Room with a spew...

I was very tired when I finally got to the check-in counter at my hotel in Paris. So tired, that when I exited the lift on the 3rd floor I thought I'd somehow lapsed into sleep and was dreaming when I saw the state of the place.

The hallway to my room looked like the set of a crime thriller. I had suddenly been transport to a 1920's low-rent, low-life dump. The carpets were badly stained and shredded wallpaper was peeling from the walls.

My room was worse still. I was expecting CSI to burst in at any point, because it looked like the mattress to my bed had been murdered in a rather violent attack. I attempted to wedge open the window, but I couldn't budge it. There were no curtains on the bathroom window so I entertained the other guests with a quick shower before dressing beneath the only remaining lightbulb that worked and hurrying downstairs to meet my colleague downstairs in the lobby.

'Does your room look like a crackhouse', I asked Sam. We attempted to move or upgrade rooms, but were firmly told that the hotel was full - 'What!', I responded. 'Is there a drug dealers convention in town?'. For some reason they ignored me after that.

Bleary-eyed and exhausted I finally drifted off to sleep to the serenade of random thumps, bumps and faulty plumbing only to be woken earlier than planned by the vibrations and rumblings of the Metro train that apparantly ran directly below my hotel.

I will not be staying at the Mercure Hotel rue de Ponthieu again......ever.

The Office...

With the same efficiency and dedication to detail that has enabled the Home Office to incorrectly issue over 10,000 passports to illegal immigrants and known terrorists over the past 12 months - in addition to losing more than 3 passports a week - this world class organisation has managed to lose my family application for EEA status - again!

Just as I pondered whether there is in fact a more incompetent Government department to deal with, I received a letter from Inland Revenue.....the same department that lost my children's birth certificates, that paid me tax credits and then demanded them back - the same department that (apparantly) lost all records of my existance, but has now informed me that their records indicate that I may (they are not too sure) have paid too much tax between 2001 - 2005....even though I was neither living or working in the UK.

No doubt I will receive some sort of tax credit....and then a demand for its return 3 weeks later.

This Great Britain...

The English pub is a national institution. Nowhere else are the thoughts, feelings and aspirations of a nation better reflected than over a pint in a poorly lit, badly kept and oddly named local (no - the pub). Whether it is the Firthin Duck & Dog, the Cheshire Cheese or just the Cock - you will always learn more about this great nation in a pub, than you will watching TV or reading a book.

The three things I learnt at The George today were:

1. That the UK will be represented at Eurovision this year by a group called Scooch - they will apparantly sing a song about a gay aeroplane....or so the girl chatting to her friend at the next table said.

2. Apparantly if I remove the Sky satellite dish from my roof and wave it randomly in the air, I will pick up some 'wicked porn' from Eastern Europe - according to the drunken Chav playing the fruit machine with his mate.

3. The barmaid explains, with great patience, that my pint of Tanglefoot should look like swamp water and be served at room temperature - still doesn't explain the flavour.

Not that much of a surprise really - wine, women and song.

Shop till you drop...

There is a blackhole located just outside the Kentish town of Bean, in an old chalk quarry just off the M25 - it's called Bluewater Shopping Mall. My car became trapped in the gravitational pull of this life sapping vortex on Saturday, and before I could accelerate away we were parked in the outer reaches of its extensive car park and walking towards the entrance.

Once inside, we joined the other victims in a mind-numbing walk around the shops. Encased in marble and glass, with artificial lighting and plastic plants I soon lost all track of time and the will to live. I ended up wandering into a youth shop called Urban Kaos where a spotty little teenager, with more facial peircings than a pin cushion engaged me in conversation.

'Any big plans for today', inquired the pin cushion.

'Just shopping', I responded half heartedly.

'Yeah...nothing much else to do around here', continued my perferated pal. 'I used to think this place was great, but there is absolutely nothing to do around here!', he moaned.

'How long have you been here', I inquired.

'This is my second week', responded my despondant dartboard.

That was exactly 13 days and 22 hours longer than I could handle. I said goodbye, wished him luck and hurried back to my car.

Lost in translation...

My Australian accent must be softening. Very few people seem to be able to pick where I come from. In fact, I was talking to an Australian woman a couple of days ago and she thought I may have been from South Africa. I haven't purposely attempted to lose my accent, but you do tend to try and drop the upwards lilt at the end of every sentence - constant ribbing from work colleagues makes this a necessity.

Liam has adopted the local lingo with ease. He is constantly correcting my poor pronounciation and practices the art of village slang. If anything is bad or particularly corny he says it's 'pants' - at the moment most things seem to be 'pants'.

Mika is communicating entirely in MSN language with the rest of the family.

'What did you say?', I'd ask him.

'DW Dad', he'd respond.

'What?'

'DW Dad, G2G. BRB', he'd say as he wanders back upstairs.

We don't talk as much as we used to. Primarily because I can't understand a word he says nowadays.