The Long Way Home...

I knew things were serious when I rounded the corner and headed east along Fleet Street, only to be stopped by a policeman armed with chequered tape and a stern look on his face. I'd left the office earlier, when the second car bomb was discovered, but only made it as far as the Blue Anchor. My 'fleeing' work colleagues insisted on buying me a birthday drink.

My plan was to walk to London Bridge and get the first train heading south, but after and hour and ten minutes I'd only reached the first set of traffic lights around the corner from the office. Faced with a cordain of chequered blue and white tape, I was going to have to find a creative route to London Bridge - or head back to the pub. I stood there for a few moments to consider my options and decided it would be best to arrive home late....not late and pissed.

I opted for the path of least resistance and weaved my way through Middle Temple and joined a long queue of corporate refugees - who appear to have all had the same idea - trudging along the River Thames. With wailing sirens fading in the background, I crossed at Vauxhall Bridge and made my way through the narrow little lanes in Southwark until I finally reached the railway station.

With the current alert status in London classified as 'Severe', the 20 minute trek to London Bridge might end up being my regular way home...

Welcome home...

I peered down the queue that eventually led to the Passport Control Desk at Stanstead Airport. In the distance, if I squinted, I could see grim little officials grinding through passenger documentation. It was 11:30pm and judging by their demeanour, they weren't getting paid overtime.

When we eventually arrived at the head of the queue a bitter looking librarian with foreboding features and abrupt manner looked down the length of her nose at our collection of mutli-national passports and rolled her eyes at the offending documents.

'Where is your paperwork', she launched into an interrogation. I felt like telling her that she was looking at it, but I could tell she was in no mood for banter. I offered up our letter from the home office that confirmed that we weren't illegal immigrants, fundamentalists, criminals....or French.

'No. I need to see your documentation', she barked at me. Virginnia took this as a signal to question her intelligence. 'If you don't have the correct documentation I won't let you in', responded the bitter one.

The Passport controller was in stark contrast to the jolly fat German official that joked with my children and waved us goodbye at Schoneveld airport. She tutted at us and scanned the length of the line behind us - the message was clear. She was threatening to send us to the end of the queue....and another hour to consider our position.

'I'm exercising my rights as a....', Virginnia tested the waters with a full frontal assault. 'I hope you are not telling me how to do my job m'aam', retorted the ogre behind the counter. It was a Mexican stand-off as my wife and the passport controller stared each other down. I tried to defuse the situation by apologising. They both turned and stared at me with that 'F#ck off' look.

We eventually cleared passport control, but Virginnia wanted to give her some customer feedback......full credit to her.

'Can I have your name please....'

'Why do you want my name?'

'It's for my documentation...'

Oh Deer...

'Mmmm, I think I'll try the venison goulash', I told the waitress. 'Und ein gross Berliner Pils, Danke'. Virginnia and I had entered a cold war of our own, so I decided I would enjoy a very large beer on the last day of our trip to Berlin.

'Daddy, what's venison?, inquired my daughter Larisa. We were in a little restaurant just off the River Spree in the old part of what used to be East Berlin. I had a sudden pang of guilt. Only last week I was feeding carrots to deer in the Knole with her.

'It's a special German meat', I paused. 'Dear...' While I hadn't lied - technically....I did feel bad. I chewed quickly on my venison goulash, and changed the subject.

Only for sheep...

I stood on the railway station platform, in the very same spot that I have stood every morning for the past year. I stepped onto the same carriage that I have stepped onto, everytime I have stepped off the same platform, from the same spot I have stood.......you get the idea.

As I sat in the second seat from the door on the shady side of the train (as I always try to), I realised that I am a creature of habit. I peered around the carriage and all the tired faces that stared back at me were familiar. Had I really been on this train so many times that I could recognise my fellow travellers?

We were all part of the same flock of migrating corporate sheep. I have made a mental note to join the herd in the second last carriage tomorrow morning - I may even sit on the sunny side of the train...

Life in the fast lane (part 2)...

Sitting on the High Street, Camberwell, in a greasy spoon cafe with three irratated children and police sirens blaring in the background was probably the more pleasant part of the day. I'd spent the previous three hours in heavy traffic, in a slow grind from South Croydon to Highgate - the return journey wasn't much better.

Next year, I think we'll do something else, rather than go for a 'pleasant Father's Day countryside drive'...

If only it were as easy to get your life together as it is to assemble an IKEA wall unit...

Thank you for choosing to purchase a life. Inside this box, you will find all the components required to lead a fulfilling existence (tools required). First check to ensure that you have all the materials:

One Hollow, Worthless, Human Carcass
A Healthy Dose of Blind Optimism
Extended Credit Facilities
General Good Health
Life Partner (optional - does not fit all models)
A Specific Purpose for Being
AA Battery

Step 1:
Grasp Hollow, Worthless, Human Carcass by the throat and force it mercilessly to its knees.

Step 2:
Throttle the carcass until it is drained of all cynicism.

Step 3:
Connect a Healthy Dose of Blind Optimism with General Good Health and insert into carcass (suppositories supplied)

Step 4:
Finally program the unit with a Purpose for Being and furnish with Extended Credit Facilities (can be replaced with a life partner)

Step 5:
Insert AA Batteries

Dear valued client

Further to your recent voicemail message, I am writing to inform you that we are unable to credit the invoice in dispute. Furthermore, I must regretfully decline your request to roll up and insert the document in question up my arse.

While I appreciate your frustration relating to this outstanding matter I am, due to current work commitments, unable to fu#k off. However, as a gesture of goodwill, I will re-issue your invoice, with a 15% surcharge, and place your account into collection.

Once again, let me sincerely apologise for introducing you to reality. You are a valued client of ours and over the years we have established an honest and transparent business relationship....so you won't mind me telling you that I think you are a cock.

Yours sincerely
Account Director

Corporate lunch...

I was offsite today, for a strategy session, with a number of deep thinking corporate types. Around midday I was feeling a little hungry, so I asked a colleague of mine where I could buy some lunch. She told me (in all seriousness) that the shop across the road did 'bespoke sandwich solutions'.

I have a little less respect for her now...

Not the outdoors type...

My son Mika went to summer camp with his school today.....I miss him already. I remember the first camp I ever went to. I won't humiliate myself by telling you how long ago it was, but I can tell you that I was wearing flares and tight fitting polyester body shirt.

Some of you may have gathered from my previous blog entries that I'm not exactly the 'outdoors type', but I must admit that I did benefit from the experience. No - it didn't make a man of me. I returned home the same insecure, snivelling 'big girls blouse' that left apprehensively seven days earlier.

However, I was far more grateful for the small comforts in life and food that appeared on my plate rather than from the bottom of a pond, or from inside some hole in the ground. I think my dad may have even missed me...

Life in the fast lane...

I had Ben's Audi convertable over the weekend. I was going to take it for a drive onto mainland Europe, but I think he would have noticed a few thousand miles on the clock, so I settled for a cruise around nearby Kent and a bit of posing on the Caterham High Street.

A flash sports car does make me feel a little younger and more handsome. I could almost feel the air whistling through what is left of my hair, as I diligently maintained the correct speed limit on the M23.

'Will you put your foot down you old fart', barked my wife at me.....instantly ruining any preconceptions I may have about to have had about my station in life.

I managed to maintain the correct 10 to 2 hand formation on the contoured steering wheel, as I gently eased my foot off the accelerator to reduce our speed by a couple of miles an hour....just to annoy her.

Ring, Ring.....I'm a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World...

The mobile telephone has come a long way since the 1980s. I remember a mate of mine, Ben, turned up at East Croydon train station carrying what looked suspisciously like a car battery with a home telephone attached to it.....he'd get shot nowadays as a suspected terrorist (I know it's off the subject, but it's amazing what you could take onto a train with you back then). Calling it a mobile telephone was a bit misleading. You couldn't fit it into the glovebox of your Ford Escort, let alone the breast pocket of your frilly, New Romantic polyester jacket...but, once you raised the antenna, cranked up the battery and sprayed everyone with radiation you were making a statement.....you were an individual.

In the 1990s someone's mobile would ring and we'd all reach into our Boss suits or draw the offending piece from our custom-made leather holsters - like some sort of synchronised street theatre - because we couldn't distinguish between the ringtone of our telephone and that of our fellow 'merchant bankers'.....the aim of our individualism was to fit in with the crowd.

In the 2000s the personal ringtone seemed like the ideal solution! Now you could customise your ringtone to match your personality.....unfortunately, when someone calls you on a crowded train and your telephone bursts into a ear-splitting, polyphonic rendition of Barbie Girl it also reveals your poor taste in music, general lack of self esteem and complete lack of self awareness.

You are an individual.....you are the only one in the carraige that is a tosser.