Nuffink Practical

After four weeks of hanging round, we thought we'd come to know the place reasonably well, if not quite intimately. So when it came to buying a few simple household items it should have been a doddle.

After an hour or so of searching the likely shops, we finally stopped at the bookshop and enquired if there was anywhere at all nearby that was likely to sell blank CD's.

The delightfully groomed young lady adopted her most purposeful expression, carefully composing her reply so as not to be misunderstood by the foreigner who stood opposite:

"Nar", she replied,

"You won't get nuffink practical in the shops in Greenwich."

As a person who could learn to enjoy sleeping in red pirate long-johns (for girls) complete with a thing called a "pirate cape", I beg to differ.

Chipping Sodbury

When we saw Chipping Sodbury on the map, we knew our day's travel would have to end there, just because of the way the name just sort of rolled off one's tongue: Chipping Sodbury.

If one pronounces it quickly it sounds like "Chipping Sodbury", which remarkably is exactly the same as when one pronounces it slowly.

It could be said that we aren't all that adept when it comes to planning ahead. In fact it could be said we don't plan ahead at all, so when we are on the road, finding accommodation becomes a version of the old car game "Spotto", with the stakes becoming ever so slightly more desperate as the evening light begins to fade, and bedtime approaches for respectable inn-keepers.

As it turned out, there was a certain lack of salubriousness in the available rooms in Chipping Sodbury, so we continued down the road a few miles until we stumbled across a charming complex which, we would have agreed was perfectly described in its publicity brochure, had we had the benefit of it at the time:

Best Western; The Compass Inn is a medium sized, family run hotel set in the beautiful South Cotswolds. An 18th century coaching inn with modern accommodation set in 6 acres of beautifully kept grounds and gardens. Just a minutes drive from junction 18 of the M4.

It looked terrific, so Jo and Jules went in to enquire.

"Ninety-eight each" replied the receptionist when asked if there were any rooms available that night.

Jo, a little travel weary, perhaps even disoriented by a long day in which we had travelled a total distance of something near 30 miles, retorted incredulously: "POUNDS???" Even now, we have no idea what sort of currency she was expecting, nor whether for an instant she thought that this particular establishment was quoting in Bolivian Bobs, or even that they were prepared to trade in Chestnut Conkers.

"I'll phone the B&B down the road for you" came the firm and immediate reply.

And so it came to pass that we had a splendid night at Chestnut Farm Tormarton, a small, family run, farm and B&B set in the beautiful South Cotswolds. An 18th century farm house with modern accommodation set in a few acres of beautifully kept grounds and gardens. Just a minutes drive from junction 18 of the M4, compleat with traditional English breakfast, and all for fifty.

"POUNDS???"

Indeed!

Leaving Greenwich

It was our last day in Greenwich, and with an awkward three hours to kill we decided to take one last walk, find some food, and do one or two last minute shopping things.

The ground in the park and on most streets was covered ankle deep in a golden brown covering the likes of which we had never seen before (except in movies of course). The Poms called them "Autumn Leaves".

When I said "most" streets, I meant EVERY street, except for the Part of Romney Road which runs in front of the Maritime Museum and the Queen's House, which had been cleaned to within an inch of its life by a man who was clearly on a mission.

"You seem to be on some sort of mission" we called cheerily as we passed.

It must have been smoko time, because for the next fifteen minutes (at least) we were regailed by tales of how difficult life is.

His responsibility "you see", is for the whole block from King Willam Walk to Park Row, and because "they" don't have the funds, "them on the other side of the fence; the history people", they use leaf blowers to pile all the leaves up near the fence when the Southerly winds are coming, so all the leaves blow out onto his patch of footpath. He'd been there since "5 o'clock this morning".

He had another three months of work he reckoned before it was all over, then it'd be nearly spring "and the tourists'll be back". We didn't ask him how he disposed of the tourists, but presumed he'd have to use something larger than the pillow-case sized plastic bags he used for the leaves.

Then again he had one of those fantastic twig brooms favoured as flying machines by all self-respecting witches. Maybe...... no he couldn't possibly........

The Last Picture

So there we were in Barcelona, a little travel weary, we dropped our guard for just a second and that was all it took.

Recorded for posterity, is the last photograph uploaded from the D80, snapped at the Canary Wharf DLR station in an idle moment. In the meantime, I hope the bloke that bought a cheap D80 in Barcelona enjoys it as much as I did!

At least the new passport photos are better.

Ab and Mat

Ab's been moaning all weekend that her wedding hasn't made it to the internet. She thinks it's up to Shell to fix that, but because I'm so kind and loving.......

Signs

St. Augustine said of signs that if you didn't know what an object was a sign of, it could teach you nothing, but if you did know, what more could you learn from it?

For azzadazza

In another place, at another time I thought that I'd found someone who knew someone who'd seen someone who had a cousin who'd been to this house in Victoria. Sadly, that was not the case.

On the other hand it leaves me free to use terms like "selfish pompous monstrosity designed without regard for the planet on which it lives", without offending anyone except the owner, whom I have never met but who thoroughly deserves it.

As usual, my digression started about two paragraphs ago. One of the benefits of sketching notes rather than not taking zillions of photographs of things is that one's memories can be whatever one wishes. I dug out the book so that it would be ready for Aaron to sign, and was surprised at how close to the real thing it was, considering the drawing was done that night after whizzing past at speeds which were probably imprudent.

Only the height remains a mystery, I suspect that ten floors is a little higher than the reality.... or is it?