I only see what I want to see.


Diary of a Hedon

I guess this marks the beginning of my documented adventure across the pond.  And I’ll tell you WH-at, jolly old England is definitely not as fun as it could be when I’m stuck with my mother and grandfather at Pyghtle Cottage.  When I describe a regime headed by an authoritarian human version of Dobby, I swear I’m not exaggerating (no offense, Pop pops).  I will say though, that as I commence this literary experiment, I sit in a tiny pub called Russel’s Inn on the high street of Winslow “Ancient Market Town”, as it’s the only damn place in the radius of a mile with an internet connection.  Fear not however, as this will soon change once I hit Berlin in 10 days.

There is something to be said for being whisked away from technology in the middle of the countryside for a certain amount of time.  I’ve certainly picked up old hobbies I forgot I had – namely, playing the piano, picking my nose and flicking the boogers.  The slugs and spiders here are freakin’ huge and I take great pleasure in salting and running away from them.

Everything here is so compact.  It makes a vertically challenged individual such as myself feel like a force to be reckoned with.  The bull in the china shop analogy could just be a statement of my clumsiness however, because that certainly isn’t a new addition.  I have this theory though… North America is only plagued by morbid obesity because we have the room for them!  How accommodating of us.

The people in England, as I’ve seen so far, are definitely a little hard on the eyes but when you run into the elusive Adonis, Jesus love me!, they could turn a nun nymphomaniac.  Good thing I’m not a nun…

Left for London for a few days there and we’ll say the hustle and bustle of a big city was something I found I was craving.  Although only there for a short time, I went down to Camden Town with the “skin and blister” (sister).  Camden High Road, known also as Camden Lock, is full of alternative shops with strange planes and legs coming out the sides of buildings, old rockers, and, dare I say it, stressed out tourists.  It was crawling like an ant hill and as hot and sticky as a gay bath house.  I loved it.  We ate lunch in this hidden square much akin to Market Square in Victoria, BC.  It was a maze of ethnic food shacks giving out free samples.  That’s how you travel cheap!  Samples.

We stopped for a pitcher of Pimms and lemonade to quench our thirsts and limber our limbs before hitting up Camden Market – a tight labyrinth of shop stands with anything from novelty shirts and nicknacks to Goth dresses and corsets to that eclectic hippie shit you think of when some new age hipster bows and says “Namaste”.
Watch for the pickpockets, hustlers and price hecklers.  “Oi, beautiful lady!  For you I give you great price; 20% off!”

The street, (save for the tourists, but fuck those Canadians anyway), was littered with cyber and stream punks, and even the famed O.A.Ps.  No no, not old age pensioners.  Old age punks!  I sneakily took a snap shot of the backside of one.  It’s the tight jeans.  They get my mojo humming every time.  Good thing I forgot to pack a second set of undies for that trip.  Yep, that’s me – clean as a whistle, sharp as a thistle!

For the next little stint, I’m back at Casa Del Boredom mentally and physically training for the sensory/alcoholic overload I’m about to embark on once I fly the nest and land face first in the country of sausage and cheap beer.  Double entendre?  I certainly hope so.

Until then, I advise anyone about to come this way to bring fiber.  The water constipates you.  Makes you unreasonably randy too but I won’t get into that in detail.  Instead, I’ll offer you recommendation – the toilets here are low flush so this means watch out for the walloping “Splosh!” and the back splash.

Ta ta for now and stay tuned for my adventuring on the Emerald Isle next week.  For those of you who don’t know me, Julia + Ireland = near death experience and strategic chundering.  Stayed tuned to see if I live to tell the tale.

Mad as an Oxford fox,