The Lair

crazed and probably drunken motorbicycle rider rear-ending your shiny car.

Yeah, so it has been an eventful yesterday – my luggage got misplaced somewhere in the bowels of Heathrow airport, so I have now added to that particular statistic. I am less annoyed about this than I should be, I suppose. The law of averages was going to catch up sooner or later – and I prefer such demonstrations of statistical probability (or divine indifference, if you’re that way inclined) to happen with innocuous and replaceable things like clothes.

Of course, my USB cable for the camera was also in that bag and I need that back or there will be hell to pay.

I have also seen, firsthand, that even having a large logistics department does not make a corporation immune from screwups – my ticket was cancelled because no one thought to reconfirm. Fortunately, a previous gig had left me with a frequent flyer membership for this particular airline. I was then in a state to observe that I got the first seat off the standby list; while there were other people milling around waiting for a ticket. Then again, someone in the airline may have made a call that I looked too dangerous to be allowed to roam the country a day longer – and I should be put on the plane toot sweet, as it were. Either is entirely possible.

Fly back (interesting flights on both legs); feel hungry, go out for dinner and have a motorbike guy welcome me back to Colombo. Scratches on bumper (*sob* shiny paintwork ruined, dammit). So this is what? the third time that some random idiot has taken a violent vehicular fancy to the nether regions of my transport. I suspect a trend. At least two of those times, I was stationary. Do I have some sort of flashing neon sign that says “hit me?!” What happened to the bumper stickers that urged fellow drivers to honk supporting their favourite cause?

I like to complain. This is well known. I can be the crankiest, most depressing person ever. My glass is always stolen; never mind half full or empty. I can be the black hole of negativity into which all things positive are sucked in, never to return (much like the dryer and my socks, I think).

So, for a change – instead of bitching about the weather, the allegedly rough neighbourhood, the depressing environs of this town and sundry other causes for complaint – let me share what I like about this country.

In no particular order –

• Malt vinegar – on chips (fish are optional, since I find that approximately 1-2% of fish varieties give me horrendous allergic reactions)
• Sunday roast. Preferably with nice and crisp Yorkshire puddings that sop up the gravy
• The whole pub culture in this country. No, seriously. I don’t know of many places where it is acceptable to nurse a few beers and watch a widescreen television intently … which brings me to
• Football, Six Nations rugby and various other sporting events, most of which the Beeb screens for free
• The sense of humour. Acerbic wit is so very under-rated, but among people of a certain age and educational background, it’s practically a sine-qua-non.

• Decent cider. No, this does not include Strongbow. It never will.

So what if most of those things are food and drink? That’s just how I roll.

It seems not. I go into the local Aldi when I land and even the shelf configuration is almost exactly as I recall from last year. Never mind that I shopped in a supermarket nearly 300 miles away – within a few minutes, I was on shopping autopilot – throwing things into the cart without even thinking about it too much.

Something I try to do in a new and strange town if I have time – intentionally get lost. Given that my sense of direction is all sorts of weird, this isn’t difficult. What happens next is a walk of a few hours while I try to remember place names and street names and find my way home.

Sometimes this works. Of course, it is cheating to consult strangers or hop into taxis. Given that the town I’m in is smaller than York, navigation wasn’t too difficult. A castle looming in the hillside above the town also helps.

Now, if only the town wasn’t inhabited by chavvish teens after dark…