Day 421: I Reconsider My Negative Preconceptions About Owning A Bale Of Hay

In the country not much happens if you are not going to work. For example, I am staying in a village, and definitely not much is happening. Today a dog came in and another dog lost its collar. The 93 year old poet across the courtyard asked us for tea but we didn't go. We walked to the pub for lunch, had some lunch, and walked back with the vicar's daughters.

The fish man came; this afternoon I sat on a chinz sofa reading OK!, looking things up on the internet and sorting out things like dentists' appointments and ground rent. At about four o'clock I ate a crumpet and touched some raspberries. (Talking of raspberries, I am still confused by OK!, which appears to be full of moon-faced trolls with one grade 'E' GSCE, fake tits, orange skin and a boyfriend who looks like a petty criminal, wearing frocks that look as if they were made for a low-rent transvestite.)

And yet despite the fact that there is not much going on I am cursed, for I am exciting and therefore attract excitement (much in the same way that I attract flies, fleas, cockroaches, beggars, lost tourists and terrace-building pathologists). Only yesterday, for example, I was looking at photographs of a cretin who wants to be Victoria Beckham (but in fact looks like a twopenny whore), when the door flew open.

"Do you want to come and see my bale?", shouted T. "It is really good. I made the farmer leave it behind but I paid him for it."

We walked out of the house and round the corner and up a hill. It was a nice evening, the kind of evening you only really get in England (or, more specifically, the bits of England that no-one can really afford to live in anymore unless they are millionaires with helicopters), but I still thought a trip to a bale was quite a rubbish thing to do.

As it happened the bale was quite good. It looks like this:










If you sit on it on your bottom and you look down the hill you see this:








It looks quite boring but really it is quite pretty, and it is a very good view to look at on a warm evening when you are about to move to Canada for three months and then probably up to and including forever, and are happy about it but also sad about some things.

It is also better than a field that looks like this:




Especially when you walk through it on the way to the pub and the bullocks (who look quite nice when they are not moving) start following you quite quickly.




* one of my loyal readers wrote to ask if they could rent it, but I cannot find the email! In response: possibly, next March, but it may be quite expensive.

Day 419: I Count My Beavers

At lunch earlier today* in an Italian restaurant in London's fashionable West End of London, I heard quite the most astonishing tale.

The father of one of my companions eloped (at the tender age of nineteen) with the daughter of the British Ambassador to Canada; apparently they paddled away together down the Orinoco river in a canoe. ("I didn't know the Orinoco was a river. I thought it was a Womble.") Apparently they were apprehended just before the wedding ceremony itself and, as far as anyone knows, there was no issue.

So excited have I been by this story that my thoughts have turned again and again to Canada. I have, for example, been inspired to count my beavers; having checked and checked again, it seems that I have three!

Here they are:



Here is Orinoco the Womble:







And here is the Orinoco River:









And finally, for no reason at all: here is a rum-looking hound with crossed eyes.






















* with two enchanting companions! One of them is the descendant of a man who once owned exactly a million acres of Western Canada; the other one is immensely tall, drinks Chablis before rough fup-bal games, and can do instant mathematics in his head! They are great.

Day 418: I Have Cheered Up A Bit, And Launch A New Feature

I have worked out the root of my filthy mood and headache! I have not had any coffee since Saturday. I have put that right with one pint of espresso, and am now back to normal. So normal in fact that I am thinking of really good interactive ideas for my web-log, and also twats I have met.

Suddenly I am back in Amsterdam, in a bar, in February, with my brother, having a conversation with a man with very stupid hair.

Me/my brother: Where do you live?
Him: Williamsburg. It's like the Shoreditch of New York.

Silence.

Me/My brother: The Shoreditch of New York?
Him: Yeah.

We do not know what to say. It is possible that this man is in fact King Twatty of the Twats.

Me/My brother: Do you miss England then?
Him: No. I love English things. I just don't want to live there.

My brother and I ("Cunting hell, did you see his cunting hair? Cunt.") thought that the man with the hair was a fool, but we agreed about the English things. It is true, you see: England is full of lots of very excellent English things, and some English people (the ones who are not twats) are really very excellent. (For example, I am an English person and I am excellent. I am also self-deprecating, which is a feature of the English that makes them excellent.)

To celebrate the return of my good mood and my ability to see the good things in England (Marmite, Radio 4, the fact that we really ARE very funny and usually quite nice), I have decided to launch a new Special Theme. It is called "Top Tips".

Inspired by Asta, who commented on my last miserable post, I would like to start with her own (excellent) tip for deterring the Moth, and look forward to having any other ones that my loyal readers (and new fans) might like to send in. I will then make them into a special permanent feature in the sidebar and it will be really good!

Moth Repellent from Asta

"Try scented soaps in plastic bags with little vents cut in for the smell to fill the container. Then you can pick a scent that you won't mind wearing."

Isn't it good?

Grease On Porous Wood (Me. Can't remember where I got it from.)

Mix a paste from Meths and talcum powder. Let it dry. Chip it off. It will have taken out the mark. Fact. (You will also be off your tits, but never mind.)

(If you want to take grease out of cotton and linen, rub on a bit of washing up liquid before putting it in the washing machine. It will work. Fact.)

Sausage Cooking (from a magazine on a train c. 1988)

"Boil your sausages before grilling or frying - and you'll cut your cooking time in half!"

I would rather eat my own eyes than do this, but if you have ever worried about how long your sausages take to cook, this may help. (Interestingly, apparently sausagemeat actually cooks through in under 5 minutes, but I am not entirely sure I believe that.)

Come on then! What you got? Show me! A packet of cedar mothballs for the winner (If I can find them anywhere).

Day 418: I Am Back In London, And It Appears To Be Broken

"The good news is we are fifteen minutes early!", shouts the KLM aeroplane captain as we begin our descent into Heathrow. "The bad news is, we cannot land for another forty-five minutes".

"For fuck's sake", says my neighbour. He is an idiot in a cheap suit who has eaten all of his stupid lunch in a box and sucked up two small bottles of wine. His other main hobby has been being sarcastic with the air steward lady who has been - as they always are on KLM - like a perfect robotlady in shoes you could run for a bus in.

He slams shut his stupid management book (which is not as good as the one I will write), and catches my eye. "Fucking typical, isn't it? It all works until you get to fucking Britain".

As swearing is the occupation of Princes and Kings, I find his chit-chat entertaining, but I am too tired to argue, or even say any words to him; these are strange times, and my mind and heart are elsewhere. There is also no point in arguing, because I know he is right.

Going Through Customs

Four desks, six hundred people: an hour and a half to get off a plane and into a cab.

Getting a Cab

Heathrow to Barnes. £35. His is moving to New Zealand. He cannot stand Britain another minute.

Him: What do you think of all the blacks ?
Me: What, the All Blacks? Dunno. I don't much about rugby.
Him: No, all the blacks.

Buying A Residents' Parking Permit

It costs me £60 to park outside my flat (which is mine) for six months, and takes two hours to pay for the bit of paper that says it is OK for me to park outside my flat (which is mine), on a road in a borough in which I pay about £70 a month in council tax. If I do not buy it, my car will be removed and sent to Peckham, which is on the Moon.

There is a new place to go to get the bits of paper though! It is called "Brixton Customer Centre". It is all very New Labour 2001, and the computers don't work. There are three times as many people working there as there are 'customers', except they are not really working. One of them is trying on sunglasses.

On the walls, there are photographs of people smiling outside their council houses or lying in the grass outside the London Eye. They do not look like me or anyone I have ever seen in Lambeth.

Buying Stuff In M&S

I am stuck at the check-out for twenty minutes because an insufferable woman has her "party food" order confused! Twelve "smoked salmon bites" cost exactly the same as six filo prawn parcels and six mini-hamburgers, apparently, but only if you say the prices out loud to the people on the till like they are retarded.

I wish she could afford to live in Battersea.

Getting The Bus

£2? For bus that moves in the same borough, let alone the same city? (That is about $4 in the America or the Canadia, or about 3 Euros, which will get you from Amsterdam to the moon and back.)

People Talking On Their Mobile Telephones Very Loudly

If you live a country where you do not understand the language (e.g. the Netherlands) or have to tune in to understand it (e.g. France or Quebec), life is good. When you are in a country where you hear everything whether you want to or not, it is very bad and makes you want to die.

Money

EVERYTHING is expensive. There is nothing in Britain that is cheaper than it is in another country, apart from when you go to hospital, where you can get free blood poisoning. I have really looked today for something that is cheap but there is nothing at all that is cheaper than Amsterdam or France or Canada, apart from The Guardian, and I'm not sure that even that's worth it anymore.

Mothballs

Ten shops. No mothballs. I am not entirely sure that five out of the ten shops even knew what mothballs were.

Going To The Doctor

I am not even ill, but I need to have some things looked at the doctor, who is mad. But somehow, despite being at the doctor at the right time, I have missed my appointment. This is worrying and depressing, all at once.

Whilst all this goes on, I am spending entire days in my plush Brixton apartment clearing things out. A friend (and her many boxes) is living here, but she cannot empty her boxes until I empty my cupboards and drawers and cellar. But emptying is difficult when negotiating boxes, and the cat - who is unfortunately not yet dead - keeps sitting on the things I am clearing out. I am tired and cross and do not want to be here, even though I know it will all be worth it in the end.

But what is this? An 'instant message' on Skype! It is my (English) friend Simon, who lives in Vancouver. That is in Canadia, which is the place where I am going three weeks to live for three months (and then possibly up to and including the rest of my life).

Me: Do you miss England ever?
Simon: Never. Ever. And you can get Radio 4 on your computer. What else do you need?

I feel unaccountably cheerful now, and will soon be telephoning British Airways to see if can change my flight. I see no reason why I should not leave the country tomorrow.

Day 417: I Am Back In Britain

I am in shock! It is really bad!