Here's Cheers

Well fellow travellers, here is another adventure over. Lucky me to have friends to put me up and look after me. I have loaded up the photographs that I took, so if you have a quick glance back through the blog you will see photos of some of the highlights.

In Portugal, I had a sort of rest. Perhaps it is no coincidence that this has produced my favourite photograph. It really captures, the moment, the trip, the friends and all the corney stuff.

In Finland they drink Karhu.

In Spain they drink Amstel.
In England they drink Speckled Hen.

In Scotland they drink Fosters and Guiness.

In Hong Kong they drink Carlsberg.

In Portual they drink Superbock. And that is what the photograph is of.

Splitting hairs

I had a really bad night's sleep and did not feel up to dealing with Hong Kong. I was starting to feel like I was stuck in an oversized version of Chadstone. So off to the Central Library. The reading lounge on the 5th floor is beautiful, couches, newspapers from all over the world, people reading and snoozing. It was just the ticket. After I began to feel less like I had been assaulted by the sensory information overload known as Hong Kong, I realised I did not have the energy to take myself on an excursion, and sitting still would be a sort of comotosed death that would only prolong the jetlag agony. So I did my very own "when in another country and you get a look of yourself in a mirror" trick, that I recommend to the brave: go and get a hair cut. It was lovely, they washed my hair before and afer they cut it, matched the color (almost) and did as good a job as I have done in Australia.

Feeling revived I wandered down a side street and found a small "wet market" (fruit veg, fish) and street stalls selling all kinds of stuff. It put me in a good mood because I was not in a mall. I angered one little cafe waiter by only ordering the greens with oyster sauce, then had an orange for dessert. Hong Kong had restored itself in my mind and heart and I set off for the airport.

Three puzzles, two answers

In Vietnam
The last puzzle: In Ho Chi Minh City our big question to all the tens of thousands of people on motor bikes was "Where are you all going?"
The solution: We never found out.

In Hong Kong
The first puzzle: Outside some shops huge crowds gather and stare at the shop. They are only interested in that one shop. The people do not go into the shop, nothing much is bought or sold, they just stand rather quietly, not talking on their mobile phones and stare. They do this for quite a while then at some signal all move quietly off in different directions. I went into one such shop but there was no countdown, no lucky ticket draw, no super give away.
The method: In the end I decided to just stand and stare at the shop as well until I worked it out.
The solution: After a while, I realised that the shop had a television screen facing out to the street and Hong Kong's favourite soap opera was on television. Everyone had just stopped to watch it.

The second puzzle: In Hong Kong there are few public places to sit, but apparently you are allowed to sit at Victoria Park. Not on the grass though, just on the concourse. I know this because I went there on Sunday and there were thousands of women sitting. The women had all brought big plastic sheets to sit on, little lunch boxes, tea in a thermos, magazines, nail files and polish and they just sat. I walked around but kept returning to the park to keep an eye on them, and they seemed to be there all day. They were not selling anything or buying anything or doing anything. They moved slowly, chatted freely and just spent the time in small groups. What were they doing?
They were all women, they were all Indonesian, Thai or possibly Filippino, not a Chinese face in the crowd. They were all aged 20-40. Where were their husbands or even brothers? Where were their children? It was not Friday, so it was not a muslim occasion, it was not a celebration of any sort.
The method: Two days later, I looked in a real estate agent's window and noticed the price of apartments. One was quite a bit higher than the others because it came with three bedrooms and "servant quarters". Bingo!
The Solution: They are all the servants (maids, cooks, cleaners, nannies) of the rich Hong Kong business people. Sunday is their only day off so they are not going to spend it at their place of work. Their place of work is actually someone else's home, so they cannot invite friends over or go to a friend's house because they too are immigrant workers. They have no desire to spend their time in shopping malls trying on the little Donna Karan or Vivienne Westwood outfit that they will never own. They do have husbands and brothers, but they are back at home. They do have children, but they are staying with grandma or auntie for just a few years while mummy goes off to Hong Kong to work.

Hong Kong today (not yesterday though)

Double decker trams!

Yesterday I arrived in Hong Kong after taking two over-the-counter sleeping tablets that worked so well on the way to London, only to realise that they do not work in the other direction. So I was drowsy, stupid, sleep deprived and had a massive headache. I spent my time walking within about a 2km radius from the hostel fighting off the urge to sleep. With the help of my lovely 20 something solo world traveller, women of the world roommates, I managed to stay awake til about 10pm.

Today was Hong Kong tourism with a vengeance. I even did what real Hong Kong people do and had Japanese food at a chain store in a mall. I went up to the very top of Hong Kong on the Peak Tram, what a ride! This puts that mini Portugese finicular to shame. Then over to Kowloon in the ferry. What a view looking back at Hong Kong Island! Then back and all the way across the island to Port Stanley on a bus. What a view and what a ride! The whole island is an architectual impossibility, but quite breathtaking. The apartment buildings stretch up further than I can tilt my neck. The smallest apartment block I have seen was about ten stories and that was way out of town. There are public outdoor escalators that go up hundreds of metres because the hills are just too steep. Almost everything seems new.

They say that Hong Kong does not care for history, particularly when it comes to the buildings. The old women dressed in black pyjama type suits with big bamboo hats that I remember from my last stop here have long gone. There are no street stalls, no noodle slurp shops where you look out at the passing throng of humanity, just malls, miles and miles of malls. I have seen more plastic crap for sale that you can imagine the whole poplulation of the world will ever want. There are no motorbikes, no push bikes and no certainly no makeshift stalls. Everywhere except around Victoria Park it is forbidden to sit down in public. There are no public seats anyway and just you watch out if you sit on a ledge or window sill to look at your map. They don't tell you to go away, the literally sweep you away. Apart from the look of the people, the only sign that you are in asia is the bamboo scaffolding and even that is not the norm. (That is the only sign, because even the street signs are in English.) The city is all around the harbour and yet very little of it looks out at the harbour. What a waste. I have found only one ocean side promanade type walk where you can get a drink and watch the sun set and that was way out on the tip of Port Stanley and only about 100 metres in length. Still there is something exciting about being in such a big crowd all the time, just participating in it all, even if it is going to the supermarket or the ferry terminal is a thing worth doing (if you are not jetlagged).

For those old enough to remember the days when Australians came to Hong Kong to go shopping: forget it. There are big brand name shops everywhere, so if you are in the market for some Yves St, or Fendi or Burberry, then maybe. Apart from that, everything costs the same or more here than it would in Australia. Everything, that is except for public transport, so I am patting myself on the back for braving three types of transport in one day. Tomorrow I will ride on one of the wooden double decker trams, because this is the last place in the world to have them.

Finnished with Finland

Here is a joke: I was so cold I got in the freezer to get warm. Only in Finland it is not a joke, it is actually warmer in the freezer that it is outside.

I followed the advice I had been given before leaving Australia and took a bus trip out of Helsinki. I went to a town called Poorvoo. I went there on a motorway bus and came back on a bus that went through all the little towns. Poorvoo itself is the only remaining wooden town in Finland. The rest of the towns burnt down at one time or another. In the case of Helsinki it burnt down five times before they decided to choose another building material. (slow leaners)

It was really quaint, cute as a button, elfin even, with ski runs around the town and people sitting on frozen rivers fishing in little holes they have dug out, or people lazily skating over frozen lakes with no evident intent, or people furiously playing ice-hockey evidently with the intent to kill. It really was more like a movie that I can possibly say, and I am good at exagerating. The bus trip back was a little excursion through Father Christmas-land. The towns along the way had 10-20 houses, all covered in snow, with barely a soul moving about. The trees stand tall and white, and there was no wind. The lights were all on in the houses, the snow glistened and the sleigh bells tinkled (well the bit about the bells is not true, but the rest is.)

The things that Finland has too offer include

• reindeer motifs and novelites


• reindeer pulling sleds


• reindeer on the menu including reindeer salami


• almost everyone speaks English as a third language and I have less trouble communicating than I did in Scotland where they were all speaking English as a first language
  
• bikinis on sale for A$12 (supply and demand)
  
• gloves on sale for A$60 (supply and demand again)


• lots of fish served cold
  
• really good heating everywhere indoors


• very long words with lots of vowels


• lots of vitimin D medicinal products with the word "Sun" in the name

Not Finnish yet

Look at Helsinki on the map; see how far north I am. The only capital city north of here is in Iceland and they have been bad lately, (silly Iceland). It was 10 degree below when I walked back to the hostel and I was fine except for my face. The people of Finland are tall strapping folks who are healthy and hardy. The men have big faces and big hands and many of the women look like they could happily unload a few tonnes of salmon from a boat. I thought that I would fit right in and was secretly looking forward to being mistaken for a Finn, but no such luck. Everybody spoke to me in English before I even said a word. How did they know? I am the right shape and size and I have matching facial features. It took me a while to work out. No fur! Not on my cuffs, or my gloves, or my coat, or my hat, or my boots, not even around the edge of the hood of my jacket. Therefore, I simply could not be Finnish.

Today I went to a market where the most popular stall was the sushi shop. This makes sense when you consider that they seem to have an abundance of fresh fish right at the front door. The skies were blue so I disregarded all the public health warnings to be out of doors and went shopping. (You are supposed to soak up the rays at every possible opportunity and take a vitamin D supplement in winter.) In the malls, everything was 70% off, but most of it was still ridiculously expensive given the lousy Aussie dollar. The Finnish girls in my room tell me that Norway is in fact more expensive, but as far as countries goes Finland is number two for the cost of living.

I went to the city museum and saw a film about all the things that can go wrong with trams (which Helsinki has). Here are some of the problems that they saw fit to document:

1. The driver might be sharing a cigarette and flirtatous conversation with the conductress with the well turned calves whilst driving the tram. They might be enjoying each other so much that they overlook a passenger at the stop.


2. The driver and the conductress with the come hither smile might have stopped the tram and got off for a cigarette and a coffee, then a teenage boy might jump on the tram and have a turn of driving it.


3. The tram might come off the rails or track, or someone might fall over getting on or off the tram or a car might crash into the tram, or someone might try to overtake the tram and sideswipe another car or someone might get their arm stuck in the door etc.

It was just hilarious. Why bother making such a film? (But they did.) Why bother showing it? (But they did) Why bother watching it? (But I did!)

Touchdown Helsinki

Hi to Debbie, Janny and Marion down at the beach.
It is all ice hockey and frozen lakes here in Finland. I am staying at the Hostel Stadiom, this is the Olympic stadium built for the 1952 Olympics and I am right in the middle of it. I can see all the fields and tracks right from my window. I am thinking of taking up one of the many sports on offer for the duration of my stay. All the lights are on at the playing fields and they look really beautiful. The lights are not on to make them look beautiful, the lights are on because it gets dark at about 4 in the afternoon. The hostel is amazingly good, huge, really well heated, half empty rooms with tables and chairs and couches in the dorms! It is fresh sheets and plump towels for all who enter. So far my layers comprise: thermal singlet, t-shirt, polar fleece jacket woolen coat, two scaves, stockings, jeans, socks, boots, hat and gloves but I was soon too hot. Sure it is cold, but it is not windy and after dragging my bags from the bus stop I worked up quite a sweat.

The Finnish accent is really funny. I think that the terrible TV show that Charles made me watch where Finnish men think up painful, playful practical jokes to play on each other has influenced my ear. Anytime anyone talks all I can hear is those stupid guy playing jokes with chili sauce or whatever.

I have already asked questions about the educational achievements of Finland and the Finnish seem to think that it is a bit of a myth. The one thing that they all want to stress is that it is mono-cultural and that means education is single track. This means that the seemingly fantastic results are at least an anomoly. Finland is almost mono-racial and was not ever a colonial power, only ever a colony itself. Always the underdogs apparently. They pay high taxes and they pay high prices for everything. Already I have been lectured about how Finland is one of the most expensive countries in the world.

Scotland the brave

Well, Scotland is where scotch comes from so it makes sense that there is quite a bit of it around. There are whisky bars everywhere all inviting you to differentiate between dozens of types. I have not particularly noticed drunk people or enormous amounts of drinking, but I am told that it is happening right under my nose all the time. Having just learnt the difference between a single malt and a blended whiskey, I am seriously out of my depth. Apparently though Scotland is one of the most alcoholic countries on the planet and all attempts to change this are simply laughed at.

There are tartan stores up and down the high street all the way from the base of Arthur's Seat to the Edinburgh Castle, but I have not seen many Scottish people decked out in it. In fact I have only seen one person actually weaaring a kilt and nobody wearing those really bad tam-o-shanter hats. Still William Wallace and Robert the Bruce loom large and the point of every story from Scottish history seems to be that the English are really nasty. The Scottish seem to enjoy telling stories of how badly treated they have been, and the whole thing reminds me of home.

When a bunch of Scotts stole the precious Scottish Stone of Destiny from Westminster in the 1950s, Scotland didn't quite know what to do with it so they gave it back and waited for Tony Blair to come along and officially give it to them. It is a bit like Australians who finally got the chance and then don't vote to become a republic.

More on the Franchesena

Here are two photographs of the earlier mentioned Portugese dish, the Franchesena, or "little French girl". Sandy sent me these with the update information that the Franchesena is all about the sauce.

Apparently the Scots will fry anything. They claim to have invented the deep fried Mars bar and the deep fried hamburger. I was told a story about someone who deep fried a lobster, just for fun. I might introduce the Franchesena to them and see if they would like to try deep frying it.

And yes, for those who read about al the things I did in Portugal, I did order one and I did eat more than half of it.

Bobby the most important creature in Edinburgh

You people out there who are reading my blog need to make a comment or two to let me know that I am loved.

A few hundred years ago a policeman was on graveyard shift which meant that he had to watch the graveyards at night to make sure that nobody stole the bodies, which at the time was a lucrative business. He got lonely and so got a little Scottish terrier and named him Bobby. (This seems a rather unimaginative name, given that the guy was a policeman.) The policeman dies, the dog sits by the grave for the rest of his life waiting for his master's return. It goes on for 14 years when Bobby himself dies but he cannot take up his rightful place buried next to his master. He has to be buried just outside the church yard because he might not have been a Christian.

There are pubs and cafes named after him, there is a statue of him and even though I have only been in Edinburgh for two days, there have been big articles in the daily paper about him both days: that makes a 100% hit rate. Yesterday's article was about a little Scotts terrier who has been trained to leave a wreath on Bobby's grave and today's article was about the gall of the Walt Disney company who are going to cast another type of terrier in the role of Bobby in their upcoming film. I don't know that I want to go and see a film about a dog that sits still for 14 years, then dies, but you never know.

I told two very sweet teenage boys about my theory that Bobby was really just a bit stupid and they said I was breaking their Scottish hearts. I told them about the equally moronic dog on the tucker box and then they they appointed themselves my guides for the day. This meant a huge walk up Arthur's Seat where King Arthur is buried if you believe that. The stopped and put their arms around me and took photographs, they laughed easily and seemed to enjoy the irreverence of not honouring little Bobby.

Wierdly enough, the Melbourne string orchestra was in town giving a recital at the University of Edinburgh. It was just fantastic. The crowd were all music students or lecturers, or supporters. I think I was the only man on the street type to go. I later met one of the orchestra members on my hike up to Arthur's Seat with my two young pals and she told me all about how wonderful the trip through Europe has been except for the permanent hat hair she has developed. I too have been suffering from bad hat hair, but since all of northern Europe has the same condition no one really notices.

Edinburgh: The First City of Literature

Haggis

I love haggis. I don't love it because it is gross, or different, or Scottish, I love it because it is delicious. (Delicious when fried as it turns out.)

"Haggis is typically served on Burns Night, January 25, when Scotland celebrates the birth of its greatest poet, Robert Burns, who was born in Ayrshire on that date in 1759. During the celebration, Burns poems are read, and the haggis is addressed by a member of the party, ceremonially, in the form of verses from Burns' poem, 'Address to a Haggis.' A typical meal for Burns Night would include Cock-a-Leekie, Haggis with Tatties-an'-Neeps, Roastit Beef, Tipsy Laird, and Dunlop Cheese."

http://www.smart.net/~tak/haggis.html

Robert Burns

And here is a little bit of what Robert Burns wrote in honour of the hagggis. This is only the first on nine stanzas:

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o' the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

There are whole programs available for how one should run a Robbie Burns night, and I am sure that someone in Melbourne sells haggis. Part of me is a little bit tempted to try to make it. This year is a very special 250th anniversary of his birth so someone might want to start planning. Every man, woman and child in Edinburgh is ready for it.

City of Literature

When you stack up the writers of Edinburgh as the first City of Literature against the famous writers of Melbourne as the second City of Literature, we look a bit thin on the ground. I will have to offer my services as liaison for the two cities and fly back of forth exchanging ideas. Edinburgh is all Burns, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Scott, great names huge and lyrical, then there is Ian Rankin who apparently can be spotted in the bars and cafes around. And of course there is the whole Harry Potter Industry, a wired blend of modern merchandising and the magic of the olde world which seems somehow to still exist when you look at Edinburgh Castle.

Is Scotland a country? It depends who you ask.

The only reason I did not get hit when I asked this question in Edinburgh is because I was excused on the basis of my idiot status, otherwise known as 'tourist'. Benny says no, Sandy says they don't have an army, I say they don't compete in the Olympic games in their own name; but just hold on a minute. They do have a parliament sort of, and the got back the 'stone of destiny' which apparently to the Scots means they are a country.

Darwin's birthday

The last museum in London for me was the Museum of Natural History where they have a special exhibition for Darwin's birthday. Of course, every natural history museum in the world is really his, but this exhibition was particularly well put together. The stories were lovely. He was only 22 when he set out on The Beagle and lots of the notes captured Darwin as a bit of a lad rather than the sage, bearded image that we tend to be presented with. He rode on the backs of the Galapagos tortoises but had trouble keeping his balance, pulled the tails of lots of animals and repeatedly threw iguanas back into the sea to try to work out why they kept returning to him so he could do it again.

They had lots of contemporary stuff, sadly enough still defending common sense against 'intelligent' design, a nice film of the path he walked for years while he was thinking it all through, and the two finches (hummingbirds as it turns out) that started him thinking. They were tagged and presented on a velvet cushion in pride of place. One highlight was the little scrap of paper where Darwin sketched out a tree and comes up with the model of branches for evolutionary science. This is the first codification of the idea of the tree of life.

Christine and I then went to Lynne's house and I made the shredded kale and potato soup that I had eaten in Portugal. It worked just fine. Finally I trudged off in the night to my train to Edinburgh where I found two empty seats. This mean a lay down on the train and a patchy but passable night's sleep. I finally looked out the window in Carlisle but could not workout why the train was going that way. The announcement was the we were diverted in the middle of the night because of flooding. I contented myself with staring at the white sheep with black faces (just like in the cartoons) and the wonderful green of everything until the train pulled in at the station in Scotland.

War Museum

The drive back from Birmingham to Oxford was late, the roads were slippery and the temperature was minus 4. I was okay because I was not behind the wheel. The motorways behaved themselves and I got home to Oxford with Superbock (Portugese beer) and octopus behind me.

So back to London to finish the museums. Today was the Imperial War Museum. A pretty impressive place but no mention of the current war, of course. There were many effective maps, photos interactive displays and quite shocking stuff. The weaponry was huge, but I don't know enough about it to really understand what I was looking at.

Dinner was a pizza place called la Porcheta. For minute I feared that it might be the Melbourne chain spreading out, but thankfully not. The food was just lovely and after dinner Christine and I sat up talking over old times. Tomorrow night I am off to Edinburgh. I will revert to my maiden name (Mckay) while there and see if it does me any good.

Port, Porto, Portugal

Porto is the second biggest city in Portugal and I went there. It is built on a very steep hill like the towns along the Amalfi coast or Taxco in Mexico (but now you will just think I am showing off.) It is a major port with a beautiful river running out to beaches and beyond, and it is where port comes from. The apartment provided a wonderful view across the river and the Gaia Bridge (for those who want to look it up). Occasionally a team of 8s would row past or a military band would drum up a procession for no reason that we could understand. These events puncutated the mournfully relaxing sight of a summertime holiday town in sleep mode for winter. Here are some highlights.

The city

Tall thin houses, with tiles on the outside, most often blue and white floral inspired patterns, but sometimes yellows, greens and reds stand on streets/laneways that are far too narrow for cars, but then you would occasionally and impossibly see a car winding along. Sandy kept pointing out the art deco features, I was stumped by the hieght/width ratio and the question of where the staircase might be.

The market
All was good, even if we got there when it was half closed. Butchers, line up to sell more meat than you can imagine a town needs. Lunch was crunchy fish from a cafe in the middle of the market. When we ordered the fish, a woman went out, bought it from a fish shop and cooked it for us. Life can be so simple.
Here I was stumped by another curiousity. They were selling a meat product that I could not identify. I had ticked off evey organ of every animal that I know, but still a dark red sticky mass (not liver) was before us. At one point we saw it in a bucket and it was steaming. Finally, Sandy pointed to the stuff for sale then her innards then gesticulated a question by raising her shoulders. The woman answered by miming the cutting of her wrists and we knew what we were looking at. Blood sausages don't come from nowhere.

Custard tarts
It is said that in London you are never more that five metres from a rat. I posited the idea that in Porto you are never more than five metres from a custard tart. Benny is not sure if that is true, but I am going to stand by this until someone proves me wrong. A pastisse de nata (that's Portugese for custard tart), with a little shaker of cinnamon and a coffee makes a treat that can be eaten at any time of the day or night.

Franchesena
The Franchesena is Portugal's answer to the French croque monsiuer. It literally means "The litttle French girl" and as you can see, the word "little" is sarcastic. It is a sandwich of bread, peppered ham, veal cutlet, sausage, ham, bread again, smothered in gooey cheese, all grilled in a creamy tomato and wine sauce.

The sculptures
Our focus on food was occasionally interupted by some cultural events. We saw a gallery of good stuff, but best of all were the sculptures and the busts. We tried and failed to hear some music, and we sat and sunned ourselves on various public seats, bars and cafes. We noticed that few people wear crusifixes, no one crosses themselves when they pass a church, the city is very slow, possibly even hibernating, the waiters are so bored that when you ask them where a bar might be, they take off their aprons and want to come with you. (Those of you who doubt me need to check the validity of this story with Sandy and Benny.)

The transport
Apart from the attempt to march to the beach past the fishermen cooking their sardines on a dockside grill, and the many calf building stair climbs, we road trains that become trams, buses, and best of all a finicular. Guess which part I liked best. The public transport was remarkably clean and available.

Snow Drift

A visit to the old Spitelfield market, Brick Lane and all the little markets around there was the order of the day. There were food stalls from all over the world, lots of guys selling CDs of funk music (apparently there is a revival), second hand clothes stall and heaps of I-made-it-myself stalls of interesting clothes made out of carpet or doilies or felt. I liked the doilies best.

I found a Hugo Boss overcoat of black cashmere but it was two sizes too big for me. Luckily, the Polish guy next to me found a navy blue knee length wool coat that was two sizes too small for him. We swapped, complimented each other and sautered off having parted with £10 each. The buses got the better of me and I ended up having a scenic tour of London trying to get back to Marble Arch then return to Oxford. I will return for a rematch.

This morning I spoke to Tony and told him how mild the weather had been before I opened the curtains. I got excited and almost raced in to wake up Sandy and Benny when I realised that they had probably seen snow before. It is drifting down and the path from the back door to the garden shed is white. It is picture perfect. So much so that I am glad we are off to Portugal today where it is 16 degrees.

Slow Day

Having mastered the Underground and even given myself the title 'Lord of the Underground' on the basis that I have given advice to not only American tourists, but real live English people on how to get from Point A to Point B, I now have emerged to conquer the buses. So far, the 254 and 253 have been dealt with, and pretty soon I will be able to travel above ground without anyone noticing who I really am. And, just so long as nobody holds a mirror up to my face and realises I have no reflection, they will never know.

Christine and I bussed and wandered down to Highgate Cemetry to visit Karl Marx. Surrounding him are those who have chosen to buried in good company. British communists and leftists, many of who lived in exile from their homeland (South Africa, Iran etc) and ended up seeing out their days in London. Also surrounding the grave were live communists and leftists from around the world who make their way to hold up the left fist in front for the monument and have a photograph taken.

Christine and Ganelle have no family in the UK and find it hard to get baby-sitters. They are out at the movies holding hands. So tonight I am bunkering down with their son Raphael, a spicy chicken from the Halal Algerian shop and some bagels. The bagels and the chicken seem to be getting on just fine, so are Rapheal and I. So that just goes to show you.

Thinking about it.

The British Museum is apparently the most visited tourist attraction in London; and lots of visitors come at Christmas time. That must be why the tour guides for the museum take that time off work: it is holiday season. Christine told me a story about a cafe in Poland where she went for lunch but the cafe was closed because all the waiters were having lunch. It makes sense when you think about it.

In The British Museum you can get a 'Free trade' coffee, or a 'Free trade' snack. It is great really because it sustains you as you look at all of the plunder of the world, not just the British colonies, but the whole world. They pinched everything from tiny jewels from the eyes to minature statues of Egypt, to whole buildings that they fancied in Mycaenae. Good on them. The won the wars, they stole the stuff fair and square. You can't revise history. I know Greece want their marble sculptures and columns back, but really if the Brits started giving stuff back to its rightful owner then what would be left in the British Museum? So it is really good that they try to balance things up in the modern world by offering 'Free trade' stuff for sale in the cafeteria. It makes sense, sort of, when you think about it.

I went the church. Big, fat, Anglican church; Westminster Abby no less. I wanted to see the inside, I wanted to pretend that I was Lady Diana becoming Princess Diana, and I wanted to hear some big church choral singing. But, being a total cheapskate, I did not want to pay. So I went to something called Evensong. It is a service that is mainly sung and while they make tourists pay £9 to get in, those who come to worship get in for free. So I went in to worship. We confessed and were absolved, prayed for the queen, Prince Philip and Prince Charles and all the other unnamed members of the royal family. We also prayed for the members of The Order of the Bath, but I don't even know who they are. The tomb to the unknown soldier on the other hand was quite moving and it made me pull up my socks. All was good until the very end when the organist came into his/her stride. They were really passionate and it sounded like a third rate horror movie. I managed to get away without anyone noticing that I was trying to repress a laugh as I imagined Bela Lugisi or one of those horror movie actor guys creeping around. It makes sense, I suppose, if you think about it.

In the evening, I met up with Georgina and we went to see August: Osage County, at the National Theatre. It had been reviewed as the play of the year. We both like it, but preferred the biting political commentary of Gesthemene, the play we had seen a couple of days earlier. I had seen All My Sons by Arthur Miller in Melbourne the year before and August: Osage Country seemed like a poor cousin. It made sense and you didn't even have to think about it.