As people ‘oo’ and ‘ah’ through the rooms it’s like the propaganda still works. I don’t mean admiration for the artistic skills and beauty of the imagery; I mean the fact that some visitors think the people who had these painted were superior somehow because they were rich and locked themselves away from the real smell of the city.

Apart from the socialist rant, I did enjoy the palace. The crowds were just manageable and we wander all over. The highlight was the biggest room I think I’ve ever been in (excluding entertainment spaces). Truly incredible. 50 metres long by 25 metres wide.

After a very pleasant visit with the Doge, we went out to St Mark’s Square, thinking we might take a coffee, listen to the duelling orchestras and watch the crowds grow steadily more compact. We sat down at a near empty café and our attention was immediately directed to the part of the menu that said we had to pay €5.90 on top of anything we wanted to consume for the honour of listening to the orchestra. It occurred to me later that I should have feigned deafness to see whether we could have avoided paying it. We left and went to one of the cafes without the orchestra.

This menu had nothing about the orchestra but did charge a ridiculous amount for a small cup of coffee – Mirinda thinks this was a surreptitious way of charging for an orchestra they didn’t have. We left St Mark’s Square and found a lovely little bar in town that charged proper money for a drink. It’s interesting that the cafes in St Mark’s Square are virtually all empty. You can hear the orchestras just by walking or standing around. There are some fools who pay but not many. If any one cafe dropped its prices to a realistic level, they would be packed. But this is Venice and everything must be expensive. Apparently.

We went back to the flat for a bit to relax after the palace tour and then went in search for lunch, which we had in the shade of a big church wall, watching tourists arrive or leave and locals walking their dogs. I ordered a pizza and they went and collected a takeaway one from a restaurant around the corner. It was fine just a bit typical.

Our lunch view, above the heads of the crowds

After lunch it was time for church of the day. And boy, did we pick a horrid place. I visit a lot of churches. I love the architecture, the art works, the symbolism…in fact I love everything except the religion stuff. This place however, was awful. Apart from charging people to enter (something you sort of get used to) the interior is a collection of over large celebrations of artists. There is little religion in the Basilica S Maria Gloriosa Dei Frari. In fact I’m thinking of dropping the pope a line about the awful place.

This was not a church but a museum. While you’re not allowed to take photographs, visitors were happily snapping away at everything including the candles that someone had lit for someone’s soul. This woman extraordinarily, moved a candle because it didn’t look right in the photograph she then had her partner take.

The Mary Chapel was a temporary home to a large group of tourists and their guide, all sitting in the front rows of what is supposed to be a place of sanctuary and prayer.

I’m not going to go on any more about this place because it just makes me angry how hypocritical these people are with their religion versus tourism philosophy. It’s a pity there’s no hell because I reckon there’s a few of these people who’d be going.

Disappointed and gradually getting more so, we went back to the flat to pack and catch a vaporetto to the station. I have to say, I’ve quite enjoyed the boat thing. It’s ridiculously expensive if you only want a single ticket but if you plan well enough, the 24 hour ticket is excellent value if you use a lot of them. It should be mandatory as it’s the only bargain in the place.

And so, back on the train at the beginning of its 13 hour journey to Paris…a guy in a uniform and spiky hair told us we’d have to move out of the sick cabin. I told him my wife was sick. he appeared not to want to argue the point and left. A shame as I was quite up for an argument. I figured he’d probably already had it with the other disgruntled hordes travelling with us.

We weighed up our options.

Option 1 – stay on the train
Option 2 – don’t stay on the train

It didn’t take long. We took Option 2. Besides we tried to get into the six berth cabin we were booked into but the French couple had barricaded the door against any intrusion. They weren’t sharing with anyone. Least of all us.

Mirinda took out her trusty iPhone and, her head in my lap as she lay on the bunk and I slouched against the window, booked us into a hotel in Milan. It was four star and very close to the station. We had decided to book a flight home in the morning from the hotel because we figured a four star hotel would definitely have wi-fi.

The last time I was in France, the heavens opened up and I was straining my eyes to see ahead of the car through the teaming rain. This time, it seemed, I was in for more of the same. Except, of course, we were in a train which was travelling so fast that the rain drops didn’t touch it.

We had a pretty easy morning, watching the last vestiges of Beatrice and Eugenie’s self esteem being whittled away by the news gathering masses – actually, to be fair, the BBC didn’t say anything about their atrocious choice of wedding outfits, preferring to rave about the more human choices from the ranks of guests. I am not as nice. They clearly have no mirrors at home.

We eventually ordered a cab to take us to St Pancras where we joined the hordes of French people returning to the Continent after the wedding. Actually that is a huge assumption based on the fact that there were a lot of French people at the station.

Speaking of which, our carriage was full (well, half full) of teenage French schoolies. I was a bit concerned that they would be overly generous with their jollity but they were actually very well behaved. The group of four just across the aisle from us were doing some sort of test – they had a page of English from which they were answering questions in French. They had completed the page by the time we arrived in Paris.

Sitting opposite us was a gopher and a bald chap of very little language. I wonder how it would be to have permanently displayed teeth. Surely they’d get all dry and the inside of your lip would stick to them. I tried it for a bit. I didn’t like it. Anyway, the gopher was Australian and her travelling companion was a bit sub-human. I say that because he was only able to talk in grunts and the occasional click of his phone camera.

We have tried to work out their relationship. The best we can come up with is travelling companions off to meet a mutual friend. Or maybe she’s not very good at chatting guys up. We’ll never know and, to be honest, I really don’t care.

We arrived at Paris Nord dead on time with the sun streaming down and the sky blue as blue can be. Our carriage was about three miles down the platform so it took a while to leave the station and begin the hike to Paris Est. It was during this hike that the heavens, clearly in a fit of pique at having missed me at the border, opened up and giant raindrops fell upon us as we walked, watching our bright shadows caused by the brilliant sunshine that also fell upon our heads. It was all a bit weird and, for me, an indication of its supernatural origin.

We found Paris Est easily enough and stood watching the indicator board for trains to Zurich. We had a 40 minute wait which was taken up by looking for a loo and aimless wandering, sometimes both at the same time.

Paris Gare de l'Est

Mirinda has decided she’s just following me around this trip, wanting nothing to do with any decision making or worry about travel. This explains why she waited until we were on the train to tell me she wasn’t sure we were on the correct one. The seats we grabbed were so good, I wasn’t moving, wherever the train was going.

The Zurich train was leaving from platform 2 and Mirinda though we were on platform 1 – little did she know that platform 1 is like the Hogwarts platform at Kings Cross – but fortunately I had all well in hand and we sat down, right near the bar with single seats opposite each other and a table between. Fantastic for a long trip, which, at 5 and a half hours, this was.

Mirinda's seat from Paris to Zurich

We left on time from Paris, racing across the French countryside at high speed (the TGV trains are fantastic) heading for Switzerland. The X-Files theme playing every time there’s a train announcement is a bit off-putting, particularly when Mirinda keeps insisting it’s actually the beginning of Love and Marriage.

Dinner was lamb sausages in cheesy mash potatoes except they’d slipped a bit with the cheese so it was potatoey mashed cheese. Very naughty when we could have had salad. Had a can of Pelforth even though the barman tried to sell me a ghastly Heineken which we all know is the only beer available at the London Olympics. Not that I’m obsessed or anything. And, for dessert, a packet of Bretzels. That’s not a misprint. They were Bretzels as evidenced by the packet.

Bretzels and beer on a French train in Switzerland

They tasted remarkably like pretzels, I have to say.

We went through an enormous thunderstorm but arrived safely in Strasbourg. We sat at the platform for a little bit before heading south until we reached Basel, Switzerland, Nicktor’s second home.

And finally, Zurich at 11pm. Exactly 11pm. Typically Swiss. We left the train and walked the ten minutes to the hotel and checked in. The receptionist kindly informed me that we had been upgraded to a superior room (I have no idea why but I wasn’t about to ask just in case she changed her mind).

The room was excellent. There was even a coffee machine. Not a kettle but a proper espresso machine. Just the kind I want. And the coffee was excellent. Just like the room. This little box of pleasure was waiting for us with a note telling us to enjoy our stay.

Special little box of pleasure

Today was the last week day of half term and the museums were packing them in. Of course, the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, as usual were by the far the most popular but even so, we had quite a few. So many that I decided to pop out to Starbucks for lunch.

The footpath that runs along Exhibition Road was wall to kerb full of people, strollers and tiny, grubby hands. It was a case of finding someone and walking quickly directly behind them. I find this works really well, particularly if you find someone with absolutely no scruples at all. They act like a snow plough.

I was lucky today for I found a mindless youth with very big headphones, singing tunelessly to himself (and all around him) in some strange language that wasn’t English while barging through, eyes down, impervious to all and any who tried to stop him. I almost thanked him when we emerged from the crowd at the pedestrian crossing but he raced across, between cars and I decided to wait for the cars to actually stop.

Starbucks was actually ok. Not too many people and somewhere to sit. There’s not a lot of places to sit in South Kensington so if you buy your lunch to takeaway, you either eat it at your desk or wander around eating as you go. There was little point in carrying it all the way back through the crowd to Imperial College so I stayed in.

I managed to finish the oil painting list this week, on schedule, making Ailsa very happy. Now I can go back and fill in the interesting stuff!

After work I decided to walk to Paddington Station rather than catch the Tube like last time, when I went to Bath. It was quite a pleasant walk, if you ignore the fact that I had a wheelie bag with me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve not been through Kensington Gardens before today but thought they looked like they’d be very appealing in the summer. I managed to avoid Diana’s fountain or pond or whatever it is and reached Paddington at 4:30. My train left at 5:30. I went to Starbucks.

People may think I spend a lot of my life in Starbucks. Well, I do. They’re right. There is little point in denying it. And, frankly, I don’t really care.

The rush for the train was exactly like last time, all briefcases, bowler hats and gentlemanly fisticuffs. However, my reserved seat was just that and I slipped in, happy as Lonnie and started my book up. I read all the way to Bath between texting Mirinda to find out what room we’re in.

I’d never been to Bristol by train before but it’s ok, I have to say. It’s an hour and a half, almost, but the trip was uneventful and the train comfortable. Ish. However, more than the trip is the proximity of the hotel. Talk about perfect. It’s about a five minute walk and halves the distance to the city. Perfect.

It’s the Mint Hotel we’re staying in. It’s very cool and modern and chilled, as you’d expect mint to be. Mirinda was certain she wasn’t going to like it and is almost disappointed she can find nothing wrong with it.

We wandered up to the futuristic and oddly pleasant shopping centre for dinner, deciding to enjoy some Yo Sushi, since this is what we normally do when I join Mirinda for a weekend during her residential.

It was lovely and afterwards we wandered back to the hotel, trying to walk between the, gradually increasing in size, rain drops.

The room is quite comfortable and the bed, which has very effectively lulled Mirinda off to sleep, looks set to call me to Snoozehampton.

I had never been to Brisbane before. Until today. I arranged to have lunch with my cousin Joanne who made massive alterations to her plans to go from Melbourne to Lismore in order to meet up. I am so glad she did. We have an amazing lot in common and a lot to catch up.

The day started at the primitively quaint Landsborough Station. Because today was a surrogate holiday, the trains were on a Sunday timetable and there was no-one at the station. The first thing that struck me was the lack of an indicator board indicating when the next train was and where it was going. Absolutely nothing.

Next I noticed the total lack of anything resembling what a reasonable adult would call information. Oh, there were a lot of timetables – for buses, trains and more buses – but nothing to indicate which one was relevant. A simple sign (handwritten in blood would have done) on the shutter where the ticket office normally is would have done. It could have read “For Monday & Tuesday refer to the Sunday timetable”. They could have made this shorter by saying “For public holidays…” but there could be some tourists who have no idea when public holidays are when visiting a foreign country. It happens to us in Paris all the time.

I was fortunate that Trace had printed off the up-to-date timetable from the Internet (pointless waiting for Telstra to connect the Internet for mum & dad) so I knew exactly when the train was arriving and where it went. A lot of other people were not so fortunate. They were wandering around like lost souls, unsure of anything. I guess the train company doesn’t really care. Maybe the Queensland trains are run by Telstra…

Anyway, at least the train arrived dead on time and wasn’t packed. In fact, I have little bad to say about the train into Roma Street. Big seats, comfortable and lots of legroom. The carriage I was in (and Joanne said her’s as well) did smell a bit damp. Given the unimaginable amount of rain Queensland is presently receiving, I think this is pretty understandable and something I could put up with. I had a pleasant trip in.

Arriving at Roma Street I texted Jo to find out how far away she was. She had forgotten the time difference between the rest of Australia and the primeval north and, consequently arrived an hour before I did. She was on level 3. I took an escalator up, she took one down and we met in the middle.

We then hit Brisbane. Fortunately Joanne knew it a bit better (ie minimal) than I did (ie not at all) and so we headed up for the centre of town and wandered up the pedestrianized area looking for a pub. There isn’t any. It’s a bit sad when a country renowned for its drinking suddenly has no pubs. Still, there you go. Clearly they’re turning into a load of wowsers. Or just drinking at home.

We eventually found a nice spot called Milano’s where we could enjoy beer, food and indulge in a fine amount of people watching. And we chatted and chatted and chatted. We have a lot of years to fill in.

I found out an awful lot about Joanne. We are amazingly alike. For instance, we share a love of Caravaggio. (You have to take my word that it just came up in conversation.) It doesn’t happen very often and is quite thrilling when you accidentally find these sort of things out and then share your passion and love with a like mind.

We talked about everything under the clouds, but it was all too soon time for me to accompany her back to Roma Street in order for her to catch her coach to Lismore and her New Years party (she always tries to make it and it sounds like a great hoot).

We said our sad goodbyes, promising to keep in touch and I waved as I left. I then waved again when the coach crossed in front of me as I was wandering over the crossing outside the station. And blew kisses.

I decided to have a wander before going back to the rain-drenched north and visited a few shops, took a few photos, watched a few people, the usual stuff. The centre of Brisbane is a pretty vibrant place! When I grew up in Sydney, Brisbane was always thought of as a big country town. It’s not true now. I actually quite liked it.

As I said, I took a few pictures. While it didn’t really rain during my wander around, it was all still grey and gloomy. You have to imagine how lovely it would look under blue skies. Here’s the river looking a bit swollen.

The swollen Brisbane River

And here’s one of the knobbly balls right at the top. A lot of people take photographs of their relatives sitting on them. I have no idea what they are or why. Enough that they look quite funky.

Knobbly Brisbane balls

And so I finally ended up at Roma Street for the final time and caught the slow train back to Landsborough (with a change-over at Caboolture) where Trace met me for the wet ride back to Kawana Island. It hadn’t stopped raining all day and the Internet was still not accessible.

A lovely day with lovely company. Thank you, Joanne.

A first today. Every Monday and Friday when there’s no strike on the underground, I take two tube trains. From Waterloo to Embankment (1 stop) and Embankment to South Kensington (5 stops). It takes me around 20 minutes which includes the walking between lines as well. I am so used to it, I even know where to stand in order to be by a door when the train stops. Though this didn’t help me today!

I was standing at Waterloo, waiting for the Northern Line train, reading Ancient Rome by Simon Baker as I finished Garp last night, figuring I must have just missed a train because there were so few people around. I nonchalantly glanced at the indicator but my eyes bounced back instantly. It said 3 minutes! The next train would be in 3 minutes!! My God! What was this? I rarely wait longer than a minute. And now 3?

I was not impressed with this. I read and frowned as the platform filled up with eager commuters. All of us stood obediently behind the yellow line as the woman on the platform kept telling us through her portable microphone announcing thingy. I felt the forward rush of air through the tunnel as the train approached. It’s always amazing how windy it gets but never very cool. Anyway, the train burst into the platform.

As the carriages slowed down and I could see the windows, I was aware of the squashed flesh against the glass, faces flattened, feet in unnatural locations. Oh, the humanity! It was awful. Had something awful happened between Kennington and Waterloo? Some sort of terrorist outrage? Had someone butchered an entire train and left the bodies in all manner of strange positions?

The train stopped and I was surprised at the lack of screams as the doors opened.

“Please let the passengers off the train before you board!” said the woman into her microphone thingy, just like she does every day.

No-one actually got off…and no-one actually boarded. It was very, very full. I’m surprised the doors closed again. I’m also surprised the little engine could haul that much humanity. But haul it did, leaving a platform full of passengers aghast and annoyed. Actually, more annoyed than aghast. I think I was the only one who was aghast; having never seen this before outside of those videos they show of the guys in Tokyo using big sticks to push people onto the trains.

I really hoped I’d not have to wait another 3 minutes. I braved a look back at the indicator board, this time having to dodge around heads. And then I felt the oncoming wind of the next train. Bargain! Less than a minute. I watched as the virtually empty tube train slowed to a stop in front of me. It quickly filled up but I was on and not squashed. Ha!

Now, I’m sure this happens to people all the time (actually Barbara at work said that her train was a disaster this morning as it stopped at Warren Street station because of a signal problem but no-one could go anywhere because Warren Street station is closed because of a non-working escalator) but it has never happened to me…until today. It’s not the ideal way to start your day. But still.

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The Natural History Museum (which is sort of next door to the Science Museum – has removed the temporary butterfly house from outside. Where it once sat is now a sea of mud. I assume they are readying it for the ice rink.

Natural History Museum, London

We had a reply regarding the smoking train today. Here it is:

Dear Ms XXXXXX,

Kind Regards
Emma Cruize

Thank you, Emma, now all I have to do is remember what time train we caught…

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Off with Nicktor (and James who is chaperoning us) to see Aldershot tonight. I’m hoping the rain stops soon.