Dreams Really Do Come True

HM the Queen Alighting From Royal Carriage

“Hey, look, there’s the Queen,” I said to Julian as we walked down the path to Horse Guards Parade.  

Julian is Rob’s cousin from a family line rediscovered.  He is Rob’s mother’s generation and Rob had invited him down to London to enjoy the pomp and ceremony of Trooping the Colour for the Queen’s 90^th Birthday celebrations.

Julian looked up from adjusting his suit and looked around. 

I pointed to the open carriage not a hundred feet away.  “There.  In the carriage, she’s wearing lime green!”

He looked again and seemed almost interested.  I knew exactly how he felt.  I was living my dream.

A Tale of the NHS

The waiting room on my second attempt.

"We have one less number to wait," the chubby woman with a barber haircut and slightly German accent said as she nodded to the floor below the ticket dispenser.  She was advising the couple who had just sat down and were wondering aloud how long they were going to have to wait holding the No. 89.  No. 85 was on the being-served screen and No. 87 was on the floor next to the water cooler.

Once the advice from the woman sunk in, the very tall African man stood and put one long leg over the coffee table and then the next, bent over, picked up the stray ticket and returned to his mate, ticket in his beak - I mean hand.  She was an aged rocker - lamb skin lined leather jacket, similar hat, big sunglasses and heavily made up.  She giggled and thanked him in her slightly Spanish accent as they nestled into their little love nest of chairs between me and the slightly German woman.  It was all a bit sickening given their age.

But, they were chuffed now - one number less to wait.  Unfortunately for me, I held No. 88 and was now three in the queue rather than two.  After I had sat down, I had seen No. 87 on the floor.  My view was there was no point picking it up as it would only take them a few seconds to realise and skip over it.  Oh, well, my mistake.  It wasn't like I had a lot to do that day since I had set the day aside for my first experience with the medical side of Britain's National Health Service (NHS).

A Tale of Resurrection

America In London

I'm dead.  I don't feel dead.  And, while I'm getting up there in years, I don't think I look dead either.  The usual signs like lack of a heart beat, pale skin, bloating, and hideous odours just aren't there.  Ok, well, maybe a little bloating, but you get that sometimes.  It alone doesn't mean you're dead!

According to Citibank, though, I died about three years ago and they reported as much to US credit agencies.  Being a huge multi-national bank, of course, they couldn't be wrong.  Could they?

I discovered my death when Rob and I tried to open a bank account back in the US after that horror of a bank, HSBC America, closed our account on a whim.  We contacted the bank branch that my family has been with for the past 35 years.  They were happy to do it all by email and we sent them the details.  A return email stated that while they were happy to open an account for Rob, their credit agency, Experian, said I was dead.  So, I could not be on the account.  And, so the saga began.

The bank told me I had to straighten things out with Experian and also get a letter from the Social Security Administration saying that my Social Security number was not "deceased".  A 35 year relationship obviously means nothing when the computer says, "No".

Where Has October Gone?

Autumn in London's St James's Park

It's Halloween and I was thinking today as I was walking through St James's Park on the way to a shop that I haven't written a thing since mid-September.  Then to drive home the point, I just checked emails and an avid reader had sent an email to say that he was disappointed that I hadn't written anything for six weeks.  Ok, so, it was a friend actually, but good to know some people are checking in.

To tide over my one adoring fan, here's a quickie.  Let's call it the Tale of the Odeon:

One of our visitors wanted to go and see Skyfall on Monday.  I've been out of the movie habit for a few years now, but conceded.  Since we haven't been to a movie since we arrived in London, I couldn't even think of where  a cinema was.  So, Rob asked around the office and I got on the web to figure out the where and when.  It's not as easy as you'd think when you don't know how it all works locally.

The office advice conflicted with the web advice, but eventually I settled on the 1:30 showing at the Odeon at Leicester Square.  We hopped a bus and then walked a little ways to the cinema.  The plan was buy tickets, have lunch then watch the movie.

It was about noon when we got there.  We joined the ticket queue with about twenty people ahead of us.  More joined behind us and there was one woman in the ticket booth.  Progress was slow.  As one neared the booth one started learning the drill.  It went, "I'd like x tickets for the one thirty."  The woman would say, "There's only the side and behind the screen," as she pointed to the theatre layout on the window.  Then the purchaser took their time choosing the best lousy seat.

When Bad Customer Service Goes Good

I just had one of those extremely frustrating yet eventually satisfying experiences with British customer service.

We're off to 'the Continent' for a holiday soon.  So, today was the day I planned to tick "Get Euros" off my list.

My last experience buying "Travel Money", as it's called, taught me that online is better than in bank.   That time, I'd checked the rate online at my bank's website and then toddled off to my local branch to buy my Euros.  On my way home, after doing some calculations in my head - never been good at maths - it hit me I'd paid a lot more than the online rate.  After some investigation, I learned that using the person at the bank costs a lot, and I stress A LOT more than ordering online where the bank incurs the added cost of home delivery.  Hard to believe, I know, but there you go.

Being an old dog that can learn new tricks, this morning, I went back to the website.  I filled in the order form, which takes some time.  Then went through the confirmations only to have the site tell me the order could not be processed.  I tried again.  Same response.  The computer said, "No."

I called the helpline offered.  After entering my birthday, sort code and account number, I couldn't remember the telephone banking PIN we chose 5 months ago and never used.  After a few wrong guesses, the pressure was really on because the computerised voice told me if I hung up I'd be locked out and then went back to demanding the correct numbers.  Eventually, I got it right and reached a human.

A Down And Out Tale - Maybe

Yap, yap, yap. Yap, yap, yap.  "What the hell is that dog on about," I thought as we walked along the Boulevard de Poisonnere on a cool Paris Sunday morning.  The yapping continued. Then, outside of a corner café the mutt came into view.  It was small, about the size of a wharf rat.  It looked like one too, but perhaps with taller legs.  It was on all fours with its tail curled up over its back and was standing next to a disheveled middle aged woman seated on a dirty blanket spread on the footpath.  She was begging.  The woman was trying to quiet the little bugger, but he was not giving in.  He kept on yapping and as we reached them, out of the corner of his eye we made eye contact.  There was no doubt he was on a mission.

The attempt to quiet with words had not work.  So, the woman finally capitulated and from under her bag very reluctantly pulled out some food.  It wasn't just food scraps either, it was packaged dog food - gold plastic base with a silver foil top.  At least, I assumed it was dog food, I guess it could easily have been French pate given the packaging.  Let's just say it didn't look like the cheapest brand of pet food.  Anyway, as soon as Yappy saw that he was getting his way, he shut up and stared, waiting for her to open his breakfast.

We carried on walking and soon came across a man with another little mutt.  They were begging too.  They both looked down on their luck.  This little mutt was lying down with head on legs stretched out in front of her, sad eyes looking up.  There were three bowls.  One for money, one with water and one empty, presumably the food bowl.

A pattern was developing.  We arrived at L'Opera and as we crossed Boulevard de Capucines, there was yet another man with a little dog.  This little nipper was camel coloured and was eating a meal of bread and water - I kid you not.

A Walk on London's Wild Side

Richmond Park with Central London Not Far Away

Saturday was a brilliant London day.  So, we decided to take full advantage of this Summer rarity by going on one of our long walks.  We hopped a train at Waterloo Station and in half an hour we were in Hampton Wick to start our trek.  The plan was to check out a few antique shops in Hampton Wick and Kingston and then head off to explore, Richmond Park.

The train ride went smoothly, no delays, but the antiquing?  Well, it started out a bit slow.  The first stop planned was the Hampton Wick Antique Centre.  I'd found it online and had checked their hours on their website.  I hate turning up and finding shops closed.  Their site assured me that they were open on Saturday and that they were conveniently located just across the street from the station.  Unfortunately, you just can't believe everything you read on the net these days, because not only were they closed, they were out of business.  The place was empty, but their website was still operating.

Anyway, we marched off down the street to the next shop on the list with me bitching about how unprofessional some antique shop owners can be.  The next shop was on the way to the bridge that would take us over the Thames to Kingston.  I was really glad it was on the way, because that shop was closed too.  Interesting things in the windows but locked up tight.  Things were not going well and I was feeling a real rant coming on.

The Curious Case of the Missing Story

Every morning one of the first things we do is check the New Zealand media to see what's been happening at home while we were sleeping.  Yesterday morning we woke to the following headline in the New Zealand media, Man Dives Off Tower Bridge In Taxi Protest.

The headline caught my eye for several reasons: drama, danger - that bridge is bloody high, protest and I had just blogged a bit on the Olympic Lanes which were at the centre of the protest.  I see the London cabbies' point about the lanes.  London traffic is bad enough without the Olympics, but with the Games and then the removal of access to entire lanes, driving in London will be a nightmare.  How are paying taxi passengers going to take it when they get charged for sitting in traffic with a wide open lane just next to them?  A £130 fine isn't going to make it worth the cabbie breaking the law to satisfy the angry passenger.  Is it?

Anyway, I thought, well, this is a story to watch through the day.  What a way to draw attention to your cause?  He must have been arrested.  There will be comment on rights and wrongs.  What did the Mayor think?   After all, the bridge was chosen because the Mayor's offices are near by.

I turned the BBC Breakfast progamme on.  Nothing was being reported.  I bought the Guardian and the Telegraph later in the morning and nothing in them either.  Now, the protest happened in the late afternoon the previous day.  There was plenty of time to do the story.  I wondered what was up?  Did the New Zealand media get it wrong?

I turned to Google.  The story was being reported around he world, but not in London or the UK. There were a few UK minor stories about the protest and maybe a couple of blog posts mentioning the jumper at the time it happened.  The only UK based media with a full story was the BBC website, but that was not being broadcast widely, if at all, domestically.

It was all very odd.  I mean this is the land of scandalous reporting of minor details of people's personal lives and the land of reporters who hacked the phone of a murdered teenager for a story, but a man jumps off a bridge in protest and nothing - zilch, nada.

I get that you don't want to encourage the let's-try-this-at-home brigade by showing it over and over.  The guy was damn lucky to have survived.  Clearly, the tide was high, he pick the right place and he was very lucky on his timing.  But why NO reporting?  The rest of the world thought it newsworthy. Was it because he lived?  Or, is there some law, code or agreement that stops the media from reporting such matters?  And, if there is, what other stories have the British media agreed not to tell us?

Terror On The Tube

It happened at Acton Town.   I was on a Piccadilly Line train on my way to Heathrow to meet a friend who was arriving early evening on Friday.  I'd left town early to avoid the rush hour crowds, because as I have mentioned before I hate crowds.  My strategy proved successful.  I was in a carriage with only fifteen or twenty people on board.

The train came to a stop in the station.  A couple of passengers got off.  And, then he boarded.  I think it was something about the way he looked around, eyeing up a number of seats before choosing one.  What ever it was, my fellow passengers' faces showed that they were nervous.  You could tell they were hoping he wouldn't sit next to them.  I knew I didn't want him next to me.

He chose a seat opposite me and next to the only woman in that half of the carriage.  The doors closed  and the looks on everyone's faces transformed.  They weren't nervous anymore.  Terror now filled the train.

The man opened up...

The British Can Be So Polite

Rob and I went to a fundraising event at the National Portrait Gallery yesterday evening.  It's a wonderful gallery and the Jubilee exhibition using paintings and other images to trace the Queen's 50 years on the throne is fab.  The fact that we were viewing it all with champagne in hand didn't hurt either.

While the drinks were fun, the canapes weren't enough.  We decided to go to dinner.  Rob had been to a nearby pub that he thought was good.  He said it was a bit pricey, but why not?  So, off we went.  It was almost nine and the Angel & Crown was packed in the main pub room.  We decided to go upstairs to the dining rooms rather than fight the crowd.

We climbed the narrow stairs and looked into the first dining room.  It was empty except for a devout Jew doing his prayers.  Well, I assume he was devout.  I mean, after all, he was standing in an empty pub dining room at 9 pm on a Wednesday evening praying.

To Bike Or Not To Bike

Barclay Bikes for Hire

Everyone needs a bike.  They're a fantastic way to get around London.  At least that's what I've been told - fast, easy, avoid traffic jams, good exercise and environmentally friendly.  You'd be crazy not to have a bike.  And, loads of people do.

Rob's got one and he's keen to hit the road now that it has finally arrived from New Zealand.  The grand plan was that I was going to buy a bike and join him, but now I'm not so sure.

The Barclays Cycle Hire system in central London seemed to offer an ideal way to give biking a go.  And, every time we pass the numerous Barclays Cycle locations, I swear that the next time I see one, I'm going to try it out.  We've been here three months now and we've passed them a gazillion times.  And, the next time I see one...  

Basically, I think I value my life too much.  I just don't see how big red buses can safely share the same, often narrow, roads with people on bikes.   Sure, I have been on buses where the driver has slowed to a pedal when a woman on a bike's share of the road is just enough to make passing iffy.  And, I've seen a man on a bike, who pulled up between the curb and the back quarter of a bus stopped at a traffic light, signal the concerned driver that it was OK to proceed without knocking him off.  That kind of courtesy is reassuring, but still it can't be that way all the time.

Stripped London Bike: One Lock Just Isn't Enough

Then there are the bike thieves.  I'm beginning to think that if you want to be a victim of crime in London, your best bet is to buy a bike.

There's this guy who works across the road who each morning goes through a ritual of locking his bike to a pole.  First he chains the front wheel and frame to the pole.  Then he locks the back wheel to the frame. Next he wraps another chain around the handlebars and locks it tightly to the frame.  Finally, he pops the seat off and takes it with him.

At first, I thought it was overkill, but then I started to notice bikes with missing bits as we walked around town.  Occasionally, you come across one that is so badly stripped that it is abandoned leading to the local authorities tagging it for removal.  And, they do remove them in just 48 hours.

Add in the stories Londoners tell us about walking back to their bike to find it in the process of being stripped - naturally confrontation follows.  And, the friends who come to visit and ask to bring their bikes inside, because London streets are no place to leave a bike.

Then there's the rain.  We've had the wettest April and June on record and umbrella's don't work all that well on bikes.  Do they?

I don't mean to sound like I'm making excuses - no really.  I haven't totally given up on the idea of pedaling around London, but for now I think I'll stick to walking.  Rob will be disappointed.

What Is It With Banks These Days?

HSBC: The World's Local Bank, yeah, right!

This was going to be a tale of the warnings we received about dinosaur British banks, but the ever competitive Americans decided that they wanted to steal the focus.  While it isn't easy to open a simple bank account in the UK (more later), our recent experience with a US bank makes British banks look like the Starship Enterprise.  In fact, I'm beginning to think that unlike their British counterparts, US banks are truly hostile to foreigners and that includes, American citizens living abroad, like me.

When we were in Hong Kong on our way to London there was an HSBC ad running on TV there.  A little girl is selling lemonade from a stand on a residential street.  A Brazilian woman and her child come up to make a purchase.  The little entrepreneur points out she takes Brazilian Real.  The same ad runs here in the UK, but the mother and child are from Hong Kong and the little entrepreneur takes Hong Kong Dollars and even speaks Cantonese.  The ad likely runs in the US and other HSBC markets.  The ad finishes with the message that HSBC is "the World's local bank" and that they're interested in the little guy - or girl as the case may be.

Well, it's all a lie, at least where HSBC America is concerned - I don't want to taint all HSBC operations.  We had an HSBC account in the US since we lived there several years ago.  With family in the States, it made sense to keep it.  It makes gifting easier, saves exchange rate issues for travel home and with elderly parents - well you never know when you might need to move some money fast.

Our latest statement arrived at the end of May.  I opened it and to my surprise I found that we had a zero balance.  WHAT!?!  Identify theft?

God Save the Queen

Patriotism in Lambeth

Look.  I'm no royalist or at least I didn't used to be.  I was born American.  I was brought up with the slogans of the Revolution "No taxation without representation," "All men are created equal" (except for the gay ones) and the idea that God doesn't pick leaders, the people do - unless you're the Pope or a Republican Party candidate.  Always seems to be loopholes...

Becoming a New Zealander nudged me slightly to the royalist side, because Elizabeth II is the Queen of New Zealand.  So, you have to accept that, but there's not a lot of contact between the Monarchy and it's most distant realm.  To a degree, New Zealand has moved on.  New Zealand's not becoming a republic any time soon, but royal visits to New Zealand don't draw the crowds they once did.  And, I've never been one to stand for hours waiting for The Queen to drive by.

All that said, propaganda works.

Since Rob and I arrived in London, The Queen's Diamond Jubilee has been a hot topic.  The Queen's been in the news almost daily whether it's the launching of the Royal Barge, the closing of all the Thames bridges or her latest visit to this little town or that London suburb on her Jubilee tour.

Castles For My Mother

Kensington Palace Across the Round Pond

My Mother is coming to visit in a couple of weeks time and I've been trying to plan an itinerary.  It hasn't been easy, because she hadn't been providing much guidance on what she wants to do apart from see "where the Queen lives".  She is not a traveller.  She's seen a lot of the US, but she hasn't done a lot of overseas travel apart from New Zealand and Australia and a cruise or two in the Caribbean.  Although, if you ask her, she also counts her trip to Hawaii as an 'overseas' trip.

Don't get me wrong.  She's not one of those birther nut jobs who, against all evidence to the contrary, believe that President Obama was not born in the US, because he was born in Hawaii.  My Mother knows Hawaii is a US state.  But, you have to fly over the Pacific Ocean to get there.  So, it's overseas.  Isn't it?

Anyway, this trip will be her first trip over the Atlantic and finally this weekend I got a hint of what she wants to do.  She said she wanted to see the changing of the guard and visit a castle.  She's been consulting friends at her water aerobics class.  It wasn't much, but also knowing she likes gardens and the Buckingham Palace thing, it gave me a bit more to start with.  So, yesterday, I started looking at the options.

Rob suggested Hampton Court Palace which offers some wonderful gardens and a palace.  Kensington Palace and it's gardens was one I thought of.  And, since Will & Kate live there, she'll want to see Kensington.  By castle, though, I knew she wasn't thinking of palaces.  She was thinking huge stone walls, arrow loops, towers, drawbridges and moats.   So, I thought Tower of London and maybe something further a field like Arundel Castle - home of the Norfolks.  And, of course, there is Windsor.

London Wildlife: Bahama Pintail Ducks

These cute little creatures are Bahama Pintail ducks also know as White-Cheek Pintails for obvious reasons.  They are some of the lesser known feathered inhabitants of London's oldest Royal Park, St James's Park.  Those pesky Pelicans get all the attention.  So, I thought I'd give the little guys a plug.  These two were hanging out on the lake edge near the Inn The Park Cafe this morning.  

Bahama Pintails in St James's Park, London

Beating the Crowd at Borough Market

Tomatos Galore at Jubilee Market

"That's it!  Get me the hell out of here," I said to Rob. 

We had been for one of our long walks a few weekends back and had stumbled upon what we later learned was the Borough Market.  Rob loves to cook and I love to eat so in we went.  It was a Saturday morning and the market was packed with Londoners and plenty of tourists.  I hate crowds, not so much because I get claustrophobic, but because I hate people getting in my way.  I like to walk at my pace not the pace of the human cattle herd.  And, when that inevitable single human herd member totally oblivious to the rest of the herd around them stops in the narrow pathway to read a text, chat to a friend or read a map, my blood pressure spikes and I fear for their life.

We had already found it impossible to get anywhere near most of the stands to sample the goods.  A photo was impossible because a head was always popping into the picture.  I'd been using my arm like a crowbar to pry a path through and then that human cow did it.  She was 30 something, maybe Italian and right in front of me.  We were crammed in a narrow aisle between two opposing stands and a pillar and the next thing I knew, dead stop and the mobile in her hand comes up to her face.  A text had arrived!

Living My Antiques Dream

David Dickinson's Real Deal at Chiswick

I walked into reception and started looking around.  There was a sign pasted on the wall that warned that cameras were in operation and if you did not want to be filmed you should tell someone.  Hmm, what's that about?  I looked over some of the items in the cases and made my way to the door leading into the next room.

On that door there was another sign.  This one had a picture of a guy at one of the showcases in reception.  It asked if anyone knew this "thief".  I thought, I bet he's sorry he didn't ask not to be filmed.

There wasn't much in that room and it was kind of dark, so on to the next room I went.  And, there I discovered what the filming signs were about.  I heard his distinctive voice first and then I saw the well known face of UK antiques reality shows, David Dickinson.  They were filming Dickinson's Real Deal at the Chiswick Auctions today.

I've always had an interest in collecting things old and in particular things old with a story.  I'm always dragging Rob into antiques shops against his will.  I have even been known to take road trips just to visit shops.  I do those on my own, although I have been known to hijack parts of holidays with Rob.  But, oddly, I'd never been to a general auction even though most of British antique reality shows I'm somewhat addicted to like Cash in the Attic, Bargain Hunt and Dickinson's Real Deal always end up in an auction room.  Since arriving in London, my inadequacy in things auction has been reinforced by my discovery of Antiques Road Trip which has quickly become my favourite TV show.  It combines antique shops with travel through the British countryside and it too always ends up in auction rooms - heaven.

Hey! Where'd My Jelly Babies Go?

Mauro Perucchetti Jelly Baby Family Sculpture 

We went for a stroll this weekend - it hasn't rained in London for two days now. YAY!

Rob suggested we stop into Fortnum & Mason one of London's fabulous department stores.  It is wonderful to visit, but you need to be a bank owner to purchase anything.

Then it was on to New Bond Street.  As we ambled along the street looking in gallery windows, a flash of colour caught my eye.  I'd spied a miniature version of the Mauro Perucchetti sculpture I came across near Marble Arch a few weeks ago.  I had quickly fallen in love with those colourful giant Jelly Babies.  I love colourful glass and while these obviously aren't glass they looked the part.

The guard at the gallery door noticed my interest and motioned us in.  He may have seen a potential sale, but then that is probably why he was the guard rather than the manager.  Since we don't own a bank, I didn't think we would be taking my colourful little friends home.  Sure enough, one glance at the price and we were back on the street.

We moved on to Oxford Street and stopped into Selfridges another one of those fab London department stores.

Then, we carried along Oxford Street and when we reached the intersection at Marble Arch I started to cross.  From behind I heard, "Where are you going?"  Ah, yes, I forgot, I was in the lead.  I said since we ended up there I wanted to show him the Jelly Baby Family sculpture.

Jelly Babies & "Still Water" Horse Head Behind Buses

"Don't you want to have a look at the Dorchester," was his reply.

"No, not really," I said, thinking, "Why?"

"I want to show you the larger version of that sculpture we saw.  It's great!"

We continued across the road to the Marble Arch.  We walked toward the huge bronze horse head sculpture, which I also quite like.  Something wasn't quite right.  Over the top of the buses I could see a sculpture I didn't remember.  It looked Asian in design.  I could have sworn that was where the Jelly Babies were.  We carried on past the buses.  There was the fountain with a man in waders walking around cleaning it, just like the last time I was there.  But, no Jelly Babies.

What is that?  A guy with freaky hair on a horse with even freakier hair.  OMG, my Jelly Babies had been replaced by Genghis Khan!

Dashi Namdakov's Genghis Khan at Marble Arch London

I remembered the controversy weeks ago, when Khan was unveiled, but I hadn't realised that he had replaced my Jelly Babies.  Some had complained that Genghis Khan shouldn't have a statue because he was a murderer, ethnic cleanser and led a regime of genocide.

I dismissed it at the time as PC gone mad. Time and place, people.  I mean, let's face it, if the same standards were applied to some of the Kings, Queens, Generals and Clergy of the same era (and later) with statues around London, it would take years to banish them all.

That said and now that I know Mr Khan preformed a more recent act of ethnic cleansing by driving my Jelly Baby Family from their home, I'm inclined to agree that maybe he does need to go.

We Loved National Rail Until We Didn't

Southeastern Railway Train at Rye, Sussex 

Since we arrived in London, people have been telling us about how bad the London Underground, the Tube, and the National Rail services really are.  And, we kind of thought they were exaggerating.  I mean we've been here a month and have had no problems.  The Tube is a great way to get around although it does hinder your ability to get your bearings.  You pop up here and pop up there and don't ever really know how it all relates above ground.

On the rail side we had two really good experiences.  We went to Rye to investigate that East Sussex town's antiques and vintage scenes.  It was a great day out exploring Rye's picturesque streets and numerous shops.  The train trips there and back all went smoothly.

Weekend before last, we had another smooth trip to Walton-on-Thames.  We departed on time and arrived on time both ways.  The only hiccup was our decision to travel to Waterloo Station to catch a train we could have got at a station around the corner, but we're learning.

Then there was this past weekend.  Well, it didn't go so smoothly.

London Landmines

There I was, walking home from the gym this morning.  I had stopped at Sainsbury's to pick up a few things and was heading back to the flat when it happened.  I crossed the street, stepped on to the opposite footpath and - BAM! - it happened.

Cold and moist shot across the top of my Nike Frees, into my socks and up over the bottom of my jeans.  God damn it!  I had stepped on yet another London Landmine.  I just can't seem to avoid these nasty little surprises in the footpath.

You see, most London footpaths are paved with assorted materials like stones, tiles, or bricks.  They add character to this wonderful old city.  Unfortunately, though, it seems rain - and we've had floods of that - undermines some of them and water sits under them just waiting for an unsuspecting pedestrian like me to step on them.  Then, they explode with water, mud, muck and sometimes worse flying everywhere.

I was lucky today.  I only hit one loaded with water.  The first time one got me a few weeks back, mud shot out and all over the bottom of my shoes and trousers.  That was not a pretty sight.  Although, three young guys sitting on a bench outside the nearby college thought it was pretty funny.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much though, I'm lucky we aren't living in China where the pavement traps are a little more dramatic...