Almost got arrested at the security checkpoint this evening – but it is not my style to get arrested the conventional way, such as by taking lots of forks in my hand luggage.
The French are a bit keen when it comes to security and the whole process takes quite a long time, during which you lose interest and begin to daydream. So when it eventually becomes my turn, and the fairly attractive security woman asks me to take my belt off, surely she should not be surprised when I absent-mindedly begin unzipping my trousers and make to whip them off? This was the most embarrassing moment of my week.
Now I am in the food hall at Charles de Gaulle airport. On balance, considering service, setting and culinary expertise, I suspect it is not in the Michelin guide.
This is an extremely sad place. Everyone here has a beer and a laptop, and is trying to work out how to get the wireless to work.
I wanted the Poulet Curry, but instead she offered me Poulet Masala, which I took, even though it looked a bit odd. This was my first mistake. I think she must have said Boulet, because it definitely isn’t chicken. The pieces are of some arbitrarily-shaped aquatic species I do not recognise, almost like some kind of generic seafood, possibly krill or plankton. In fact I think it may be salmon. They are of a remarkable pink/orange colour, and in that regard share something with a lady I saw on the train here.
Just before she served this dish she put it in the microwave for about a minute. I admire an establishment so comfortable with its station as to make no effort whatsoever to deny that your food has been microwaved warm. Even more admirably, they provide additional microwave ovens in the corners of the restaurant for customer use, presumably to reduce complaints of cold food.
When flying, I like to count morons.
These include the people who ask for directions to their seat when they get onto the plane. I cannot comprehend this, and I have the utmost respect for any cabin steward who can keep a straight face while basically saying the following, in fewer words…
‘I see you require assistance in identifying the location of your designated seat. Allow me to help by revealing to me your boarding card. You can see here that the boarding card is telling you that you are in seat 15B. This is apparent from these words: “Seat 15B”. So what you need to do at this point is find a seat that has the name 15B. Conveniently, the airline took the measure of labelling each seat with its name, to make this achievable, even for a foreign idiot like you. This seat right here is labelled 4C. So you need to keep walking until you reach row 15. Don’t worry; just walk in this direction, it’s almost impossible to get lost. We use a numbering system known as counting, in which first the number on the right goes up 1 by 1, and when it gets to 9, then it changes to a 0, and another number 1 appears on the left. This is nothing to be afraid of. Just keep going until you get to 15. When you reach row 15, you need to find a seat called 15B. To do this you need to be familiar with something called the alphabet, in which we put all the letters you can think of in a line. It goes A, B, C, D and so on. But luckily you can stop at B, because that is your seat. So all you need to remember is the letters of the alphabet up to B. God speed, simpleton.’
This life diminishing exchange is received by the passenger either with heartfelt thanks, expressed through a relieved nod and a ‘thank heavens you’re here to help’, or with yet further bafflement, expressed through a profound Gallic shrug as the person gazes at their boarding card, mystified by its complexity.
Distressingly, I think it is correct to say that the first people to fly were French.
Friday, 16 October 2009
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Hounds all around me
This weekend has been full of dogs. This is a problem for me, as I can’t cope with them.
I am back in Derbyshire, my homeland, visiting my parents and Heathy, my beloved orange cat. When I finally left home a few years back I was effectively replaced by a stray dog which my dad named Bryn, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye. If and when people inquire as to his breed, I respond that he is a violent, yappy, sadistic, clumsy, boisterous, arrogant, detestable black&white son of a mofo. This seems to satisfy them. He feigns warmth on seeing me for the first time in a few weeks, galloping down to the gate and rubbing aggressively against my legs. But it is crucial to remember certain rules when in his presence. For example, when eating, the rules are: feet down, knees together. A Bryn inserted between ones’ thighs is an unthinkable fate.
I have over 4 scars on my hands from previous attacks.
This weekend I have spent significant time at Helen’s house and it’s even worse. They have added an extra dog to their previous collection, which numbered 2. 3 dogs is a critical number, because 3 dogs are enough to surround you. They approach, separated from each other by an angle of 120 degrees – much like velociraptors. They are also very different from each other and complement one another’s battle skills, a bit like Charlie’s angels would have us believe they are – or like the usual formation seen in a fantasy game (barbarian, bow-wielding elf, magician). One makes out that it is a big softie, about 38 years old, and looks like just a sack of flesh from which the bones have been extracted – such that it looks like you could throw it onto a couch and it would just remain in whatever position it arrived. It’s only attacks involve gentle extensions of its forearms. I see through this deception, and fully understand the peril and the pain it could cause me.
The second hound is a small, fast one, with short legs, and is described as a ‘ratter’. I seem to remember this was a character in Harry Potter and the something of nothings. It makes a deafening noise as it bolts towards me, trying to bite me above the knees, punch me in the thighs etc. It also has the ability to appear suddenly from beneath chairs. The most frightening thing is when it bares its teeth, which suddenly appear to be outside its head, reminiscent of the aliens in Pitch Black, or Alien itself. It bares its teeth and emits a gnashing sound, and its eyes move independently of one another, and its head vibrates with the desire to kill something.
The new hound is a big brown one with a black head, which I think can only be a wolf. This one concerns me the most as it is an unknown quantity and clearly has a mouth big enough to kill me. Its leash is just a length of rope, like a noose. This is the hard one.
More distressingly, Helen and Helen’s mum sometimes talk on behalf of the dogs, using what I must assume is the dog’s voice and mannerisms. I found it difficult at times to know at what point the person ended and the dog began. They had lengthy conversations on which bed they would be sleeping in and such. Really unsettling stuff – especially the first time they did it, as it was like I was in the dogs’ heads, a place I hoped never to go.
How to tell a dog’s age: chop off a leg and count the rings. (Or better, chop the hound through the middle and count those rings).
Let’s send all dogs to France.
I am going to start referring to ‘The Bearded One’. This is something Diego Maradona did this week – he means God, and I think this is genius.
Yesterday I went to Derby to shop for bits to make an outfit. Although I got the pieces I needed I am starting to think the outfit may turn out to be disappointingly unrecognizable. But we persevere as ever.
This evening I have been booking some delightful traditional Japanese accommodation in Tokyo and Kyoto in advance of my forthcoming official visit.
Advanced lesson in selling accommodation: Always talk a place up. (Ryokan = traditional Japanese resthouse) :
"Taito Ryokan is not a palace hotel, but an old ryokan, appreciate your consideration and imagination from the price, JPY3,000, before you inquire = which means that it is not suitable for someone who cannot overcome gaps = ups and downs all over the house, very steep stairs and basic/authentic toilets. No perfect room temperature even there is an air-condition, no insulated silence, no high tech gadgets. And also, it is advisable to bring your own gear such as shampoo, soap, towel and hair dryer. Thanks a lot, Arigatou gozaimasu for your being patient. Please note that sometime someone might misjudge ryokan as 5-star with meals provided in your own room with full attend and service with onsen attached. We are the most basic and most simple ryokan. We have been ryokan since 1950."
Might just give that one a miss…
I am back in Derbyshire, my homeland, visiting my parents and Heathy, my beloved orange cat. When I finally left home a few years back I was effectively replaced by a stray dog which my dad named Bryn, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye. If and when people inquire as to his breed, I respond that he is a violent, yappy, sadistic, clumsy, boisterous, arrogant, detestable black&white son of a mofo. This seems to satisfy them. He feigns warmth on seeing me for the first time in a few weeks, galloping down to the gate and rubbing aggressively against my legs. But it is crucial to remember certain rules when in his presence. For example, when eating, the rules are: feet down, knees together. A Bryn inserted between ones’ thighs is an unthinkable fate.
I have over 4 scars on my hands from previous attacks.
This weekend I have spent significant time at Helen’s house and it’s even worse. They have added an extra dog to their previous collection, which numbered 2. 3 dogs is a critical number, because 3 dogs are enough to surround you. They approach, separated from each other by an angle of 120 degrees – much like velociraptors. They are also very different from each other and complement one another’s battle skills, a bit like Charlie’s angels would have us believe they are – or like the usual formation seen in a fantasy game (barbarian, bow-wielding elf, magician). One makes out that it is a big softie, about 38 years old, and looks like just a sack of flesh from which the bones have been extracted – such that it looks like you could throw it onto a couch and it would just remain in whatever position it arrived. It’s only attacks involve gentle extensions of its forearms. I see through this deception, and fully understand the peril and the pain it could cause me.
The second hound is a small, fast one, with short legs, and is described as a ‘ratter’. I seem to remember this was a character in Harry Potter and the something of nothings. It makes a deafening noise as it bolts towards me, trying to bite me above the knees, punch me in the thighs etc. It also has the ability to appear suddenly from beneath chairs. The most frightening thing is when it bares its teeth, which suddenly appear to be outside its head, reminiscent of the aliens in Pitch Black, or Alien itself. It bares its teeth and emits a gnashing sound, and its eyes move independently of one another, and its head vibrates with the desire to kill something.
The new hound is a big brown one with a black head, which I think can only be a wolf. This one concerns me the most as it is an unknown quantity and clearly has a mouth big enough to kill me. Its leash is just a length of rope, like a noose. This is the hard one.
More distressingly, Helen and Helen’s mum sometimes talk on behalf of the dogs, using what I must assume is the dog’s voice and mannerisms. I found it difficult at times to know at what point the person ended and the dog began. They had lengthy conversations on which bed they would be sleeping in and such. Really unsettling stuff – especially the first time they did it, as it was like I was in the dogs’ heads, a place I hoped never to go.
How to tell a dog’s age: chop off a leg and count the rings. (Or better, chop the hound through the middle and count those rings).
Let’s send all dogs to France.
I am going to start referring to ‘The Bearded One’. This is something Diego Maradona did this week – he means God, and I think this is genius.
Yesterday I went to Derby to shop for bits to make an outfit. Although I got the pieces I needed I am starting to think the outfit may turn out to be disappointingly unrecognizable. But we persevere as ever.
This evening I have been booking some delightful traditional Japanese accommodation in Tokyo and Kyoto in advance of my forthcoming official visit.
Advanced lesson in selling accommodation: Always talk a place up. (Ryokan = traditional Japanese resthouse) :
"Taito Ryokan is not a palace hotel, but an old ryokan, appreciate your consideration and imagination from the price, JPY3,000, before you inquire = which means that it is not suitable for someone who cannot overcome gaps = ups and downs all over the house, very steep stairs and basic/authentic toilets. No perfect room temperature even there is an air-condition, no insulated silence, no high tech gadgets. And also, it is advisable to bring your own gear such as shampoo, soap, towel and hair dryer. Thanks a lot, Arigatou gozaimasu for your being patient. Please note that sometime someone might misjudge ryokan as 5-star with meals provided in your own room with full attend and service with onsen attached. We are the most basic and most simple ryokan. We have been ryokan since 1950."
Might just give that one a miss…
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