Muffler...

How is a man supposed to wear his scarf? The Artic Tuck? The Wrap Around Pull Through? Or the Side Knot? According to readers of the Guardian there is only one way to wear a scarf - loosely hung on the inside of your suit jacket with no more than an inch sticking above your collar.

However, I've always regarded the scarf as a little effeminent....so I guess it's not suprising that I was accused of wearing mine like a girl today - but, I was always told that your accessories had to match your manbag.

Best of show...

I got a warmer welcome than usual when I dropped in to see Josh this evening. A firm handshake and offer of a glass of red wine was followed by a wet lick of my hand. Josh has just got a new dog - it's a black labrador - he has named the dog Harvey (yes....Harvey McGarvie).

Commuter Chaos...

Our train was hit by a flying (okay...falling) tree this morning (there were winds in excess of 80 mph at the time). The train crew jumped manfully onto the tracks and attempted to turn the offending shrub into firewood, but were struggling with probably the smallest chainsaw/set of nose trimmers I've ever seen. I looked down, out of the window, and our conducter seemed genuinely embarrassed to be holding such a small tool.

Two hours later the real rescue team finally turned up with much bigger tools. They swaggered towards the tree and made quick work of it - as our conducter hide his embarrassment behind his bright orange reflector vest and just smiled nervously at them. I finally got into the office at 11:30am.

Getting home was even more entertaining. The scene that greeted me at Victoria Station (it was the only station still functioning) was incredible. Police lined the tube exit and with well rehersed crowd control procedures, we were herded into the main concourse.

There I was met by a huge milling crowd, which I managed to temporarily avoid by seeking shelter in the concourse bar. However, I was eventually enticed out onto the platforms by the announcement of the 19:20 to East Grinstead - unfortunately I wasn't the only one to hear the announcement.

Squeezing several thousand people onto a train that only fits 600 was never going to work....so as the police fended us off with a bullhorn and authoritative gestures, I eventually boarded another train. I didn't care where it was going......it was pointed south and that was close enough for me.

'(beep, beep, beep), Mind the doors (you idiot)'...

Have you ever walked into a glass door? Have you ever completely missed a chair, while trying to sit down? Or maybe (this one has happened to most of us) you have casually leaned back in your chair at the bar and your elbow has slipped off the armrest - making you look far more pissed than you actually are.

Don't fret if any of the above - or all - have happened to you. You'll feel much better about yourself when I tell you that, tonight, I forgot to duck when the tube doors closed and nearly got my head stuck.

I have no excuse. There is a warning announcement telling everyone that the doors are about to close. They even beep very loudly before they close. On top of this, the platform attendent even barked 'mind the doors', before my forehead and the sliding door introduced themselves to each over.

An older women next to me gave me a patronising smile. A guy opposite me just smirked into his newspaper - while I gingerly rubbed the red welt between my ears. Let's face it. We all suffer from embarassing mishaps....just the number of witnesses vary.

Timber!

It's very still outside, but this is the quite before the storm. Apparantly, authorities are warning us that there will be 80 mph winds tomorrow - and maybe even some snow. Around here, even the slightest breeze seems to knock over a few trees every week, so it could be quite exciting over the next 24 hours......unless you are a large organic tree like thing.

No! Not the hair....

There were two of them....gay hairdressers in a Brighton salon, debating on how to tackle the tricky EMO cut that my son Mika had requested. Apparantly, an inverted style like this was a difficult challenge and now they were arguing over who was best equiped to take on the job.

I was already in the chair and the young girl was making an improportinate amount of fuss over my hair, considering the rating of difficulty in a straight trim. I glanced at Mika's reflection in the mirror. He was embarrassed by all the attention and looked a little self-conscious, but was dealing with the situation well.

His friend, Marcus, was in the chair next to him. Both of them looked a treat with towells, hair clips and combs sticking out at all angles.....I'll have to ask them if they went to get their nails done after the hairdresser.

We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience this has caused to your travel plans...

It took me three hours to get home last night. No, I didn't have the wobbly boot on, nor did I get hopelessly lost. A train broke down at Wandsworth Common (yes just one) and the entire southern and south-eastern rail networks were thrown into chaos.

I had just put down my beer in the bar above the main concourse at Victoria Station when the large timetable board above the ticket gates began to rattle loudly - then there was silence - apart from the sound of jaws dropping. Every train was cancelled or delayed......a clearly nervous voice came onto the PA system to 'sincerely apologise for the inconvenience this caused to our travel plans' - as two thousand commuters looked for burning stakes and contemplated looting the station.

I had no alternative but to order a second beer and consider my options. After some time staring at the timetable board I decided to make my way down to the platforms. Suddenly there was an announcement over the PA and several hundred people charged the ticket gates. The train at platform 17 was leaving for Bognor Regis. It was nowhere near where I wanted to go, but it was going to pass through East Croydon.

There were soooo many people squeezed into that train that I now know what it feels to 'spoon' with a another man. The doors opened at East Croydon and we poured out onto the platform....it was now bucketing down with rain.

Surely it can't get worse, I thought to myself. 'The 19:45 service to East Grinstead service has been delayed by approximately 49 minutes', moaned the voice over the PA. 'We sincerely apologise for any inconvenience this may cause to your travel plans'.

He didn't sound bloody sincere enough for my liking....

Calais to England.....or bust.

Dull, colourless and devoid of any significant cultural influence. No, I'm not describing the last James Blunt CD.....but the city of Calais. I know - I shouldn't be so judgemental. Afterall, anyone basing their opinion of Australia on a day trip to Engadine would not be very complimentary either (I think I may have offended two, maybe three seperate demographics in one paragraph).

The highlight of my trip was the return leg of the Euro Tunnel train when all the toilets, except one right at the back of the train, broke. I'd been frantically searching each carraige for the facilities, when I spotted an official looking chap in a yellow reflector vest walking quickly towards me.

'Are there any toilets working on the train?', I asked him.
'They're all broken this end of the train - there might be one down the back', he replied.

I followed him through the electric doors. After four carraiges we'd picked up an entourage and by the time we got to the last carraige we'd formed a pack of about a dozen desperate passengers in need of relief.

'Don't worry, we're nearly there', said our leader. He seemed to know his way around and we were grateful for his direction. At last we found what we were looking for - a toilet in full working order. I was right behind him when we reached the door and I was expecting him to move aside and let me in, but he just strode into the toilet and locked the door behind him.

Turns out he didn't work for Euro Tunnel. He was a bike rider....I hadn't noticed the helmet he was carrying....I thought he looked a little nervous with all of us following him.

What a merchant banker...

I must not have read the terms and conditions of my first class EuroStar ticket properly. Apparantly, you are supposed to act like a dickhead.

'Yes trade', he sighed like he was talking to an imbecile on the other end of the telephone.
'I'm a trader. It's what I do', he snorted through his nose.
'Yah, yah.....yah', he continued. (I think he was trying to say 'yes', but his arrogance kept getting in the way).

'Yah, yah, yah'...he was now nodding a lot.

I turned away and tried to ignore him. At least the drinks trolley was on its way down the aisle - I could hear the comforting clink of the bottles in the distance.

'Yah, yah....yah, he droned on. (was he actually having a conversation - or still wanking?)

'Would you like a drink sir?', asked the stewardess.

'Fuck off. Can't you see that I'm on the phone', he barked at her.

'Listen to me', he sneered down the telephone, as the stewardess turned to me and asked for my drinks order. I shrugged my shoulders and glanced at the trader across the aisle. She just rolled her eyes and smiled.

'I want the money in liquid assets or a cash equivilant', he announced loud enough for someone a few seats away to peer over the top of his FT and look down his nose.

I think the person on the other end of the telephone must have hung up on him, because just as my glass of red wine turned up the trader put down his telephone with a sullen look on his face.

'Scotch on the rocks', he mumbled to the stewardess. She smiled at him. It was a smile of revenge...

Three espresso and a baguette...a corporate guide to Paris

I was onto my third espresso in a little office just off the Champs Elysees, but the caffeine hadn't kicked in yet. We had arrived on the first EuroStar out of Waterloo that morning and I could still get a faint whiff of Lamb Rogan Josh from my suit - we'd spent the previous night in a hotel on the Embankment (actually most of the night was spent in an Indian restaurant opposite the Tower of London).

This was my first trip into Paris in over 20 years. Last time I had visited, it was strictly for reasons of leisure. This time around I was sitting around a large boardroom table discussing business and sharing baguettes with three Frenchmen, two of my British colleagues and a couple of executives from Amsterdam.

I am not one to stereotype nationalities, but after galancing around the room....I couldn't help myself. While our colleagues from the low country, dressed sharply in crisp white collared shirts and grey pin striped suits, methodically ploughed through the agenda - our Latin hosts wore black turtle-neck tops, fashionable trousers and puffed on conspiciously heavy cigerettes.

My British colleagues were reserved and serious....with stiff upper lips and the faint smell of curry. God knows what they thought of the strange, unshaven Australian who asked for milk with his coffee?

Ouch!

This is me in full retreat after having had my goggles rattled by a bright orange paintball. By this stage of the evening I had perfected several techniques of surrendering and had adopted the role of 'slow moving target' in our team......an often neglected, but very important position.