Leeches and London

Britain, Britain, Britain, as they say on my favourite black comedy. Land of "nobbly oaty biscuits", late night curries, Hugh Grant, tepid tea and cucumber sandwiches. I love London, it always feels so good to be here. It reminds me of my first tentative steps into Europe armed only with a bad haircut (which of course lives on in my passport) and a credit card. Jon Jon once said that London still has a buzz about it that he will never tire of (despite his decidedly bourgeois penchant for the South of France), and I feel the same. Funnily I always seem to end up here when I'm in some kind of transition. Last time I was here, before my ill-fated attempt to move home to Oz, it was just after the 7/7 terrorist attacks and everyone was a little jumpy to say the least. A friend reported that Covent Garden tube station was closed for several hours because someone left an apparently very dangerous sandwich on a park bench. I remember catching a bus to Notting Hill in a desperate bid to escape Oxford Street as the police sirens started going off (again), only to discover later to my horror that the terrorists actually lived In Notting Hill. So much for Hugh Grant and tepid tea then.

A lot of Australians end up here - just the other night I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, drinking some horrible red wine and waiting for my beloved friend Kendall. Suddenly I realised that the familiarity of those at the next table was not because they were speaking English (a novelty for me in itself) but because they were speaking Australian English. And not just Australian English, but that pure breed of it called strine. Not only were they speaking Strine, but they were speaking about a most Australian subject - leeches. Leeches and ticks. "Leeches got up me gaiters," an old man with large 1980s square spectacles and a flannel shirt was saying. "And when they do that you have to put a little bit of salt on 'em," (at this peering at his completely disinterested teenage grandsons over his glasses with a nod to the ultimate wisdom of this statement.) "Some people use fire, but that just makes them shrivel up," he continued, as I looked at the plump, increasingly parasite-like mushrooms in my pasta with a little less appetite. This conversation then extended to ticks, cows and various other dinner conversation topics related to farm-bound afflictions. I couldn't help looking on the old couple and their grandsons with absolute affection. It was the most boring conversation I had ever heard, but I am sure that beneath his flannel shirt the old guy had a heart of gold, even if I wouldn't trust him to be able to apply his admirable leech-defying survival skills in the concrete jungle of a London tube station.

Top therapeutic things to do in London usually include looking in quirky museums for shrunken heads with my friend Ben (guarantees a second glance from the caretakers when we politely enquire if this museum has a shrunken head department and if not, why not?); eating at Pret-a-Manger three times a day and needless to say being careful not to leave the potentially deadly sandwiches at tube stations; getting a horrendously overpriced pedicure at Selfridge's for the cost of which I could probably afford a 3 week holiday with Jon Jon in the south of France; or reducing my credit card to a lump of melted plastic. I'm hoping that once again London will be the precursor to some kind of turning point in my life.

I haven't posted for a few days because I've been struggling with the black dog that Winston Churchill apparently used to call his depression. (At least my black dog is relatively well behaved, unlike the hound I saw on the BBC this morning which apparently has chewed up Elvis Presley's teddy bear. Good old BBC, reporting the hard hitting news and all before breakfast). Meanwhile I'm at the office which in London is particularly charming being surrounded by squirrels, a fish pond and a huge rambling garden, and in this case also blessed by nobbly oaty biscuits and cucumber sandwiches.

On the up side Uma and I have managed to secure an apartment although I will be homeless until possibly as late as October. This means that my kind temporary flatmate is reduced to sleeping on the camping bed in much closer proximity to the pigeons living on the balcony, who seem to be in heat and keep us awake with their horrible mating calls. (This prompted said flatmate to threaten mating with the pigeons himself yesterday morning, if it would shut them up. I hope I managed to talk him out of that one, but I can't say for sure).

Meanwhile heading off to Amsterdam, not my most favourite of European cities and on not my most favourite of airlines - I have to warn you now that may prompt a rant about the inflight "service". Cheerio for now London, with or without leeches. I'll have a cup of powdered, weak KLM tea on my way to Amsterdam for you.