Disney or Dioramas

The last day. What to do? Should I go to the Hong Kong History Museum and learn about the history, culture and future of Hong Kong or should I go to Disneyland and satisfy my curiosity about how you do the most American place in the world with a Chinese twist?

The decision was pretty easy. The museum has free entry on Wednesday and Disney costs HK450. Also going to a theme park on your own is probably one of the saddest, and possibly creepiest, things you can do.

So to the museum. I was surprisingly the only european in sight. Obviously most tourists come here to shop. In fact the museum is barely mentioned in the Hong Kong Tourist Board paperwork. It's all about shopping and eating. It was also pretty far from the rest of the tourist circuit in Kowloon near the University. This meant I had the chance to catch the bus through the Harbour tunnel. Hong Kong seems to manage with a two lane tunnel quite happily so why Perth needed to turn our's into three lanes is beyond me. Oh that's right, if you use public transport in Perth you'll be instantly murdered, so you have to drive your own car everywhere. Will we never learn?

The museum is good, and I'd recommend a visit, especially if you don't really know the history of Hong Kong. Also if you love a diorama. There's loads and of surprisingly good quality. I mean the humans look actually human and most of the props look like they might actually be real. No enough bad wigs and stuck on facial hair for my liking though.

I already knew that the British pretty much started the trouble that lead to the hand over of Hong Kong. You know, the British government selling opium to the Chinese to get them hooked so the balance of trade would be a bit more level. It was pretty much the only thing the Chinese wanted to buy that the British produced. A bit like Bentleys now. Even after the Chinese handed over the land and the British had been in charge for ages they still couldn't give up the drug dealing lifestyle. In the 1900s, when the population in the UK started to get very anti-drug and booze (and anti-fun for poor people in general) the Hong Kong Government stopped issuing opium selling licences and started selling direct to the addicts.  It seems strange to call a government hotline to get hold of your dealer somehow. Perhaps we need to find a new opium to help with the current balance of trade deficit. Actually I think Australia already has with iron ore and gas.

It still seems weird to see the old pictures of Hong Kong when it really looked like a little version of England. Red post boxes, monarchy on the money and double decker busses. I even discovered that the city on Hong Kong Island that we call "Hong Kong" is actually a city called Victoria. I don't think it ever stuck though. The museum is huge and pretty much covers every piece of history from neolithic times to hong kong's industrial peak (it all started by making and exporting plastic flowers and wigs apparently).  There are numerous passing mentions of riots all through the displays but no real explanation until you get to the newer galleries. There you find lots of pictures of students waving Mao's Little Red Book in front of buildings with the Queens Cipher on them. A bit of an odd image really. I'm assuming these newer galleries are paid for by the Chinese as the captions all talk about "local students demanding their freedom from oppression" and "local people supporting their freedom fighting comrades". I suspect that the wording was once quite different. Although it's sort of true as the British only introduced elections after they knew the hand over was going to happen. If I was a cynic I'd think that was just to make life difficult for the Chinese when they turned up. Crafty. I'm quite surprised Britain gave Hong Kong back at all. It was only the New Territories that the lease was up on and it seems strange that Thatcher would fight a war to keep the Falklands as a colony but was happy to hand over Hong Kong to a communist government with seemingly little discussion or fight. Just proves what a mad, inconsistent nut job she was.

After the museum I went to get my lunch. I was craving veggies for some reason, Chinese food seems to be pretty meat dependent, so I ordered some vegetable noodle soup. It was the worst noodle soup I've ever eaten. I must have found the only Chinese chef in the world who can't cook noodles. In fact it so put me off eating local that I went for pizza that evening to try and wash away the memory of such a revolting lunch.

I walked back from the museum along the Avenue Of The Stars, Hong Kong cinemas version of the Hollywood Walk Of Fame, with hand prints set in cement of Hong Kong cinemas biggest stars. It's amazing how many of the actors I'd heard of. Well two actually, Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, but there was hardly anyone taking photos of them, they were crowded around names I'd never heard of. I always find it amazing that there is a whole world of incredibly famous people out there who, because of a lack of cultural cross over in the entertainment business, I will never hear of. It's like those hugely famous K-popstars and African-American movie stars from the forties and fifties who only appeared in segregated movies (see Herb Jeffries, although he had an even more complicated cross over going on). I did notice one star who has maybe got a pretty clever scheme going on:

I suspect there is a George Cloney and Angelina Jolly somewhere too.*

I had a wander back to the ferry terminal and was pretty surprised to see the Falun Gong out and about with their posters being rude about the Chinese Communist Party and the persecution they face. They had some pretty gruesome posters up, lots of injured followers and nasty beatings, way worse than the stuff they hand out in Perth. It would appear that Hong Kong really does have it's freedoms guaranteed under the agreement with the British at handover. The Chinese guaranteed to let Hong Kong carry on as before for fifty years apparently, then they can do what they want. 

The increasing incorporation with the mainland is sort of happening already. I noticed that the stamps and official stuff now say 'Hong Kong, China' on them. Last time I was here in 2002 they said 'Hong Kong, SAR'. Small but significant maybe? Hong Kong also gets the 1st October as a holiday. It's National Day in China (you know, glorious victory by the people over repression etc. All that rhetoric that used to be so popular in the 60s and 70s but you never hear now the cold war is over) so they get it in Hong Kong too. Although to be honest they don't seem particularly keen on the whole idea. Nothing was shut, nobody was flying flags and there just seemed to be a few streets closed off for the kids to sing songs and the dragon dancers to have a bit of a go. It's almost as if the Hong Kong people don't really care that much for the PRC. 

In fact, from what I can tell, the mainlanders, as they are know here, drive the locals nuts. It must be the only place I've ever been where there are ruder and louder tourists than the Germans and Americans. Very odd. You can see the staff in Starbucks getting more and more frustrated trying to explain what's going on to the huge groups of mainland Chinese that arrive at regular intervals. There were particularly loads around this week because of the national holiday. I knew they were from the mainland as one guy was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a money on the toilet on it. The upside of the masses of Chinese tourist is that the touts only seem to go for them and leave you alone if you look vaguely european. I suspect that's just an indication of who really has all the money to splash around now but it's an odd experience to watch tailors and tour bus guides harassing people who look like locals. Especially in Asia where you can pretty much not walk down the street without being hassled normally.

So that was my last day, I spent thursday getting to, and hanging around at, the airport. I asked the hotel to get me a taxi to the Airport Express as it was quite a long walk with a heavy bag, but they told me it would be quicker to walk as it was rush hour. This turned out to be bollocks. By the time I got to the nearest station I had seen hardly a car about. It does teach me that I need to buy a bag with wheels though, much as I hate people dragging those bloody things behind them in busy cities it does save your arm coming out of it's socket. There may be lots of my wheel-less luggage for sale on Gumtree pretty soon. The train to the airport is fantastic as you can check your bags in at the city station and travel luggage free even though I was convinced that I would never see my bag again (I did, it was off the conveyer pretty quick in Perth in fact).

My flight back was uneventful apart from my running around to get my duty free in the 40 minutes between flights. I needn't have worried as my flight ended up being delayed anyway, not by much but enough to get the gin in. There were also celebrities on my flight. The Perth Scorchers! No I had no idea who they are either till I asked Beau today. I sort of recognised one of them and it turns out it was Justin Langer, a sportsman I've actually heard of. There was a lot of autograph hunting going on on the plane, which must be a nightmare for the hunted as you really can't escape on a plane, although the impassible curtain between business and economy offered them some protection after the seatbelt sign was turned off.

So I'm back, laundry done, house cleaned, cat retrieved. He's still being friendly for some reason although he does seem to have a cold. There's a whole lot of kitty sneezing going on. I'm not sure why I pay hundreds of dollars a year to get him immunised when he comes home with a cold from every cat hotel he stays in. He's lost weight this time so it might be better termed a cat 'spa'.

Time to book the next holiday I guess.

*It would appear that I really don't know anything about world music and cinema. Mr Cheung is really famous. Just blame my asian cinema blind spot/cultural imperialism for assuming he's just got a really crafty agent.  Jacky Cheung has sold over 60,000,000 records and had a prolific acting career. I must try and remove my blinkers sometimes. Or at least check Wikipedia a bit more often.

The little things

It's the little differences that let you know when you are not at home. For example I decided I needed to get money from the ATM yesterday. I always manage to bring almost enough money when I travel but never quite enough. This usually means on the last day I have to withdraw money and decide whether I should take out a little, and pay a proportionally large transaction fee, or take out a lot and then have to change it back to Aussie dollars, and loose money anyway. Usually I end up doing the latter and just keeping the funny money in case I ever go back. This is why have a collection of US$, €, SG$ and Vietnamese dong at home. Although I kept the last for humour value really.


Anyhow I go to the ATM yesterday and try and withdraw. It's always a little nerve wracking sticking your only piece of plastic into a foreign hole in the wall but I'm pretty used to it. Only this time the machine takes my card, I put I the number and wait. And wait. And wait. There's lots of whirring and then it asks for my PIN again. I follow instructions, generally speaking, so second attempt. Still much thinking then my card is spat out and a receipt which says "Unauthorised attempt. Contact your bank"! This is not good when you really need to eat and get taxis. What the hell, I wonder, is happening. So I do what every sensible person does and stick the card back in the machine and have another go.


It's only at this point that I look at the ATM keypad and realise it's not like any ATM I've ever used before, the numbers are in a different order. This of course is no problem if you know your PIN, but if, like me, you have no idea what it is and you just have the pattern of buttons to be pressed in your subconscious it is a bit of a problem. Also as soon as I try to think of the number it just goes from my head. Am I the only one like this? I really could never be tortured for my passwords as I pretty much can only remember them when I'm not trying to remember them. I suspect it's something to do with left handers and their pesky visual, artistic memory and pattern recognition brains (that's a real thing by the way, I'm not being a smart arse). So I leave empty handed for now.






I needed the money as I was off to the Ozone bar at the top of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. It's the highest bar in the world and at the top of the big building opposite my hotel room. I knew I'd need money as any "Tallest/Highest In The World" is always an expensive proposition. I've mentioned my almost irresistible need to go up tall buildings and the almost certain disappointment that follows before. However this was a bit different. For a start there would be gin. Had to find the place first of course which, as it's Hong Kong, is on top of a shopping centre. Never before have I had trouble finding a 1600 foot tall building, but this was a nightmare. I had to ask three different people and it involved four escalators and three lifts.


It is a beautiful hotel, white gloved flunkies on every door and lift button. The reception is on the 109th floor and it's not a place for the vertiginous. The bar is higher still on the 113th floor and you get there in a leather and chrome lined lift. It sounds tacky because it is pretty tacky. I was worried they wouldn't let me in wearing jeans and T-shirt but I needn't have worried. The only restriction is thongs apparently. The view was amazing, the gin was excellent and the service was oddly average. And it wasn't too pricy. My G&T was about (deep breath) $23 Aussie dollars. Including almonds. I've actually paid almost that much at Helvetica in Perth and the view is nothing like this:






I'd thoroughly recommend a visit if you're here. It was suggested to me by a work-mate and now I'll be suggesting it to everyone.


It's also a great place to jog the memory as after the first drink I suddenly remembered my PIN, so I won't have to drag my luggage all the way to the airport after all.

Dropping with the shopping

Yesterday was my shopping day. I know, I'm a grown man, I should HATE shopping. I should be standing outside, or sitting on those little chairs outside a dressing room, waiting for "the wife". As we all know from the tv ads, women shop and men can't work washing machines. Well I'm no stereotype and I like to shop for stuff. As long as I know what I want, I'm not too good at just shopping as a pastime, which makes a trip to Hong Kong, or any Asian megatropolis, a challenge. Mainly because the shops I want to specifically go to are spread around four or five different huge shopping centres, also because most of the shops here are of the high-end variety as I mentioned before.


In fact there are some amazing shops here that I'm not sure I can work out how they make any money. For example this one:






Yes dear reader, that's a Gucci store for kids. Just kids. I know I'd love my five year old running around in $2500 couture at free dress day. I mean who buys this stuff? I understand that conspicuous consumption is all the go but Gucci for kids? My understanding is that children grow out of things quite rapidly. Either there are some amazing op-shops in Hong Kong or someone is getting the fanciest hand-me-downs ever. I used to get my mum's friends son's hand-me-downs. They lived in London so I was thrilled to get stuff that was unlikely to ever appear in deepest, darkest Gloucestershire, but I never got any Gucci. I did have the first pair of red Kickers in the primary school though. There must be a market however as this particular mall had an entire floor of children's couture. Armani, Dior etc. A whole floor! It's a different world for the rich.


I did manage to find the normal shopping areas though and got the stuff I wanted. We'll almost got the stuff I wanted. The usual issues with Asian sizes arose in a few places. Large here is not like large where I come from. And buying XL really brings down your day. Jeans too; "actually they only go up to a 30" waist". I'm "big 'n' tall" here (which is retail code for freakishly tall or hugely fat).


The other surprise is that quite a lot of stuff here is cheaper in Perth right now. How this happens is beyond me seeing as nearly everything for sale comes from just across the border in Shenzen. It pays to check the prices for the stuff you want before you get here. Of course that only applies to things you can buy in Australia AND buy here. Which is where the differences show as there is so much choice here and brands we never get in Oz. Rough guide: shoes are much cheaper, cologne is a little cheaper, some fancy European brands are the same price and glitzy stuff is more expensive. Don't say I didn't warn you. Oh and always pay in the local currency with your credit card. I ticked the wrong option once and it has cost me.


Because most of yesterday was spent at the shops I've not much to report so here are some observations that I don't know where else to put.


It seems that the population of Asia are keeping the Crocs shoe business alive. They love 'em here. And not just kids, grown adult are wearing them. There's even warnings on the escalators to keep your Crocs away from the edge so you don't get sucked into the machinery.


Elderly Chinese ladies seem to occupy some alternate space time continuum. When you follow them along the pavement they seem to be going really slowly but should you try to walk past them you find it's impossible as they are moving too quickly.


The Chinese flag on the buildings is always significantly bigger than the Hong Kong flag. To be honest that's the only indication I've seen that shows who is really in charge. Even the police cars still look like British ones. Hardly a hammer or star in sight (I can't spell the crop harvesting tool so it'll have to be star).


There are a lot of pet dogs here and they are all huge. Where the hell do they fit them in the tiny Hong Kong apartments?


There are a lot of cars here but you never see them parked on the street. Where the hell are they all kept? I've seen two car parks so far (both of which were cheaper than the ones in Perth!). It's a miracle of organisation.


When you buy a sandwich here you only get half a sandwich. This may go some way to explaining the lack of 32" waist trousers.


You can spot the mainland Chinese by the clothes they wear. Not dour or communist just very, very odd. I thought there was some sort of dress up day on for the local children but was told that it's just how the mainlanders dress their kids. A bit like they did it in total darkness from a random selection of colours, fabrics and logos. And odd English phrases, for example "love habitat rabbit!". Maybe that's just lost in the translation.


I found out where they dry the fish:





That's the main road outside the hotel. Not exactly of the banks of the mighty Yangtze. The bus exhaust must add a certain piquancy. Oh and those were squid once upon a time.


So today I'm off to the museums (or Disneyland, I haven't decided) and then to the highest bar in the word if they'll let me in wearing jeans and T-shirt. It's in a spectacularly fancy hotel so they may not.


In the meantime if you want a jar of dried caterpillars just ask as I know where the shop is now.

Water not so wise

It's a good job it rains a lot here. If it didn't I'd have almost emptied a reservoir on my own yesterday with all the showers I took. Not because of the spitting but because of the weather. The humidity is killing me, it's at about 100%. I say about as when it's not actually raining it's only 85%. However it's raining a lot and I was coding a lot of walking around. I don't think I could ever live I the tropics full time as the constantly moist everything would do my head in, this is a place where you have to let your clothes dry BEFORE you put them in the laundry bag. People must adapt though as all the locals walk around without a hint of sweat or discomfort, and even the expats seems to be able to wear suits and ties and not instantly look like a damp, bedraggled mess. I say all that but it could just be me as I still see middle aged British tourists with their cardies and jumpers on. They must have been the ones that built the Empire.


Speaking of which I was sightseeing yesterday, trying to find the history and past of this place. But to save you the trouble of doing the same I'll just tell you: there isn't any. The whole city has been built up and knocked down and built up again that there seems to be only about four original buildings left. It's a stark difference to Singapore where quite a lot of trouble has been taken to preserve the original city. Although like Singapore the heritage that is left has all been turned into fancy shopping centres. In fact there are so many 'luxury' shops (ie parts of the LVMH empire) that you find yourself being given directions using them; "straight on to Gucci, turn left at Armani and it's next to the third Dior on the right". Seriously. They do the same in the UK but using pubs. What I don't understand is why these superb rands are still considered exclusive, and can still charge such high prices, when they seem to be ubiquitous. Surely they are just glittery versions of any integer chain store now? Like Marks and Spencer with more glitter. And plastic surgery.



There's obviously plenty of money here to support these shops as I've never seen so many Bentleys and Ferraris in one city in my life. It must be a nightmare trying to thread these massive, expensive baubles between the trams, busses and hand carts. I assume you just take any scratches out of the chauffeurs wages. Most of these über-barges have got two license plates, which I thought meant they were government apparatchik vehicles, which says a lot about my cynicism regarding the glorious peoples revolution. Actually it just means they are vehicles that cross into China a lot. So I suppose that still means they are communists in half million dollar cars. It's a funny old world.



Back to the sightseeing. I did find an old colonial school (closed to the public) now used as the Office Of The Department For The Preservation Of Historic Monuments. They can't exactly be rushed off their feet as the only other old building I found was the church next door. It was a good old High Victorian Evangelical C of E. Apparently they still do the full immersion business which I always find odd for the Anglicans. Fundamental and vicar just doesn't go together in my head somehow. Especially with names like this:




The name of an empire builder if I ever saw one. That's what finished the British Empire. Nothing to dosing self determination, it was when we stopped naming our children Hubert Octavius Spink and started calling them Kevin. No Kevin will ever invade someone else's territory and claim it for the Queen. Kevins can't even get elected at the moment. Where ever you go in the world there are forgotten brass plaques with unforgettable names on them. Just goes to show the transitory nature of politics.



I gave up on the sightseeing, mainly because of the lack of sights but also because of the rain and lack of umbrella. Everyone else had one, and this being Asia, they all have their pointy bits at European eye level. I should have brought my safety specs. I avoided getting totally soaked by riding on the trams. These are great and seem to be completely unchanged from the fifties. Wooden benches, rattling and very, very narrow and low ceilinged. If you are over 5'11" I'd avoid them. Also if you have big feet. I lost count of how many times I've had to apologise for someone tripping over my clodhoppers on trams and busses here. It's not as though the Hong Kongers are particularly little, lots are taller than me, they just seem to be able to take up less space than the hulking Europeans around them. Must be something to do with such high density living.




I also have become a little obsessed with riding back and forth across the harbour on the Star Ferry. It's much easier on the MTR but infinetly less romantic. That's not a word you'll hear from me often, but in some places there just seems to be a right way to get somewhere. Here's it's the ferry across the harbour, in Perth is sitting in the traffic on the freeway. Both are totally evocative of the place you are in. I think HK wins that particular comparison though, even when it was as rough as it was yesterday. It's a bit odd that eh ferry even still exists as there is a tunnel for the trains and for the cars and a bridge as well. Obviously they only keep hold of practical heritage here.



Last night I went back across the harbour to see The Symphony Of Lights. This is "the Guinness world record holders for largest permanently installed light show in the world!". It's a record that's ripe for breaking. I'm not saying it was lame, but it certainly wasn't as impressive as the HK Tourist Board wants you to think. Half a dozen lasers and some searchlights is not what I think of with the phrase "SYMPHONY OF LIGHT". To be honest I was expecting something a little more Australia Day fireworks. Or even something a bit Albert Speer-y. Still it was free so can't complain. This is the symphony in action:




Pretty much that. With lasers.
I did find more evidence to support my theory that all cultural and art centres have to be modelled on Cold War bunkers though. The one here is just the same, although Hong Kong's also has a touch of the municipal bus station about it too. I think it's the brown tiles.




Today I'm shopping so obviously the sun is shining. Perfect weather to spend inside a shopping mall or two.
At least it should cut down on the showering.

Off To The Islands

"Oh he's blogging again, must be another bloody holiday".
Yes, exactly. Another bloody holiday. Or actually now I come to I think of it the first this year. Or actually the first since I got back from the UK in February so for normal people that's not a huge gap between off-shore galavants but seeing as the only reason I really go to work is so I can go on holiday, for me, it's a long time.
So I'm in Hong Kong. That's Islands, just not the tropical, beachy sort. I got here yesterday after another ridiculous red eye flight from Perth at 1am. Why I keep booking these is beyond me. Especially when I can't afford to travel in the pointy end of the 'plane. Take it from me, a 1am flight in economy is a very different proposition to a 1am flight in business. I know that makes me sound like a dick but it was hell. I felt I'd been taken hostage in a badly decorated, rattling, 1990's motorway service station. Why do Boeing insist on having beige for everything? It's not calming when you're crammed in with 250 people in varying states of excitement and misery. I'm not sure why but there always seems to be a weird mix of passengers on the red-eye flights too. This flight was mostly full of overseas students going back to Asia for their uni-break, a large contingency of Tom Price SHS students heading to Nepal (to get away from a third world experience) and an Indonesian chap dressed head to toe in Fremantle Dockers purple. I suspect he was nearer the misery end of the spectrum.
I had a stop in the Worlds Favourite Airport™ on the way. If there is a single defining difference between Perth International and Changi it's the toilets. In as much as the ones at Changi are clean and working and not disgusting and filthy and overflowing and wet on the floor. Vile. Mind you no one washes their hands at either place so that's pretty much a constant as far as I can tell. All those who mock my little bottle of hand cleaner can just think about that for a moment. (#pooponeverythingeverywhere). I had chance to ponder yet again (that is "get very annoyed with") the airport security weirdness. If I had a sweatshirt on I'd leave it on, but if I've got a sweat shirt on that has a zip I have to take it off? Are zippers putting $300,000,000 airliners in jeopardy now? And shoes, some people have to take them off, some don't. Now I know for sure that my boots are metal free but I had to take them off. Apparently it's the "thickness of the soles". But my sneakers also have thick soles and I've never been asked to take them off? All in all it's theatre worthy of a Tony.
Arrival in Honkers (as us old colonials know it) was very easy, luckily I wasn't carrying any powdered milk or infant formula or have a high temperature as that would have kept me out. It appears that every time there is a situation like toxic milk or SARS the communist government in China introduces a new rule then nobody bothers repealing them again. It's going to get very Byzantine in a few more years I suspect. The hotel is nice, just a cheapo Ibis, but that's the view from my window up there, which is pretty good for A$130 really. The only problem is it's located in the Wing Lok Street area, otherwise known as Dried Fish Street. And as soon as you leave the MTR station you know why. Dried squid and huge bags of fish do not go well with heat and humidity. But at least I can find my way back when Apple Maps sends me in the wrong direction by following my nose.
Yesterday was Sunday and the day all the maids get a day off. I have never seen so many Phillipino women covering every surface of every park eating take away food. KFC seems to be the grease of choice but I suspect I'd need a good feed after tending house for a pittance all week. It also seem to keep the churches in business as you couldn't get near them.




Honk Kong is amazing and I can just about remember my way around from last time but it's amazing how dependent I've become on having a permanent data source for my phone. The first time I fired up Google maps and it wouldn't tell me where to go was stupidly surprising. I'm actually having to go and find a paper map as the walking tour app I've got needs a data connection. It's not helping that free wifi seems to be getting more and more difficult to find all over the world. Once I'm out of range of the hotel I'm pretty much stuffed. It seems to be able to access the free InsertChainEatingEstablishment networks you need to have a local phone number now. I know, I know. First world problems. But here it really is a problem as it's such a three dimensional city. All built on hills and in layers. You can see the gigantic building you want but can't get to it as there are three valleys, two raised walkways and a freeway in between. I'm getting the hang of it but it's tricky. Although I must look reasonably competent as I've been asked direction three times by tourists. I suspect that once I don the bag for today's exploring that'll stop as nothing scream "tourist" more that a daypack in the city.
So that'll do for now. It's time to leave the Starbucks (I know, sorry) and the dog sitting under the table next to me (different standards here) and leave you with some pics of why this place is very different to home but with the odd jarring reminder of who used to make the decisions.

Chest pain, cannulae and cupcakes. Oh my!

"How was your weekend?" I'm asked.

"Good thanks, apart from the hospital" I reply.

Yep, I was in hospital on Thursday and Friday and it was a very new experience for me, it's not often I'm a patient and I'm not sure I like it.

It all started at work on Thursday morning. I was seeing patients as normal when I suddenly had a weird pain in my chest, sort of sharp and heavy at the same time. "Indigestion" I thought, "but it's odd that my left arm feels a bit weird too".

So I did what all men do and ignored it until it went away. Which it did, for a while, and then came back.

"Ok, I'm sure it's nothing, I'll have a cup of tea and finish the patients for the morning and carry on with my day".

Problem was it kept coming back, especially while I was walking around at lunchtime. So I made a sensible decision for once and headed off to the Doc to check it out.

Now I'm not sure if you've ever tried to get a GP appointment in Perth at short notice but it's pretty tricky. So I drive to the doctors and walk in to be told there's really no appointments 'till tomorrow.

But, dear reader, I've discovered something. As soon as you say "oh that's a pity as I've been getting chest pains" the receptionist manages to squeeze you straight in! So the lovely Dr Cheong sees me, listens to my story and takes a quick ECG, which shows nothing odd.

That's good right?

Well apparently if you're a man of a certain age with chest pain it's best to get some blood tests to check it out. Now they can't do that at the GP as they have to be spaced out so it was suggested I go to the hospital and get them done there. Seems easy, pop into the Emergency Dept, get the bloods, go home.

Well not quite. I drive to Royal Perth Hospital, park in their eyewateringly expensive car park and wander into the ED. Again the magic words "chest pain" get me whisked past the queue and straight into the cubicle.

Suddenly I'm in a world of bustle, monitors, wires, needles, aspirin and questions. The same questions over and over and over again;

What's the pain like? When did it start? Describe it? What were you doing at the time? Any family history of heart conditions? Have you had this before? What is the pain like now, on a scale of 1 to 10, where 10 is the worst pain imaginable?

Now this last one was a bit embarrassing because by 1pm, when I was sitting on the trolley covered in wires, the pain had gone. Completely. So I was feeling a bit of a fraud to be honest. All these highly skilled and qualified people fussing over me when I actually felt ok. But I was assured that it's ok, we needed to get to the bottom of the pain.

So tests begin. Blood test number one: Troponin levels. This sees if there is any increase in this protein which indicates heart muscle damage. Result? "hmmm, not completely clear. We'll call that inconclusive'.

Ok, slightly worried now. But it's ok, the test gets repeated 12 hours after the initial pain. Which means 9.30 at night so you'll be waiting around 'till then. In the meantime I needed a hot MIBI scan and a chest X-ray.

The X-ray was easy, didn't even move, they just zapped me on the trolley, although I'm not overly sure about their radiation protection. Just shouting "X-ray in eleven" doesn't have quite the same effect as a lead lined cubicle. I'm not working there all day though so I'm not overly bothered.

The MIBI scan is a nuclear medicine test, you get injected with a tracer and then a big Star Trekkish machine scans you to see if you've got a heart. It's all a bit hilarious as the technician arrives with a lead box contains a lead lined syringe holding the radioactive tracer. He puts on lead lined gloves and proceeds to inject the damn stuff into you. Still it's good to know his dose is kept to a minimum. The scan happened an hour later and showed... Well it was "inconclusive". Great. It showed a possible area of muscle damage near the atrium. So guess what? You need more tests. We'll wheel you back to ED and they'll explain.

So I'm back in the ED waiting. I can however report that, contrary to all I've read in comics, getting injected with radiation does not give you super powers. Unless you count the ability to have radioactive pee for a day a superpower.

The further tests mean I need to go up to the AAU or acute assessment unit in English to be, well, assessed acutely funnily enough.

Now this is the first time I've ever been in a hospital ward as a patient and the repeating yourself was beginning to get a bit frustrating. Same questions, different doctors and nurses over and over again. Still at least all the staff are friendly, which considering what they have to put up with is a miracle. So I'm on the ward, still in my work clothes and boots. I'd resisted taking my shoes off case they thought I was settling in for a while. I was also keeping them on as the floor left a bit to be desired, squashed peas seeming to be making up quite a lot of the pattern. Nice view from the window though.

Now I'm waiting around. Finally I get to see the consultant at 8:30 who orders the final blood test. I thought I'd better ask what happens now? Do I come back tomorrow for the results?

His response? "Oh no, you're mine now. You're not going anywhere. You need a contrast CT of your coronary arteries and that can't be done till tomorrow. Sleep well!"

Oh my god! I'm an inpatient. And the cat needed feeding. And I have no toothbrush or pjs or clean pants. Thank your own personal gods for my wonderful friends. One phone call and AU was whizzing across Perth collecting stuff and feeding animals. He did a wonderful thing. Especially as I know how difficult it is to find the entrance to the RPH carpark. He found me eventually and I think he was a bit surprised that I looked ok. I think my live tweeting of the day so far had made everyone think I was at deaths door.

Its time now to settle down to a good nights rest in the hospital ward. Ready for my scan at 9am the next day. Except rest, especially sleep, is hard to come by in a public hospital ward. What with the bed, which may have been Guantanamo Bay surplus, the coughing and snoring patients and the clerking in of new arrivals at 1am on the ward (questioned by nurses who could get part time jobs with the CIA considering how they get so much info out of barely functioning people). Sleep was elusive to say the least. It was a very long night.

When morning broke I had a new neighbour. An aboriginal chap handcuffed to the bed accompanied by two corrections officers. Which is not something I often wake up to. He was amazingly relaxed for a man in his position and appeared to sleep for the next 36 hours solidly. Probably the first clean sheets the poor bugger had been in for a while.

Breakfast was interesting, consisting of a random selection of packets of stuff. A bit like the worst airline meal you can imagine. All the food was pretty terrible. Not just generally bad but unhealthy too. White bread, sugary drinks, jelly. It's like every hospital patient is a child being given treats for being good.

Anyhow 9am comes and goes and there's no sign of a scan coming my way but for good measure I'm given some big doses of beta blockers to slow my heart rate. Which normally would be fine but someone had been told that I needed a second cannula put in. Now I'm not good with needles. I'm fine sticking them in other people but not so keen on being at the pointy end, which I warned the Doc when he started. So he put in the needle and we were chatting then I was in a vividly coloured fantastic world full of noise and light. Shortly after I was waking up surrounded by the crash team feeling very sweaty, light headed and slightly foolish. Fainting, I don't recommend it. Especially in hospital as that will follow me to my grave now; "Watch out, he's a fainter". Oh they say vaso-vagal attack to make you feel better but I know what they're thinking.

Another Doc was called and I promised not to do it again and they had another go. Or actually five other goes. In different veins. All to no avail. He gave up in the end which are the sweetest words you can hear when there's a man with a needle in the vicinity.

Eventually at about 1pm I got wheeled to radiography, was given more beta blockers and asked to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Ok, now I'm getting bit cross. When they come to wheel me in my heart rate is so high that I'm warned they may not be able to do it. So now I'm really cross, and really pumping up the heart rate. This is my only complaint with public health, the waiting your turn. Bloody road accidents getting all the preferential treatment. Luckily when it was my turn the radiologist decided that some IV beta blockers were the go ("watch out, he's a fainter") and they worked. Having a 25 BPM heart rate is a very odd sensation. Like zen must feel if you can get there. I'm trundled into the CT scanner (who knew they made so much noise?) and prepared to be filled with iodine contrast. After a final call of "watch out, he's a fainter" it's pumped in.

What a totally odd sensation. Like a travelling hot flush from head to toe. Not unpleasant exactly just very weird, and a bit like your wet your pants. I was warned but it was still strange. Apparently lots of people vomit after but I thought it was quite fun. Listen, I'd been in for a long time and was glad for any excitement. The radiologist came back in and announced I had "pristine coronary arteries", I could go back to the ward and would be home that evening. Never have I been so grateful. I even apologised for getting cross.

So back on the ward I get back into my jeans and t-shirt, put on the boots and waited for discharge. Oh and I get this:

Cupcakes; another health food.

About 5:30 a sweet little junior Doc turns up to tell me there appears to be a blockage in one artery and I'll have to be seen by cardiology. And as it's after five it won't be until tomorrow. Which means another night inside.

I have never been more depressed and surprised at the same time. I told her I couldn't stay any longer. I asked if it could be done as a outpatient. I pleaded. I got annoyed. And she said exactly what she should have "well it's up to you but...*shrug*".

What to do? Do I self discharge myself against medical advice? Should I stay and ask my friends to run around for me again? What. To. Do?

I thought for a while, got some sage advice from AU and asked to speak to the Doc again. The Registrar arrived this time. The conversation was as follows:

Doc "So good news, it's all clear and you're off home"

Me "What?!"

"All clear, nothing wrong"

"But the other Doc..."

"What? Oh, yeah, another consultant had a look and decided it was ok. But just, you know, check with your GP in a week or so to make sure they got it right and wrote the right thing down"

"So I can go home?"

"Yep, how many days do you want on your sick certificate?"

And I said just the two I've been in here thanks. 'Cos I'm an idiot.

So that was it, I packed up and headed to the car with trepidation. Two days in a Wilson car park. If I didn't have chest pains before I may after plugging my ticket in. Amazingly it was $38. Which was even better news than the cardiologist report.

Anyway I'm home, I still don't know what caused the pain, I'm bruised, I'm tired and I just need to follow up with the GP. But I'm ok. I can't stress that enough to all the people who tweeted, texted and called when I was in the joint. It's good to know the urban family (and digital relations) are all there for you.

Finally I just want to say again how great the staff at Royal Perth Hospital were. They get a bad press do public health workers in Western Australia but everyone treated me with respect and kindness. The only real issue is the lack of money spent on the places they work in. The hospital is a dump and the tendered out services (food and cleaning) leave a lot to be desired. Which doesn't bode well for the new Liberal governments plans for private companies running public hospitals.

One thought. I think large hospitals must be a bit like working on a battleship: most of the time people are just milling around, trying to find things to do, getting on each others nerves. But as soon as something needs to be done they all smoothly slip into action, no fuss, no shouting, perfect team work. It's amazing.

I've just realised I may have made that connection as I read A LOT of 'Hunt For Red October' while lying on various beds and trollies and there's only so much boat and submarine action you can take before your brain turns to mush.

Home from home

So I'm on my way home. From being at home. It gets a bit confusing when you leave home (in Australia, where I live) to go home (where my parents live and where I grew up) and then have to return home after you've been home. It's one of those things that people who haven't migrated don't really think about and some people, like my twitter friend @ramnaslady, have been doing it with their families for a long time. It never gets easier when you have to wander through the magic door at Heathrow into the "security area", even though twitter and Skype do mean you can actually see your loved ones now. It's not quite teleportation but it does reduce the distances a little. Unless you need to give them a lift anywhere, then you're just stuck on the opposite side of the planet.

For once the trip to Heathrow wasn't filled with drama, the car didn't break down, no one was sick and it didn't snow. Well actually it did snow but for once the Forest of Dean District Council actually managed to salt the roads and keep the traffic flowing. However because my father hates driving on the M4 (understandably) we had to go over the Cotswolds to Oxford. It's usually a beautiful drive through woods and valleys but with the snow it was stunning. All ice draped trees and rolling snowy meadows. And people driving at 20 miles per hour as they are petrified of any sort of weather. This may be wise at night in icy conditions, but during the day on well salted roads it's just a pain in the arse.

The trip through Heathrow was spectacularly quick with absolutely no passengers about. I'd recommend 18:15 flights as they seem to be really quiet. I mean the 'plane was full but the check in area and public undressing areas were eerily quiet. Sorry I mean 'security areas'. I'm getting more and more annoyed with the security theatre at airports. What exactly does it achieve, making old ladies take off their shoes and having small children rubbed down by a security guard who is paid so little, and has such a poor level of education, that they are ripe for both bribery and brainwashing. It's not as if the people running the security are even police personnel. They're employed by ISS. This is the company who usually contracts for cleaning hospitals and schools. And we know how great they are at that.

The flight was uneventful apart for the strange obsession got about 5 hours in that we were going to have an incident of some description. I don't know what or why but it got in my head and only went with the help of pharmaceuticals. I thought I was getting so good at flying with out my anti-anxiety drugs but pride comes before a fall as the old saying goes. Actually that's not a great turn of phrase in the circumstances.

So I've been in Singapore for the last couple of days. I'm not sure why I booked a stop over this time. I've got nothing to buy, I've done pretty much every tourist thing there is to do here and I could have gone straight home to rescue the cat from the cat stalag. I suppose it's a way to acclimatise to the weather and get over the jet-lag.

I have been to two new places though. Firstly is the Marina Bay Sands Casino. Well I say I've been there but, this being Singapore, I couldn't actually get in. Only here would they build a casino then try and keep people out to protect them from temptation. If you're a tourist you can only get in if you show your passport and that's not an item I tend to carry with me on the off chance that I want to enter a tourist trap. If you're a local then you can only enter if you pay $100 a day. I think this is to try and ensure that the casino only takes money from Chinese punters but, judging by the queue at the 'residents only' entry, it's not working. At all. So if you come to Singapore and want to loose some money in a hideously carpeted American style mega-casino remember to bring your passport.

If you can't get in then you can wander around the Shoppes At Marina Bay. Yes it is spelled like that, with two ps and an e. I'm not sure why as the place doesn't really look like the usual user of an antique, made up spelling. It's just another super-mall full of high end stores and celebrity chef restaurants. How one small island state supports all these identical shopping malls amazes me. How many Fendi and Prada shops (or shoppes if you will) do you need? None of them seem to have customers in, and the ones that do are obviously tourists just having a sticky beak. Or is that just what I do? However if you want to see proof that money and taste are mutually exclusive then these 'shoppes' are a good place to start. I've never seen so many semi-precious stone encrusted handbags, shoes, cigarette holders, paintings, watch winders and mobile phones in one place. Why do self made Chinese millionaires/communist party officials (they're the same thing) have such abominable taste? Are their houses full of Burberry themed jade and opal life size dragons? O, while I think about it, how does Vertu, the "luxury" mobile 'phone company, manage to con people into paying $5000 for what's basically a Nokia phone from 1998? I thought rich people were meant to be clever and we should all aspire to be like them? Seems like if you make it glittery and "exclusive" enough they'll buy anything.

You can also visit the ArtScience Museum if you're down at the casino area. It's another of those Landmark Buildings that cities feel they have to build to get attention. I think Sydney started it with the Opera House and now everyone needs a swoopy/pointy/pudenda-shaped architectural experiment to make their mark. The problem with this is that none of them will ever be as brilliant and beautiful as Jørn Utzon's Opera House. In evidence I give you the Swan Bells. Or the Burj Khalifa. Or anything by Frank Gehry. Or nearly all buildings over 20 stories built in the last 15 years. Yes I'm looking at you The Shard. What has happened is a blight of monstrosities that are dating rapidly and, worse, degrading rapidly. The ArtScience Museum is a perfect example of this. When you first see it you think "hmm that looks interesting". Then the subsequent times you think "hmmm that's just trying too hard". From a distance it looks shiny and new, which it should as it's only been open fourteen months, but up close the fibreglass shell is stained, the paint is peeling and there are obvious water leaks.

As a museum/gallery it's a bit odd too. I went to see an exhibition of Lego sculptures by Nathan Sawaya. He gave up a job as a corporate lawyer to become a Lego artist. Ok, live the dream and all, more power to him but though technically very clever, the ideas and descriptions were like a high school art event. Lots of convoluted descriptions to make the piece sound more deep than it actually appears to be. At the risk of sounding like a wanker I'd say artistically vacant. This could be the most blatantly commercial artist I've ever seen, and I've been to a Jeff Koons retrospective. The other exhibit was some of the Magnum photographic archive. Interesting mostly for the side displays on the development of photography that barely mentioned film and chemicals. We truly are in a digital world now. As per usual I wandered round wondering why these photographers are artists and manage to make a living out of it while I live in fear of a career change to study the art. I may be having a mid life crisis, all be it eight years after buying a sportscar.

One last last thing about the Marina Bay Sands complex. It's the first, and so far only, place in Singapore where I've experienced poor service. I was seated and ignored for 20 minutes in a Coffee Bean And Tea Leaf. I walked out and had a bit of a moan at the manager. Then I went to TWG for a pot of tea and a scone and had to watch the staff messing about, wait for service and ask three times for some water. Very odd. I'm wondering if it's because the whole places run by a non-Singaporean corporation (the American Sands Casino Corp).

So I'm going to spend the last day sitting by the pool with a beer and a book before I go upstairs and try to make my 29kg of luggage miraculously weigh 20kg. Hopefully I can find some sort of space time anomaly hidden in my wash bag that'll help.

Love the night life

So what have I been doing with my evenings I hear you ask? Surely in the entertainment capital of the world (conditions apply, I hear New York might not agree) there is loads to do.

Well yes there is loads to do but if you are as loath to plan ahead too far, as I am, then you might find there is bugger all to do in the evenings. I did get some tickets to a BBC radio recording which I arranged weeks ago, but this is pretty much the only thing I had arranged before I got here. So what to do?
Well you could brave the half-price ticket booths which are all round the place here and see if you can get some returns. In fact there a so many "half-price" places here it begs the question of who actually pays for full price tickets? I suspect that half price may be a bit of an exaggeration i.e. a complete lie.
Another option is to traipse round the theatre box offices and try and get a bargain. This does sometimes happen as they often release a tranche of £10 tickets each morning to ensure the place is full. This was what I was going to do to see Privates On Parade, and yes it does sound like a musical version of a Carry On movie. Unfortunately the box office doesn't open till 10 and I was already in the anatomy exhibit at the museum of London by then. The third option is to completely fluke it. This is the option I chose.

Before I came there had been lots of tweeting from Stephen Fry about the version of Twelfth Night he was in at the Globe and I thought that sounded like fun. Unfortunately by the time I got here the Globe would be closed for the winter and I'd be out of luck. There was some Shakespeare on in The West End but it was Richard III and my winter is already discontenty enough thanks very much. However, for once the gods of theatre, or Time Out magazine to be more accurate, we're on my side. It turns out that Dick III and Twelfth Night were in rep together, both playing sort of simultaneously. So it was still on! Off to the website I trundle to book tickets only to find that premium seats are the only ones left. Hmmm, well I'm sure that won't be too expensive. After all there are no royalty fees to pay to Shakespeare as its pretty much out of copyright now.

£80 and a bit of hyperventilating later I was the owner of seat H13 at the Apollo on Shaftesbury Avenue. Only for three hours mind. For that money I thought I'd have it in perpetuity. How on earth can it cost that much to see Shakespeare thought I?

Well pretty easily it turns out when I read the programme and discovered that, unlike amateur productions which make Olivia's frock out of an old tablecloth, this version had the silk woven especially by some artisan somewhere. The set was made out of oak. And the cast were actually in the process of holding two full length Shakespearian plays in their heads. AT THE SAME TIME! I think they deserve a pretty big pay check for that alone. I could barely remember enough quotes to pass my English Lit O Level. In fact I didn't pass my English Lit O Level so there you go, though I partly blame Mrs Protheroe for that as she was the worst teacher of Shakespeare my school could find. Possible something to do with the fact that she was a fully qualified music teacher.

The whole experience was fantastic to be honest. At the Apollo I mean, not at school. I did study Twelfth Night for my mock exams (failed those too) but I don't remember it actually being funny. But it is when real actors do it and it's not being read by semi literate 15 year olds in a demountable classroom on a rugby pitch. The seat was great, right in the middle and not far back and when I got there the cast were all having their makeup and hair done on stage. I think this was an affectation and not a comment on the state of the dressing rooms of west end theatres. It was odd but quite interesting. I also thought it was a bit odd that some of the actors appeared to be putting on very big frocks. Oooooh. It's an all male version. All very authentic. I've never seen one of these and suspected it might be a bit lame and gimmicky. It actually was brilliant, in no small part because of the actors skills and mainly because of the plot: A girl gets shipwrecked and disguises herself as a boy then falls in love with her master who doesn't realise she's a girl while at the same time he's in love with another woman who is in love with our heroine while she's dressed as a boy and there's a brother and a manservant and lots of mistaken identity. You know, the usual completely realistic high art plot points (opera is pretty much the same, but then so is panto. Go figure).

Anyway the fact that the girls were played by boys dressed as girls and one boy was dressed as a girl dressed as a boy added quite a bit of hilarity and sauciness to the proceedings. I definitely don't remember so much thinly veiled homoeroticism in the reading at high school. It was altogether brilliant. I laughed and three hours flew by, which is more than can be said for the Les Mis movie. I'm pretty sure that if I had seen it at the Globe there would have been more audience participation (the cast really had to work to make us join in, which is surprising considering how much other noise the audience was making. The constant coughing added some consumptive authenticity I suppose) but the seats would have been much more uncomfy.

I'd recommend going to see it, but it's sold out and finishes in a few weeks so you can't. Sorry. There's a review HERE which is much more eloquent than I can be.

The next night was a completely different ball game. I was having a look online and saw a lecture advertised at the British Film Institute about the representation of ancient Egypt in TV and film. I thought it sounded interesting and sounded a bit Victorian, you know, attending a public lecture for the edification and education of the public.

How wrong I was. My first warning should have been the other people who turned up in the audience. Lots of twitching, mumbling and nylon socks. It turns out that the BFI lectures are for freaks and weirdos and involve a couple of lecturers from UCL showing clips from bad, so so bad, 1970s ITV dramas blatantly not illustrating the complex educational points they are trying to make. It also allows them to show absolutely loads of clips from Dr Who. This explained the nylon sock brigade. About an hour of Dr Who through the ages, out of context admittedly, just proved to me how utterly terrible it was and still is. Avoid then the BFI lecture series. Unless you are a lover of man made fibre.

Last night was my aforementioned trip to the BBC to see the recording of Elvenquest. It's a spoof of every epic questing story you've ever read or seen and it's surprisingly funny. It was great just to be able to get inside Broadcasting House and see the people working in the newsroom. Well I say working, it must be a bit hard to concentrate with five tv monitors in every workspace and robotic cameras flying over head. The recording was in the Radio Theatre but we were all held in the bar area till it started. It was very much like being at the Goldfields Rep Club but with better coffee. In fact the similarities were enhanced when the front of house woman arrived. She was old, confusing and very disorganised. Makes me even more proud of the BBC.

The recording was fascinating and confirmed a few things I've always suspected about the Beeb. Firstly the sound system in the theatre was amazing, the sound effects perfect and interval music unusual. Secondly it would appear that they still draw all their production staff from expensive schools, judging by Sam our producer for the night. Very posh, very floppy haired and about fifteen years old.

The cast were great, with Steven Mangan and Darren Boyd and Kevin Eldon. Three of my favourite comic actors in the world. It never ceases to amaze me that actors who become really successful will still return to the BBC to make a silly little radio show. I think it shows the love and esteem that such an odd institution engenders. I wonder if Fox has the same loyalty? If you are ever in London you should try and get tickets for a BBC show. They're free and really let you see the process involved. In fact actors must love radio. No costumes, no make up, no scene changes and you just read the script while you're going along.

Anyway it's my last day in the big smoke and the only place left on my list of to dos is closed on Mondays. Bum! So I need to kill four hours while carrying all my luggage on my back. That is the worst aspect of the increase in terrorism; London hotels won't hold your luggage anymore...

Well not really cheap hotels.

Child of my time

I went to the V&A Museum of Childhood today. It's great for a number of reasons.
Firstly; it's in Bethnal Green, which is probably as East Endy as you can get and still be in Zone 1. I know it's the East End as there was a bloke talking on his 'phone about how '''e always was a squealer that one, he grassed us all up when they ripped 'im". I'm not making that up. I wrote it down when I heard it. Definitely the East End. (Actually it's in Zone 2 but only just).

Secondly; it's great because it's a really old fashioned museum, basically a big iron framed building full of glass fronted cases full of stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love a touch screen, interactive history of the nocturnal habits of the Aye-Aye as much as anyone, but sometimes there's no substitute for a glass case full of old stuff. Visit the mammal gallery at the West Australian Museum in Perth and you'll know what I mean.

Thirdly; for a museum of childhood there wasn't a single child in there. Unlike the anatomy and body snatching exhibition I went to this morning. Not hugely appropriate for a school trip in my opinion but then I'm not a teacher. Perhaps all grade 5 children need to see the mounted, flayed and shellacked remains of a three year old boy.

Fourthly, and most importantly; it's FULL of crap that I either owned, or desperately wanted, as a kid and had forgotten. I could list it all, but instead here are the pictures. Apologies if you are either not old enough or not British enough to remember any it, but I am on both counts so think of it as a window on my psyche.




My mate had one of these. He was spoiled rotten and I thought it was the pinnacle of technology.




I actually had a few "Disney's Black Hole" toys. It was their attempt to cash in on Star Wars and the money to be made from merchandising. It was a terrible movie and was a black hole for Disney's money too. Oh and the toys were really badly made.




I don't remember Weebles being as syndromic looking as this.




Even I'm not old enough to remember the Beatles version of this. Maybe it "amuses the whole family" but not for long I'll warrant.




Now this really was a tech miracle. In fact it miraculously keeps Alan Sugar on national tv to this day. I was more of a spectrum boy but never had one.. Too expensive :-(




I had this. It projects (poorly) frames from the movie on to walls. But only if less than a foot away in complete and utter darkness. One of many Christmas disappointments perpetrated by the Grattan's Catalogue.




Yes! That's the real Muffin The Mule.




I loved these, much sturdier than Lego. They did collect every bit of fluff and filth from the environment though. Never survived the end of the seventies and the sudden obsession with uninfected children's toys.




I had this too. It was much less fun than it looked unless you stuck the fake scars and moustaches onto yourself. I think the glue was child safe but I do have vague memories of nail polish remover being involved somewhere.




Those damn Weebles again. Their unique selling point? They wobbled but didn't fall down. They were simpler times.




Yes, I would have looked like this in 1978. I was a trend setter then too.




Kids today don't have enough board games about crossing the road. I preferred the Green Cross Code Man. He was Darth Vader on his days off. How much cooler could he be?!




Ahh the Seventies, when radical social workers produced pamphlets for children telling them how to riot and demonstrate and what to do if they were busted by the pigs. Happier times.




The ultimate need and the ultimate disappointment, I never got a Raleigh Chopper, the icon of the UK in the 1970's. Probably as I didn't learn to ride a bike until I was way to old to be learning to ride a bike. I did get the icon of the 1980's though; a Raleigh Grifter. It was like riding a bike made out of girders.




Finally, not something I owned or wanted, I just wonder when Mattel will make a Ken that actually looks like he'd be happier with Barbie than living with another Ken?

Ooop North

So we went north to Yorkshire and, contrary to the old saying, it's not actually that grim up there.

In fact York is beautiful. It's full of old streets and lane ways (or ginnels if you speak northern) like the one up there. That's called the Shambles and it's in all the tourist brochures. I assumed that it would be the only quaint, wonky old street and the rest of the city would be a normal British high street with the same chain stores and plastic fronts. And empty, bankrupt shops. You know like all tourist bumf it only shows you the good bits and makes you assume that everything else is the same, kangaroos on the beach springs to mind.

However in York the whole city was like a Harry Potter set. I would not have been remotely surprised to come across a wand shop. I mean there are still all the usual chain stores but they all blend in. Even the McDonalds was discrete.

There's even an almost complete city wall with gates and everything. Sadly they don't close the gates at dusk to keep the chavs out so there was noticeable Tennants Extra consumption after dark. This is nothing unique to York, it's just the English disease. (I mean public drunkenness not private flagellation, the other English disease according to the French). I did go for a bit of a walk on the walls but it was so icy it was a bit unnerving, especially with the lack of safety railings. It seems historic buildings are immune from the British obsession with health and safety. I'm not sure that's a good thing when your four stories up on a slippery mediaeval monument.

York is also famous for its Minster. Which is a cathedral to you and me. It's big, it's cathedrally and it's £9 to get in. Seems a bit steep really for an organization based on the teachings of a man who preached poverty and modesty. They try to make it sound like a bargain by making the tickets valid for twelve months, which as a tourist is a complete waste of time. Though I did go back the next morning to get my money's worth.




I have to say I was expecting much more from the Minster. It only took about half an hour to get round and see everything, there aren't even any famous people buried here. Even Gloucester has a king and a prince. It was worth a visit to see how much the high Anglicans still wish they were Catholics. You can tell from the candles that they are itching to get out the smells and bells. There's even a chapel containing the Holy Sacrament. It's like that whole reformation thing was just a short term experiment.

We also had a day trip to Whitby. It's on the coast about an hour north of York. It's quite famous, mostly among Goths and weirdos, as the place that Dracula came ashore. Now you may think that Dracula was just a story, but to some parts of the population (see above) its very real. Sadly for the eyelinered and black coated people in town last week there was only disappointment as most of the tourist sites were shut, including the famous Abbey. This is as close as I could get:




It's very atmospheric, interesting and historic. Apparently. This is a recurrent problem with traveling in January, especially in January in seaside towns. You get there, all planned, and then everything is shut. It was the same at the Captain Cook museum. Yes, that one. The man who discovered (or managed to notice, depending on your politics) Australia came from a small seaside town in North Yorkshire. It's no wonder he headed to the tropics as it was bloody freezing in Whitby.

So annoyingly the two places I really wanted to see this trip were both inaccessible. But the third was open. I'm talking about chips. And fish. I had never been to a place with so many fish and chipperies. Both Whitby and York had dozens of them. I can sort of understand it in a fishing village, but was a bit surprised in York. There weren't even that many fat people waddling around. We went to Mr Chips. It was excellent and reasonably priced and included mushy peas. Perfection on a cold day.

Another pleasant surprise was the number of tea shops in Yorkshire. Not even tea "shoppes" aimed at the tourists, these were real local bakeries with cafés attached. We went to Botham's in Whitby and it was like being in an episode of one of those heart warming Sunday evening ITV dramas (I'm thinking Heartbeat) as everyone knew each other, they were all local and there were only white faces.

I don't think I've ever been to such a culturally homogenous place. Although I have to say after living in Australia you do notice how monocultural it is in a lot of places in the UK, especially outside the big cities. I'm not making any political comments on this, it's just an observation before the immigration nutters start up.

I'm glad to report that the final place I wanted to go was also open. It was the National Railway Museum and it's nowhere near as nerdy and trainspottery as you might think. It's also free to get in, although they do stand at the entry and tell you it's free but you can donate right now if you would like. Obviously I didn't succumb to this museum mugging, but I did put money in the box when I left as it was well worth a tenner. We were in there for three hours and still didn't see it all. Who knew trains were so interesting? Especially the royal carriages. The old ones were beautiful and opulent. The current one not so much. That's the problem with becoming queen in the 1950s, your fancy train comes with a lot of Formica. It was exotic at the time I guess.

It was odd to see the trains I always wanted for my Hornby set in real life, especially the Mallard.




The fastest steam train ever (apparently/possibly) at over 125 MPH. the trains we've got now don't go much faster than that, though they do require less shovelling. The other odd thing about the NRM was that, even though I've never been there before, I'd seen it on Blue Peter so many times as a kid that I was getting constant déjà vu. This happens a lot if you were a Blue Peter watcher: York Minster, Jorvik Centre, Whitby RNLI, Simon Groom's farm in Dethick, it's seems like you've been to them all.

Actually that's showing my age, you can age anyone in this country by the Blue Peter presenters they first remember. Mine is Lesley Judd and John Noakes, the lads on the tube the other week were reminiscing about Konnie Huq.

That made me feel very old.