So Long, Farewell...

The time has come. No I'm not packed. I've got half my suitcase filled and another three quarters waiting to go in. I hate packing. So, I procrastinate. That, I do exceptionally well.

The last few days I've been saying goodbye.

I spent the weekend with my aunt and cousin. My cousin took me Down de Islands for a last trip and we had an absolute ball. We rang his partner-in-crime as we were heading down the road, he dropped everything, grabbed his stuff and came to join us. We all piled into my cousin's boat, went Down de Islands, picked up partner-in-crime's daughter and fiance and headed out to fish. Once again I was reminded it's called 'fishing' not 'catching'. Even though we only had one bite and didn't manage to land the fish, we had a fantastic time. Yes, there are pictures. When I get home I'll put them up.

Sunday, I spent with my aunt. She gave me back a piece of my childhood, when I would go and spend the afternoon with her, we talked and talked. Saying goodbye was so hard. I really, really did not want to leave them. My cousin has been such a support to me. He doesn't do emotional intelligence, he does that big, gruff, manly thing. But it was just what I needed. I could be exactly how I was and that was all that was necessary. He took me out and about. We teased each other, nagged each other and got very, very drunk together. I will never forget him standing behind my father's coffin, sweating in the heavy wool suit, trying not cry.

Today, my brother and SIL headed off to work. They can't make it to the airport. That was hard. I'm going to miss them so much. I'm going to miss Trinidad so much. But I miss my Boy, the Cat, my friends and Norwich dreadfully. I know it will be good to be home.

Arrival

The Great Ursus, his lovely and Boy saw me off at Norwich Bus Station at 00:30 Wednesday morning. National Express is certainly an experience. The coach trip was as expected: endless, uncomfortable and occasionally entertaining. My advice to you, should you ever need to travel by coach is to book. Several people rocked up to the stops at stupid o'clock and got in the driver's face because they hadn't booked tickets, or enough seats for their party and decided that the fact that the coach was booked solid and he didn't have the seats for them was his fault. I don't see their logic, but what do I know? Apparently, theirs was a trip of a life-time and they wouldn't make their flight. Quite. At 3 am, he was far more professional and polite than I would have been. But given that I'd been awake since 6.30 the previous morning, I was cold and uncomfortable, perhaps it's not surprising. Gatwick was Gatwick. Filled with hurrying passengers, stressed staff and security with no sense of humour. I filled up on Eine, got to my flight and tried to sleep as much as possible.

Trinidad is in the depths of it's Rainy Season. The dry, dusty hills ravaged by bush fires are now all green. It's slightly cooler, but the humidity is high, so I'm not convinced it's more comfortable. The greenery is amazing; a month of rain and everything is in flower.

It's as if I was only here last week.

Doing Today, What Should Have Been Done 3 Months Ago

If only procrastination were an Olympic sport. I'd win the gold medal.

I have to get back to Trinidad. I'm being delivered to the bus station at half past midnight tonight, by the Great Ursus and his Lovely. Blessings upon their heads for their stalwart support and love.

There are at least 3 piles of paper in my house that I've been ignoring. I have to find 2 pieces of paper. If I don't find them the British government is likely to get very, very stroppy with with me. I've been ignoring the job for some time now. But as I can't take 3 piles of paper with me to Trinidad, if I don't do the job now, it isn't going to get done until September when I get back. By which time there will be a new pile of paper to ignore.

Administration is an interesting dilema for me. If it's not mine, I can do it, no problem. Indeed, many of my monthly paychecks in the past have required me to be organised and efficient in the moving of paper around. When it comes to my own personal admin....forget it. I create piles around the house, ignore, procrastinate, I just don't do it. Thanks to the joys of direct debit, I've now avoided red letters from utilities companies going 'pay us, pay us now'. I tell everyone I can 'if it's important, e-mail me, DO NOT POST'. In the main, this works very well. Unfortunately, the British government doesn't understand this. Most bureaucracies aren't known for being understanding. Hell, if I had to push that much paper around, frankly, I wouldn't understand either.

So here I am blogging, when indeed I should be collecting the 3 piles, turn them into 1 mahusive pile and start going through the hundreds of sheets of paper just looking for 2. Well, as soon as I type the last full stop, I'm going to have a bath, get dressed, make myself another cup of coffee, have a smoke and then collect my piles of paper.

It sure as hell beats packing and it's keeping me from wondering what waits for me when I land. Perhaps there are better survival strategies, but I've just realised that maybe, this one isn't too bad after all.

I'm Baaack!

Yes, it's true. Boy and I made it back, safe and sound. Considering the title of this blog is 'journeying', I quite hate, loathe and detest flying. It is the most singularly uncomfortable ways of travelling. I hate the whole procedure from start to finish. From the security checks, immigration and customs, and the actual flying part most of all. I suppose had we flown First Class, my experience would be slightly different. Were I actually able to adopt a pretzel shape to sleep, had the small baby actual slept or shut up, had the food been at all palatable, I might have thought differently of the experience.

Despite that, British Airways got us home to Merrie Ingerland in one piece.

Rambling Roses

My apologies for slow blog day. Boy and I are now back in Trinidad for two weeks. I've been doing my impression of a Stress Bunny, while Boy has been doing his impression of Calm in the Middle of Tornado. He's very good at it.

Our journey began at midnight Saturday morning. We took a National Express coach down to London Gatwick. Next time, I'll find another way to travel down. It took 6 hours to get from Norwich to LGW. For those not native to British shores or conversant with English geography. It's a 2 and a half hour drive. It was cold, the seats were hard and every time I managed to find a comfortable enough position to doze off in, we'd stop. My impression of a pretzel for 6 hours means upon my return I will be visiting the osteopath.

Once we got to Gatwick and the right terminal. Note to Self: read the damn instructions. We booked ourselves in and then I had my final fag. I'd brought some nicotteine lozenges in case of emergency melt-down. Of course, once we'd left the house I started remembering the things I forgot to pack. Duty Free became a slightly more expensive experience than I had intended. The perfume shop was disappointing. I was strict with myself and only packed 2 fragrances. It was a battle to choose which, in the end I settled on Dior Addict 2 and my favourite, favourite Tom Ford Black Orchid: Voile de Fleur.

Flying British Airways is a far more pleasant experience than XL.Com ever was. The check-in is now all automated, which really did throw me. Thankfully, Boy is a child of the Digital Age and can follow on-screen instructions. The seats were a damn sight more comfortable than the coach and reclined further than 2 degrees. The flight left on time and no one was surprised. The food was more than edible, the service chirpy and prompt.

When we were in the airport, in Costas I was waiting for the Polish Barrista to deliver my cappuccino and made a comment to a guy waiting next to me. He had a nice smile and a very North London accent. We exchanged witty banter and parted upon receipt of hot caffinated beverages. On the plane, we laughed when we sat down next to each other. He and his wife and two girls were going to St Lucia. After take off, he swapped seats with his eldest girl and she and I became fast friends. I napped most of the flight. Whenever I woke up, her bright blue eyes would light up and she chatted ten to the dozen. Bless her heart, she was terrified when it came to the landing. Long time readers will remember it's not my favourite part of flying anyway. Having to talk her down was great, it took her mind off of things and I could pretend to be big and brave. Unfortunately, we won't be coming back on the same flight together. This is one of the joys of journeying, you make instant friends, without the usual societal constraints.

When we got to Piarco Internation, Port of Spain, I'd had quite enough. I was tired, grumpy and when the end was in sight: gasping for a fag. Trinidadian officialdom has two speeds: dead slow and stop. If you make the mistake of complaining about the dead slow, they automatically switch to stop. We all know that patience is not one of my virtues, but I gritted my teeth and common sense prevailed.

I can't impart the joy of clearing the exit and lighting up. That head rush was salivatingly fantastic.

It is so good to be with my father, my brother and his family. Three years is much too long. Much too long. Nephew is now taller than me and Niece is just soooo unbelievable cute. I have got the anti-smoking lecture (which I was dreading), but they're now just letting me get on with it. They are so chuffed to see Boy. He gets to be the oldest child around, as he's usually the youngest, he revels in the experience. Nephew thinks he's so cool with all his piercings.

Given we had 24 hours of travelling, I don't feel too bad. The temperature is 35'C and it's bliss. Being warm without piles of clothing, it's a luxury. This is the first time my legs have seen sunshine in over 6 months. I'm being teased for their incredible whiteness. It's good to be in shorts.

Anyway, I hope you are have a great Easter. I won't be able to put any pictures up until I get home, but I will bore you to death with my holiday snaps. I promise.

Downtime

Rather than go on about work: frantic run up to Christmas, still no idea what's going on, or how I'm supposed to sort out paperwork, managing not to swing for bean counters who are jumped up jobsworthies. I thought I'd share our weekend away.

The Viking took me to Cardiff to see The Police. Yes, you read right. I went to The Police gig, with a policeman. See, I am keeping my sense of humour. We dashed out of Norwich after my day at college, though that soon turned to 'crawled', as we made our way round the M25 in rush hour traffic. We ended up staying in a small hotel in Cardiff Gates on the edge of a business estate.There were two disadvantages to chosing this hotel, though by the time my Viking booked the hotel, there wasn't much of a choice as 45,000 other people wanted to be there too. First, Cardiff wasn't easily accessibly. When the Viking rang up he was assured that there was a bus that ran not far from the hotel, I immediately thought - goodie. It turns out that the bus stop was a half-an hour walk away. We decided to take a taxi into town instead, far quicker. The Second, and most heinious of all: the hotel was drier than the Salt Lake Desert. There was no bar, no pub, no drinkies to be had at all! Bloody shocking I tell you. Yes, I did make my displeasure know. It's not that I'm a lush (she says typing as she sips a glass of something naughty), it was the principle of the thing. We were away for an off-white weekend (as opposed to dirty, because we had to come back on the Saturday), we should have been able to indulge in a little tipple, or three; damn it. I won't complain too much as the hotel room was clean and spacious, the breakfast not too bad at all, the staff smiled, and meant it.

Cardiff is a sneaky city. I didn't fall in love with it, the way I fell for Dublin, it kind of crept up on me, charming me with endearments and knowing smiles. The Viking wanted to do the Millenium thing by Cardiff Bay, where Torchwood is filmed, I wanted to do Cardiff Castle. So we started with the Millenium thing. It was a glorious day, really bright, but with just enough of a bite in the air to let you know it's Winter. I loved the towering water-feature opposite the massive Millenium Centre and took several arty shots of the Viking and I cuddled up in front. Cardiff Bay seems to be home to every chain except Wagamamas, which seemed a bit sad really, especially since I really fancied some chain noodles. The Bay was like glass and unfortunately we missed the chance to grab a water taxi to the Millenium Stadium, by 10 minutes. We popped into the Dr Who exhibition and got Hottie her very own sonic screwdriver and then made our way to the Castle by train.

The Castle was great. We took a tour round the Victorian House which really was designed and paid for by two men who had more money than taste. Hand on heart you couldn't even call them Chavs, because the family were really OLD money. But goodness. There were rooms painted in genuine gold leaf, with marble, carved wood, crystals, quite a few astrological symbols and a painted devil. I loved it; though I'm glad I didn't have to live in it, as I'm sure it would be a complete bugger to heat in the winter and I do like to keep warm. The guide was brilliant, knew his stuff and had a great sense of humour. By the way, if you'd like to rent the banquetting hall for a function, it'll only set you back £500 an hour, and be assured food and service is extra. After the tour we went into the Keep, Viking leaping and bounding, me following very tentatively. I don't like heights and rickety wooden stairs.

By the time we were chucked out of there I was ready for a drink and we talked about heading over to the Millenium Stadium to the gig. Doors opened at 16.30, but as we had named, nosebleed seats, we didn't feel like hurrying to just wait around. I was quite enthralled by the local constabulary, much to my boyfriend's amusement. What can I say? I do like a man in uniform. Though not paramedics, sorry Tom, it's just the nasty green polyester doesn't do it for me. After squeezing into a local hostelry I finally got my drink. It was worth the wait.

Then we trooped off to the gig. The crowd was ever so good natured. We had a laugh with the door staff and with the people who sat around us. The seats really were nosebleed, but thanks to the big screen, we did actually see Sting and the lads. The set was great. All the favourite old hits and some that I didn't know as well. Sting's voice was on form again and he looked and sounded fantastic. I realise I really am getting old. When Don't Stand So Close to Me came out, I was just getting into music, I was younger than Rowan is now. One thing is for certain, Sting is aging better than I. He looks amazing; and all by the power of yoga, if he is to be believed. Maybe I ought to get out a yoga dvd? It was a brilliant night, I had loads of fun bopping and singing along. There's just something about a live gig, that beats a cd or the dvd footage. I suppose it's the atmosphere, the crowd singing and dancing along, the musicians' banter between themselves and the crowd.

The next day we left Cardiff and headed back to Norwich, but on a magical mystery tour. It was my first time in Wales and the countryside was shown to it's best in the bright winter sunshine. My Viking wouldn't tell me where we were going, we just drove. After driving for over an hour and a half, he asked me if I'd figured out where we were going yet. I just shook my head; I didn't have a clue. Next minute I know we pull into Hay-on-Wye. To my shame, I was completely ignorant of this town's existence, but the few hours we spent trolling through the craft and book shops, I know I definitely want to go back. But next time, I want to have lots more money to spend. The books! The fabulous books. I was so good up until the last book shop. I managed to put back the thrillers, the horrors and romance, I did get an amazing mug, but I was really, really good. If I bought the stuff that I saw and wanted, I'd be eating beans and doing over-time for the rest of the year. But then, the last book shop we went into, I got caught. I just wanted a reader in media studies, that's all. I came out with about 10 books ranging from academic to Dennis Weatley. *sigh*. I didn't dare go into the poetry bookshop.

I had such a good time away, it was just what I needed, to look at different countryside and different sights. And as I sit here typing, with an empty glass and half of my sundried tomatoe-stuffed olives, I realise that home isn't too bad either. Even if it is just me and the cat this half-term.

Back to Life

We're baaaak! Did you miss me? I'm still on Trinidadian time and traumatised by our journey back. You will remember that when we departed there was a lovely hurricane called Dean creating havoc? The day before departure, we all head down south to my brother's estate in Mayaro. I get organised and leave one of our suitcases behind with K, who we've organised to get a lift to Piarco International Airport. As we make our way eastwards, we're listening to storm warnings. There's a tropical storm brewing in the Atlantic called Felix. Joy. There is rain, wind, lightning and thunder, but then, it is rainy season and it's well named. Though the really nice thing about tropical weather is that once it's finished tipping it down, the sun comes up. None of this grey-for-weeks nonsense like you get here.

Saturday
8am - get up have breakfast. Make farewell calls to various branches of family. Head their warnings about Felix and ring the airport to be informed that all is well and situation normal.

11.15 - set off to airport.

12.50 - arrive in airport. Book in on earlier flight, as we've done better time on the roads.

13.30 - take off from Piarco International in the tiny island hopper. I'm gripping the armrests of the seats in preparation for the turbulence we are told to expect. What a disappointment. Not even a bump. The landing was an 8.5. Waiting for the luggage takes longer than the flight over.

14.30 - go to check-in and start to queue. One of the people in the queue says the dreaded 'D' word. Sure enough the rude staff confirm, the plane hasn't yet left London, is due to take off any minute now, should be in by 11.30, due to depart Tobago 1.30 Sunday.

15.15 - complete check-in process and search for misplaced sense of humour. Go back to bookshop who is prepared to let me buy and return books, choose 2 rubbish books. Return to restaurant buy beer and coke.

16.00 - head to Storebay to have a look around for last minute shopping and scout out places to eat later. We are accosted by a guy flogging glass-bottom boat trips. Haggle. Wait until 17.00 and go out to Pigeon Point Coral Gardens and the Nylon Pool. We had to be lifted in and out of the boat because we were in our travelling gear. For the first part of the journey we sat on the top of the boat, got deafened by the reggae, and took in the sights. It was cool and the colour of the water was amazing. Yes, we would have seen more in the underneath, but it was good to be outside. When we got to the Nylon Pool it started to rain, so we went underneath while everyone else dived in and swam around. By this time the sun was coming down and the rain was quite insistent. The trip back wasn't that great, the seas were more rough and the boat wallowed around like a duchess in a Victorian swimming cossie. We landed in Storebay in complete darkness, but hale and hearty.
19.30 - find a 'French' cafe, part of a chain that operates in Trinidad and Tobago. The waitress' face says closed, but has a lovely smile. We order a cheese burger, with fries and chicken Parmesan and pasta. It's a good meal. The restaurant has a telly showing the Sound of Music with subtitles. We push our luck there until 20.30 where we head to the main restaurant and bar at the airport. By the way, everything mentioned here is literally 5 mins walking distance.

20.30 - Talk to another rude member of staff and find out plane is now not scheduled to arrive until 1.45. Estimated time of departure is now 3.30. Flurries of texts between myself and Viking, who said he'd come pick us up at the airport. Bearing in mind it's his day off, he's got to drive down from the North to Gatwick and drive us back to Norfolk, it's in the back of my mind that I'm pushing my luck a bit. Our arrival time was supposed to be 8.55, Sunday morning, now it was 18.30.

22.30 - get kicked out of the main bar and find out that the plane has to stop at Antigua for refuelling. Arrival time now 19.15. I've read 3/4 of first book. We go into the departure lounge where we are offered two bottles of free drink. The lounge is heavily air conditioned and there's some football match being played on the telly at a ridiculous volume. The woman who gives us the drink does not reply when I ask whether it's possible for her to turn it down, she just gives me a funny look and gestures to another more sparsely furnitured lounge. Boy stretches out and goes back to sleep.

Sunday
00.30 - Boy wakes up. I'm nearly finished the second book. I finish it and re-read the bits that amuse me. When I go the washrooms through the other lounge, I leave the books on a table. There are people asleep in hard plastic chairs, on the carpeted floor; we are all refugees here.

1.45 - The plane finally arrives. There is a flurry of activity on the tarmac as bleary passengers and their luggage are offloaded. People start waking up and moving about. Boy and I have a half-hearted game of Eye-Spy. There are several bouts of rain and high winds. There are rumours that the delay is caused by Felix growing up into a hurricane.

3.00 - We are so bored now, our humour turns inappropriate. We try to see who can fart the loudest and smelliest. Boy wins, though I've given him a good run for his money.

3.20 - We finally board the plane, Boy and I are aggressive in our queueing. We are fed up with the staff issuing the same instructions to keep our passports open at the picture page and our boarding passes immediately at hand. She says 'boogie' instead of 'buggy' when instructing parents to have the contraption folded before they approach the departure point. We only laugh the first 5 times. When we get on board, we negotiate so he can have the window during take off and landings.

4.00 - The plane takes off and heads towards Antigua. It turns out that the plane that should have been making the run failed it's maintenance check and Excel had to pull one of the planes from their European leg to make the trip down to Tobago instead. The staff on-board more than made up for the rudeness of the ground staff. They were genuinely helpful, polite and considerate. Nothing was too much trouble. I managed to sleep for most of the trip, Boy didn't seem to be able to get comfortable.

19.15 - Land at Gatwick. Get text from Viking to say he's waiting in arrivals for us.

19.45 - Get hugged and have massive Public Display of Affection with my Viking. We agree food is in order. Apparently road works means the traffic is diabolical. Viking says he'll stay the night and go to work from mine. I am relieved.

23.30 - Get home to a happy cat and pristine flat...or was that the other way round.

I'm really glad we went. It turned into a proper holiday for us in the end and it was great to see everyone. Unfortunately, all the good food forced upon has completely undone all the good work of the last month, but I don't regret it. Not one morsel. There's just more of me to love.

Leavin on a Jet Plane

No doubt my Viking will tell me off, but I hardly think that one of you blog readers would raid my flat while I'm gone. If for some reason you are tempted, I have got people guarding the most precious cat, but I really would appreciate it if you could water the plants for me, inside and out. Pushing the hoover round will earn you lots of brownie points, as would doing the large pile of laundry I have quite got round to doing yet. Many thanks goes to Britswitch for keeping the cat company and to Gee's boys.

One of the many joys of going out with a policeman is the hours of home security advice. For some reason leaving my front door key under the flower pot by said door is verboten. I now shut my windows when I go out, despite the fact that I live in a first floor flat and my elderly neighbours (with whom I share the window cleaner) are perpetually vigilant. So you see, good sense is rubbing off on me, just very slowly. I still leave my front door open so the cat can sit on the doorstep and glare at the postman.

The other joy is a fuzzy, half-awake conversation while we're both in bed at 7.30 in the morning. Not very strange there you say, hardly worthy of a mention. However, it is when you consider, he's just done a full-night's work, I'm wishing him sweet dreams, he's saying he hopes I slept well, and I'm about to get up to face the day.

Anyway, I'd better get on I've got 17 To Dos that should have been done yesterday, that will have to be done before the end of business today. I'm not sure how much internet access I'll have, so things may go queit for awhile. I'll miss you, will try and send a post card.

Serendipity

I must admit I was a bit worried when the Viking produced a Lonely Planet with book marks and stars at the beginning of our journey. He had his backpacks, his travelling shoes and was ready to go. I had stress, hayfever and two hours sleep. At Stansted, I found any surface that would prop me up enough so I could breathe and doze. The flight was delayed for an hour, I didn't mind. I could snooze some more.

My father H, was a pilot. He captained for Singapore Airlines in the 80's and flew the star of the fleet, the Big Top Boeings. I spent much of my childhood flying. I loathe and detest it. Take offs and landings, I find particularly horrid. Taking off from Stansted, I squeezed Viking's hand so hard, I'm sure he lost the feeling in his fingers, bless him, he didn't complain. After we made it into the sky, I then did the Squirm as I tried to get comfortable enough to doze. I don't know how the Viking managed to be so relaxed and comfortable. I I'm 5 foot fuck all and I find the seats really uncomfortable. He's like 6 foot plus! When I finally dozed off it was time to land. After we bounced down the runway and came to a stop, Viking turns to me and says 'I'd give that a 4.5'. I cracked up.

I fell in love with Dublin at the airport. It's exactly what you'd envisage a 3rd World airport to be: people sleeping on benches, on the floor, children running in the aisles, no signs, no officialdom to point the way. On the other side of the chaos, on a comfort break I saw a poster advertising the Dublin Pass, money off loads of attractions and stuff from participating outlets and restaurant. We were served by a cute french woman who spent ages with us, showing us the guide book, giving us practical advice, generally being lovely and welcoming.

Joy of joys, a bus trip to Dublin City. My first impression of the city on the walk to the hostel, was damp. But it didn't stop me looking about and enjoying what I saw. Dublin is far more European than any of the British cities I've visited. Part of it is the bi-lingual signage, the Euro and their amazing pedestrian crossings which make a noise that you'd find on a space ship. Viking outdid himself choosing the hostel, it was bang in the middle of things. Bless him, he didn't think an unseasoned traveller like myself would cope with dorms, so we had an en-suite double room. Unfortunately, it was up 4 bloody flights of stairs. *You'll have to use your initiative with the following links, I suspect you'll have to play with the interactive map.*

Hunger overcame the tiredness and we went in search of sustenance. We found the most amazing fish and chip shop, Beshoffs on O'Connell Street. I'm a woman who loves good food, and that was good food. As we ate, I spotted a McDonalds across the street. I was amused to see that its patrons have a universal uniform: white shell suits, lots of gold. The haddock and chips were just what the doctor ordered. I then very happily went back to the hostel and to bed and got some much needed shut-eye.

It's funny, I knew I was stressed, but I really hadn't appreciated how strung out I really was. When I woke up, I could feel the difference, the absence of tension and angst. Bliss. We hit Temple Bar, which was so my kind of vibe. It's the groovy part of the city, lots of pubs, cafes, restaurants, shops, theatres, exhibitions, galleries, craft shops. Stunning, absolutely stunning.

In the 4 days we did: Temple Bar, Trinity College - Book of Kells, Grafton St, St Stephen's Green, Iveagh Gardens, Guinness Storehouse, Christchurch Cathedral, Charles Beatty Library and managed to do some shopping, both touristy and otherwise. I found the most amazing bead shop. How I managed not to buy more than I did, I have no idea, and I spent some serious money there. I like making strings of beads to hang in my windows and by doors.

Rather than give you a blow by blow account of our time there, I'll give you a list of my impressions, take from that what you will.

Irish Guinness. Absolutely fabulous. Tastes nothing like the horrible, bitter, thick stuff you get over here. Go to Ireland. Drink lots of the stuff. It's good for you.

We saw more people from other countries than the Irish. The staff in the hostel were from NZ and the Baltic states. We were served by the French, Egyptians, Chinese, Estonians to name but a few.

Dublin on a Saturday night was absolutely heaving. Temple Bar, where we spent most of our time, was packed with groups of hen nights, with flashing bunny ears, L plates, completely plastered and tottering around on high, high heels; stag nights had matching t-shirts and silly names, champagne bottles. When the groups of pre-nuptial revellers bumped into each other, there was much good natured ribbing and random snogging. We saw lots of scantily clad orange-painted women, and I'm sorry, but fake tan doesn't look any better on Irish women.

Dublin has amazing buskers. We saw living statues, opera singers, fire eaters, fiddlers, samba bands, pavement artists. All of this added to the jovial, party atmosphere of the city. They were talented and not at all pushy.

Dublin is a musical city. Most of the pubs we passed by advertised live music, Irish and otherwise every night of the week. There were 3 major gigs happening while we were there: The Who, REM and Justin Timberlake. On an off chance we managed to acquire some ticked for the JT tickets (I can't abide The Who and REM's live rehearsal was sold out) for Saturday night. We had a brilliant night. I think my Viking nearly suffocated under the weight of all the oestrogen from the screaming female fans. As a tall young man, I think there are worse fates than have lots of young, pretty Irish girls pressing against you. JT was on fine form, his performance was outstanding. I didn't realise he was such a good musician, he played keyboards as well as a guitar, as well as his trademark dancing and beat box.

Dubliners when they are trolleyed are some of the best natured and fun people I've ever met. I never once felt concerned or threatened. I just struggle to find the words to describe the atmosphere. I mean the weather was rubbish. It couldn't make it's mind up, so one minute it would be sunny, the next it would chuck it down and weather can really influence how people act in an urban environment. Not being funny or anything, but Norwich in the wet is miserable. Not the Dubliners, they were damp and bouncing, up for anything.

I really liked travelling with the Viking, he's organised but not anally so. He'd made a list of things to see and do, but wasn't upset or put out that I needed to take it slower. We probably got through half of the list. St Stephen's Green and Iveagh Park were fabulous, especially Iveagh Park. We spent some time there chilling on the grass, barefoot and being silly.

It's good to get away from all the stress and angst. Had it not been for Boy, I could have cheerfully stayed there a lot longer. Now Boy is old enough to appreciate differences in cultures and histories, I think I'll start him travelling soon. I've been bitten by the bug.

Four Legged Journey

I’ve decided that I’m going to call a halt to my career as a professional procrastinator. It’s way too stressful. I was packing 10 mins before I was due to leave. And tell me, if I’m only going to be here, why do I need 6 pairs of shoes? I need taking in hand with my packing, I really do.

The first leg of my journey started out with me standing at a bus stop waiting to go into the city to catch my National Express coach. When I finally got to the bus station, panicking and stressed, I was pleasantly surprised. National Express decided I was a VIP and laid on a coach just for me. Seriously, I was the only passenger. The driver, a bubbly blonde woman, was such a sweetie. I sat up front so I could chat to her and we had such a laugh. Bless her, she even got me a fish and chip dinner in Attleborough. Goodness knows what the new driver thought of the smell, but I hid the evidence. Unfortunately, she finished at Stansted, and then other passengers invaded my space! Humpf. The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, if a bit chilly and noisy. Fortunately, I had my MP3 player and a weird game of I-spy with Monkfish to keep me occupied, as well as several calls from my Viking.

The second leg started with me in Gatwick airport. After I arrived, I had a quick recky to look for somewhere to kip for the night. I also had the most expensive, worst cup of tea ever. I cannot describe how disgusting it was. I know, given the circumstances, its a bit petty going on about tea, but honestly: it was vile.

I found finally found a bucket chair on the second level and began what was, one of the most surreal nights I’ve ever spent. Despite the fact it was only 23.00, all of the best spots were taken: the upholstery benches without armrests. I was quite pleased with my seat. It was next to long wooden benches with armrests, so I felt slightly smug in bagging my chair. With a bit of wiggling, I stretched out with my legs propped up on top of my suitcase, on the wheely trolley. I attached my backpack to my suitcase and then loosened the straps so I could get one of my legs through. I had my mobile phone on my chest set to vibrate (no comments on that thanks guys - you know who you are) to wake me up at 3.40, so I could beat the queue for the 4.30 check in. Unfortunately, I was sat opposite a bank of arcade games, including House of the Dead 3. My 3 or so hours sleep was punctuated with moans, screams and gunfire. I rolled my woolly hat over my eyes and dozed.
Every time I had to shift position, I woke up, pushed up my hat, shifted about and pulled hat down again. I’d have a quick look around and there would be more people sleeping next to me. All of the wooden benches were taken with other travelers. There was someone’s feet by my head and by my feet were someone else’s head. Not far from me two couples struck up a conversation which lasted the whole time I was dozing. It wasn’t at all annoying, the rise and fall of their voices was actually quite reassuring. Almost as if they were the sentinels guarding us sleepers. Note to self: learn not to pack so much.

The third leg, I spent a bit like a pretzel, dozing. The food was atrocious, but hey, you pay peanuts for a flight which should have cost 800.00GBP (no pound signs on this keyboard), you kind of expect a lack of frills. I am not a keen flyer. I really don’t like it that much. I’m nervous on take off and landing. I hate turbulence. However, while perusing the safety card. Hah! I noticed the make of aircraft. It was a Boeing 767-300 G-VKNG. Note to self: take pack up for the next flight.
Third leg was the most dodgy. After spending most of my time in a queue in Crown Point International Airport for immigration. I had to lug my bag of bricks around as I sorted out the flight to Trinidad. Many, many thanks to my sister-in-law for sorting out a ticket. This small airport gets an influx of 1000 travelers twice a week and seriously can’t cope. If I would have had to wait on standby for the Tobago Express (the little shuttle between the two islands), I would have been screaming. The shuttle was a small plane with twin props. It was a heck of a flight. I’ve decided that, yes, size does matter. I like BIG airplanes. It’s disconcerting feeling the small plane bouncing on clouds. Turbulence seems so much worse.

The fourth leg brought me home. My mum always laughingly called him The Factotum, a bit of a misnomer, because he looked after me throughout my childhood. He drove me to and from school, parties, helped me with my maths homework, looked after my parents and their home. We met up and headed home. Much of Trinidad has changed. There are now 3 lane highways where there were only one. Lots of construction and new shiney buildings. American billboards with Ben Affleck smile down on drivers weaving in and out of lanes. Indicator? What’s one of those? The traffic has got so bad that the Factotum took us the scenic route which shaved a half an hour off our journey. Night had fallen, but I was still able to recognise the places I visited when I was growing up.
It was good to see Pops. He is has lost weight, but not his smile or sense of humour. I brought him lots of naughtiness: chocolate. It’s been good catching up with him. He says I’m good for him, for the first time in a month he slept for 7 hours, instead of the 2/4 he’s been having. As I write this he’s off having his radiation therapy. The specialist says it will keep him comfortable and active for longer and it isn’t the nightmare that is chemo. I am so pleased he decided not to go that route. He seems fairly philosophical.

I’m glad I came. It’s good to be here.