This Post is Brought to You By the Letter 'H'

Our last day in London begins with the now-mundane task of packing up and checking out. A steady regime of plain bread, carrot sticks, prescription drugs and plenty of water brings Gem back to some semblance of life.



And then we say Happy Trails to John who will go on to enjoy an extended trip to Ireland with Marty. Their wacky adventures on the Emerald Isle remain undocumented but the morbidly curious are directed here to demand full disclosure.

Whittled down to a party of four, we have a few good hours to kill before our flight. With fewer pounds to spare than Posh Becks on a diet, we decide to pass our time where there would be little chance of us spending any money at all. Naturally, we choose Harrods.





Once again, we have to be selective with our photography as most everything here is a "design original" which is a great excuse to apply price tags that look like telephone numbers. Obviously, they are concerned at the possibility of us taking a snapshot of their Jimmy Choo originals, then running back home to our sweatshops and start pumping out Gimmy Poo knock-offs.

No one seems to mind so much down at the food hall, though, so that's where most of our photies ended up coming from.



Of course, the idea of eating any of this stuff is patently ridiculous. It's way too pretty and to be able to afford any of it would probably require taking out a loan of some sort.



(Click on the yummy treats for embiggenment and a closer look at the prices.)

As we're leaving, Robin spots the coolest thing ever. It appears to be the bastard offspring of a pair of stilts and pogo-sticks.



There's no doubt that I'd be fitter if leaping and bounding were offered as a pedestrian option. In the future, we will all travel like this - it's the only safe way to get off a flying car.

After lunch, it's off to Hyde Park for a long slow amble around all that pretty green. It feels like we're in limbo now - looking forward to home, but NOT to the 18 hour journey to get there.



With our time effectively murdered, we head towards Heathrow Airport where the next two hours are spent in queues waiting to be probed, poked and prodded before we're declared safe for flying. This time, they're especially worried about carrying liquids on board which means Gem is forced to bin the bottle of water which is keeping her alive.

On the flight home, there's sleep aplenty for me and none for Gem. We part ways with Robin and Girly in Singapore as they prefer to spend the night there rather than face another 6 hour flight. Gem and I, however, can't wait.

Because Coming Home is, as always, so very very sweet.



(This isn't actually us at home - but it's the one of the nicest photies from our trip's final day.)

Next: Well, we're home now and have been for quite a few months. If you clicked on John's link above (or here if you're too slack to scroll), you'll know that his gallery is up and running and well worth a visit if you're a Perthling with a penchant for pretty pictures. The rest of us are back on the treadmill and gunning it like hamsters, looking forward to the next escape attempt.

Without any more trip to blog, I'm not entirely sure what to do with our little spot on the web. I assure you it won't be abandoned like the last time. I'm not a diarist either, but once in a while stuff happens and it's nice to have something to look at after it does.

So, what I'll aim for is slightly more frequent blogging but with shorter posts, perhaps.

To keep y'all amused in the interim, I've just added a brand new widget up the top that keeps track of the stupid stuff I find on the interweb.

Stay tuned for more, kids....

Pills, Thrills & Bellyaches*

Oh dear.



(Not a great day for photies. This is about as close a graphic depiction of Gem's day as I can offer.)

I suppose it was only a matter of time before our gustatory indulgence would inflict its ass-biting vengeance on us, or to be precise, on Gemma. From the wee hours of the previous night, the contents of Gem's stomach have been staging a re-enactment of the Titanic's last hours, with repeat performances throughout the day. Apparently, it's a riveting tour de force that keeps her gripping the edge of her oval plastic seat.

While I stick around making appropriate husbandy faces and noises, Marty leaves for Sussex to bash some relatives and the others do more of London.

By about 6 in the evening Gem decides that the show really needs to either end its run or find another venue. This requires the services of someone with a "Dr" in front of their name. Unfortunately, at this hour, the only one available is the 24 hour Dial-a-Doc, who arrives hours late, pokes about a bit, prescribes some pills and charges us 200 quid (around $425 AUD) for the privelege. Hint: never EVER take the word of anyone who says travel insurance is a waste of money.

As it turns out, the pills do what they say on the packet and are therefore worth every pretty penny.

The next day, Gem feels a-bit-better-but-not-great so stays behind while the rest of us head out to Notting Hill where the fringes are floppy and stammering is sexy. The Portobello Road Markets are open and chockfull of antique shoppers as well as shoppers of antiques.



John stops by at the local military recruitment centre. An ex-Army reserve man himself, he has fond memories of his belly-crawling, whistling days when he got to play with cool guns and stuff.



Just before he's about to take on the Zulu uprising, John has a change of heart.



Not much chance of adding to the Coalition of the Willing around here.



Better off helping Robin fight world hunger.

Later on we head back to the hotel where Robin, still feeling a bit tender, tags Gem, who is now as pilled-up as Elvis on a good day (youtubery) and feeling well enough for a stroll. So out we head again, this time to Camden Lock, because Saturday is Market Day and also most likely our last opportunity to pick up cheap trinkets and tat that we will later pass off on our friends as exotic curios of the Antepodes.

We meet up with Angie again and stop for refreshments at a posh wine bar where John wonders why we can't get fries for half the price at the KFC across the road



The Camden Market is all kinds of super sexy awesome as we shop, drop, shop again and only stop when our wallets start giving us that "don't look at me" attitude.




Later that evening, we meet up with Martin fresh out of the kitchen. As both Robin and Gem are still on the mend, we opt to stay in Earl's Court for the night. After dinner, we say goodbye to Angie and then many drinks later, to Martin.



It's been a rough couple of days but our evening with family and friend sticks a big fat J-curve in our collective mood. As local minstrels Chas 'n' Dave would have it - mustn't grumble.

Next: Harrod's, Hyde Park and (ugh) Heathrow

*Today's title is a tribute, via the Happy Mondays, to the late and great Tony Wilson.

Sun is in the Sky, Oh Why Oh Why Would I Wanna Be Anywhere Else?

Sorry for the none-too-brief hiatus, folks. The best explanation I can offer is a conspiracy of the following factors:
- An inconvenient (as in right in the middle of my two-week break) bout of the seasonal infection doing its rounds.
- Exceeding my monthly volume allocation which meant seeing out the month with the Internet running at turn-of-the-century bandwidth.
- And finally, a general blog fatigue stemming from long periods spent staring at tiny thumbnail photos, willing them to "be funny, dammit!"

But we are near the end of the trip and I am looking forward to blogging about stuff that only requires exercising my short term memory.

So let's return to London where the day will be spent running around in all directions convincing ourselves that we're really, REALLY in London. Robin (feeling somewhat better) and Girly elect to do the town via the hop on/hop off sightseeing bus. Marty (feeling a whole lot better) has a doctor's appointment to have his stitches removed. The rest of us, armed with a Tube map and a pocket A-Z, go looking for the bits we've seen in the movies.

First stop: Trafalgar Square



Yes, I'm well aware it's actually behind me.



...smartarses.

For Gem, this is an all-too-rare opportunity to make up for her miserable failure to mount one of the giant lions two years ago. (scroll down past me looking like an Angry Princess. Go ahead, we'll wait here till you're done)



This time, with a renewed resolve and a handy leg-up from John, the giant lion is, as them sloppy-typing kids say these days, pwned.



Sadly for John, the old "gentle frottage" trick doesn't play as well here as it did in France. What does play well here, however, are ART GALLERIES WOT ARE OPEN!! So suck it, Paris, say we as we spend a few hours checking out the Post-Impressionists at the National Gallery as well as the National Portrait Gallery nearby.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, Robin and Girly are dangling high above the Thames in the famous London Eye.



It's a great opportunity to get some cool Godzilla's-eye-view shots of the city.



If you look really closely, you can see Tony showing Gordon where he hides the Scotch.

We, on the other hand, keep our feet firmly on the ground but after covering a fair bit of it, said feet aren't feeling as firm as they ought to. So for a pit stop, we choose St James Tavern, just about the only place in Soho that doesn't offer the services of ladies of scant clothing.



The cold beer and the fish and chips are quite tasty but the tastiness has a sting in its tail, as we shall see later. Right now, we're energised enough to continue our strolling tour of the parts of London that we're told used to Swing a bit.



There's a bit of souvenir-hunting going on and it doesn't take long for a great weight to be lifted from our wallets and transferred into shopping bags. Soon, we're more than a little eager to make our way back to the hotel. Meanwhile, Robin and Girly have a tough time with the locals, as they are accosted by...



bludgers,



buskers,



and bastards of the highest order.

As it's Marty's first night of full fitness in a long time, as well as his last night with us before he leaves to visit his kinfolk tomorrow, he gets to pick dinner for tonight. He recommends checking out Brick Lane in Whitechapel, an area famous for its...



wide...



variety...



of...



...fine cuisine.

But what Marty craves most is a big fat steaming curry because...well, because he finally can. And so can we.

Next: Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.