Hello Sailor

We’re still in Christchurch, although our time here is now drawing to a close, just one more day and then it’s back to Wellington. Friday was spent exploring the city centre; we took in the square and some of the shops before venturing into the aquarium where we saw – amongst other things – some live kiwis.

Kiwis are very strange: a tubby body, sitting atop bird feet and gifted with a small rodent like head on which is a long narrow beak that almost resembles a straw. This was the only wildlife we weren’t allowed to photograph, due largely to their nervous disposition. These flightless birds are under threat in New Zealand because of the introduction of non-indigenous wildlife such as ferrets, stoats, cats and dogs. As we saw more of the islands wildlife this was a message we heard a lot. It’s easy to see why the islanders are so protective of their fragile ecosystem when much of it has been lost or threatened already.

Saturday we were up before dawn. An in room breakfast feast was a great way to start what would turnout to be a special day indeed. A weather worn kiwi – the human kind – picked us up to take us on a two and a half hour drive to Kaikoura.

What the hell am I talking about? Why is Kaikoura interesting? What’s so bloody special about Saturday?

I’ll tell you: Kiakoura is whale country.

The journey took us out through the Christchurch suburbs into the Canterbury plains. Plains that are a vast expanse of flat agricultural land ringed by the mountains on one side and the pacific on the other. As we made our way the sun painted the landscape in sheets of gold and orange as it climbed into the azure sky. The plains are where much of New Zealand’s wine comes from, vineyards dotting the landscape between the sheep and cattle farms.

Colour is a big feature of New Zealand from lush evergreen through yellow and the first shades of amber in the promise of the coming autumn to the snow capped mountains. Drive through the plains and you’ll see all of it.

We emerged from the hills to follow the sea around the coast drawing nearer to Kaikoura and our first stop. Nestled on the side of the road with the Pacific breaking on the shingle beach in front of us lay a treat. Fur seals were once hunted nearly to the point of extinction in New Zealand, now they’re protected and the numbers have recovered to the point where stopping by the side of the road you can peer down on them. And we did.

*

The colony lay sprawled out in the sun, enjoying a leisurely morning on the beach that we were keen not to disturb. They’re funny creatures, somewhat ungainly on land, clearly intelligent and eerily reminiscent of humans in some mannerisms, particularly when stretched out sleeping. They sleep in the oddest of positions, including upside down and curled up into balls of fur.

Once in the water they’re different animals altogether: sleek, fast, clever hunters that blend into the sea in no time at all. Reluctantly we travelled on, leaving the seals to their nap.

By the time we got to Kaikoura the sun was out in force and the Southern Alps were wreathed in an ethereal mist that left you in no doubt as to why Peter Jackson chose to shoot The Lord Of The Rings in New Zealand.

We were warned before we boarded the boat that there was a high chance of sea sickness due to the weather, in fact it was touch and go if we would make the trip at all as the first boat that day had been cancelled. I felt pretty confident that I would be fine as I have pretty good sea legs but G is often unwell in boats and so I purchased ginger capsules for us both. Though I drew the line at motion sickness bands, they offended my pride.

You know the one that goes before the fall.

We boarded the purpose built, double-hulled, engine powered boat at a small jetty just outside of Kaikoura. It was much faster than I thought it would be, skipping along at a fair old whack that had me grinning with glee as G gripped my hand and closed her eyes. Neptune, it seems, has a sense of humour.

Finding whales - we were in search of sperm whale - is not so much of a science as an art and there are no guarantees that you’ll see any. After all the whale doesn’t get a cut of your admission fee, he – you only get males of New Zealand because of the temperature – doesn’t give a toss that you’re only there for a few weeks. We were aided by the start of migration season and a boat that had already sighted some of the resident whales.

South Island sits on the edge of a great undersea canyon where warm currents mix with colder currents to produce a nutrient rich environment that makes for good feeding for a whole host of wildlife. We made a couple of stops where our skipper put a hydrophone in the water to ascertain how many – if any – whales were present and where.

Two failed attempts later a circling Cesna briefly raised our hopes that we would soon be seeing a sperm whale but when the voice came over the radio it was orca (killer whales) not our quarry that had been sighted.

Determined, we set off again for where another boat had sighted a whale earlier that morning. Sperm whale dive, on average, for around forty-five minutes as they hunt for their prey – including the giant squid with which they regularly do battle. However they have been recorded diving for up to two and a half hours; we crossed everything that this was not going to be one of those times.

Our first whale - a resident whale - surfaced of our port bow sending all of us scrabbling for a viewing position with G and myself on the upper deck looking down at our first sperm whale. A slick charcoal grey ridge sticking a few inches out of the water marking the edge of his forehead down to a knobbly ridge flagging the back of his skull, spray shooting periodically into the air as he built up his oxygen reserves for another dive. We took in the size of this enormous creature as it floated near the side of the boat before he brought his huge bird shaped tail out of the water as it went under in search of dinner.

Our next encounter was with another resident whale. In this case an animal that Whale Watch has been tracking since the projects inception twenty odd years ago and that had been seen around twenty minutes before we saw our first whale. He surfaced a little while ahead of our arrival but we had a chance to take in this even larger whale before the behemoth waved his tail at us and slipped away.

Well, by this time I was happier than a pig in shit. I’ve always wanted to see whales in the wild and I’d done it but not only that I’d managed to see one of the rarer species. I felt elated, I felt strange, I felt an odd sense of dizziness as I sloped back to my seat but I pushed it to one side looking forward to our next task: orca.

We made our way over to where the pod of orca had been sighted and within a few moments one had breached right in front of our boat. A fact our commentator noted had not happened to her in seven years of working at Whale Watch, our good day was about to get magical.

Known as the wolves of the sea, orca or killer whales are actually more closely related to dolphins than whales with their name coming from their ability – in groups – to kill whales. They’re the top predator of the ocean eating pretty much anything that strikes their fancy although you’ll be relieved to hear humans do not feature on that list. They are intelligent and fortunately for us inquisitive.

We came across two males and a female. One of the males broke off pretty early, bored of boats no doubt, but the remaining male along with his lady friend came in for a closer look. They circled us giving us plenty of opportunity to see their heads and impressive dorsal fins before heading next to as well as under the boat. Up on the upper deck looking down I managed to see the whole of the male orca from snout to tail: nearly the entire length of the boat. Breathtaking, humbling, beautiful, rolled on his side to afford him a view of the people staring down at him and utterly wonderful.

Now, I’ve seen orca before when I was much younger visiting Seaworld with my parents. Sat as part of the audience cooing and shrieking as the whales breached and pranced for the paying public through what has to be said is an entertaining show. I’m not saying this to be politically correct or some environmental hippy but it is nothing like seeing these animals in the wild. In the wild these creatures move differently, look different – healthy and alert – and have a grace that you simply don’t see in captivity.

We began our journey back to shore. Three’s the charm though and before we’d got very far a whale surfaced right in front of us! We stopped off to take in this last sperm whale, a large chap who was so uninterested in the boat that he rolled over and went to sleep depriving us of a tail wave but showing us a new trick. Strangely he seemed to take my stomach with him when he went under.

What was this curious feeling in my belly?

As we skipped along the curious feeling of dizziness began to recede as I cast my gaze out at the open sea. I could see albatross riding the air above the ocean and the odd boat bobbing on the swell, something silver darted through the air. At first I thought it was my imagination or worse the ghosting that precedes the migraines I occasionally get. Then it happened again and I realised they were dolphins. The boat slowed as we were given the opportunity to run outside and take pictures.

A strange thing happened as the boat slowed. My stomach, last seen riding a sperm whale down a pacific canyon returned as if let go on a giant rubber band that shot it up from the depths into my belly and out through my mouth. Yes ladies and gents: I, the proud owner of what were thought to be two unshakable sea legs, was seasick.

Sore, tired, smelling faintly of sick and, clutching a rather warm paper bag of contents you would not wish to gaze on, I returned to shore. I didn’t care: it was completely and utterly worth it.

I’d even do it again.

* All photos are courtesy of G.

One year on…

Today this blog is one year old.

I’m quite surprised I managed to stick at it for this long; in the past my sites have only lasted a few months before I got bored. In the case of The Other Side of The River I’ve managed to post every week and I’ve proven to myself that I can drive traffic off the back of my own content.

It’s been quite a ride. I was shat on in Paris, mugged by an Indian Holy Man, risked liable in the name of satire, annoyed aging politicians, been reduced to fanboy incoherence, tried to pick a fight with Orlando Bloom and bumped into Pulitzer prize winning authors. I’ve managed to get published a few times myself - including in a book - and I’ve made some new friends along the way.

And most importantly it’s fun – that’s why I’m still doing it.

Friday Flash Fiction: Quantum Cigars

Here goes. Feedback is welcome.

Quantum Cigars
By Neil Beynon

There was no sound. This was marginally disappointing but not unexpected. Simply changing the quantum frequency to allow his enhanced eyes a view of the multiverse was difficult enough; the power required astonishing. The artificial star he was using to do this pulsed within its containment field, or rather the artificial stars pulsed, counterparts visible, each slightly off centre with the other arcing into forever - a migraine inducing distortion. The seeker didn’t want to consider what would be required to allow sound.

The seeker looked round at his counterparts who had also made the journey. They filled the room, the building and even out into the town – as far as they could get from the distortion field before they vanished. In the process had he created dozens more that did not move? He knew that there were almost certainly counterparts that had not made the journey and counterparts for whom the experiment had failed. Had those counterparts always existed or would they have never existed if he had decided to explore the world of taxidermy instead? Mathematically he suspected they’d always existed but philosophers…well they always argued.

“We all know why we’re here: the experiment is reaching its final stages,” he wrote on the particle screen. “If our calculations have worked then one of us should be from the version of the multiverse closest to the edge. Please step forward.”

He waited. They waited.

After a few moments wrapped in eternity the seeker realised many of his counterparts were now pointing at the particle screen, or more accurately a version of the screen. Words danced onto the monitor, in the wake of one of his counterpart’s hands. The man flickered and sputtered underneath the strip lights as the star struggled to keep him visible.

A series of equations appeared on the screen that made the smarter counterparts smile while the slower ones just scratched their heads. Understanding settled on the seeker like a cold flannel to the back of his neck as his counterpart’s numbers unfolded.

The counterpart stopped writing and inserted something into the memory dock on the side of the particle screen. A kaleidoscope of colour faded into view, an image so garish and alien that it hurt to look at. Yet the seeker stared at it until the image was burned into the retina of his mind, until the colours began to make sense, to have shape, until he could make out multiple blobs of varying shapes, sizes, colours and textures.

Many of the mute audience clapped in silence. Others looked ready to throw themselves off the top of the laboratory, as if their world had collapsed in on itself as their collective hypothesis had. When the universe had been proven to be just one slice of the pie, one sliver of the real, they had invented a new word: multiverse. Once more, it seemed, a new word would be needed.

The seeker sat down, his face pale and tired. It was too much at his journey’s end. After all this time, all his work; the awards that lined one shelf of his office, the brother he hardly saw gazing down on him from the picture frame above his desk. Everything turned upside down and inside out within his mind. He fumbled with his top pocket, withdrew a cigar and unwrapped it with practiced ease; a billion seekers lit up in synchronicity ignoring the no smoking signs. A billion lungs abused.

Twenty-four years he’s been looking, a long time in search of the path. A huge amount of calculations, of hunting and of bashing particles against each other like rocks. An age creating new things to look at, new ideas and even newer things to understand why the old new things didn’t work as expected. Twenty-four years of toil, of an endless train of people who’d meandered their way through the lab and out again on their own journeys, travelling with him for a short while.

A billion of him glanced back at the screen. At the myriad of multiverses each with their own set of physical laws, distinct and unique, each with a different sub-set of possibilities. An eternity of roads down which to walk, a jamboree of journey.

A billion cigar-ends glowed amber in the shady light of the lab, sucked on by a billion mouths as the seeker felt something flicker and glow within him. A quantum haze of smoke filled the lab as the seeker walked to the device he spent his life building and slid the lever to off. The hum of the enslaved star dropped an octave. The seeker was alone. Yet he wasn’t. His brethren are still all around him, within and without; he just can’t see them anymore. He likes that thought, always has.

The seeker returned to his desk, scattering ash like breadcrumbs along his path. Gently he stubbed out his cigar and reached for a fresh sheet of paper, his other hand grabbing a pen. There’s no time to waste. And his last thought, before he starts on his new equations, is that he hopes his walking shoes are up to the journey.

Smiling to himself, he begins to write.

Golden Hokey Pokey

We’re in Christchurch now having spent yesterday travelling down from Wellington.

I don’t really associate New Zealand or Australia with having different words for stuff although I’m not sure why as clearly in America they’ve got a whole raft of different vocabulary from Jello to sidewalk. Anyway, it caught me by surprise to find out that honeycomb is called golden hokey pokey here and perhaps that explains why we found it so funny we drew stares from the locals.

The day after our adventures in the hills above Wellington we spent at a slower pace. A leisurely lunch with M and C led into an afternoon exploring the Te Papa museum and learning more about the history of the country from the pacific islanders who originally settled the islands to the gold rush of the 1800s.

Our journey down to Christchurch was every bit as scenic as I’d hoped. We began with a ferry journey across from Wellington that allowed us to see some of the coast from the sea. Truly spectacular cliffs lined the route as we navigated down what looked like some tricky channels into the small town of Picton.

It was a very small train that would then take us the rest of the way down to Christchurch on the east coast of South Island. This turned out to be a bonus as due to the low number of people travelling we wound up with four seats to ourselves and the opportunity to sprawl.

We began in vineyard country before heading into the hills and down to the coast. I still can’t quite believe how blue the pacific is around New Zealand but I had plenty of opportunity to gaze on it as the train hugged the coastline for a hundred kilometres. As we passed through Kaikoura we managed to catch glimpse of some seals enjoying the afternoon sun and behind us the southern alps’ snowy peaks kept us in shade for a while as the train meandered on.

We pulled away from the coast as dusk began to fall, travelling through more rural landscape. The grass here was a shade of green I usually associate with CGI and a series of tightly formed, geometrically diverse hills left me with a vague sense of a beautiful if alien landscape. We rolled into Christchurch in the dark, looked over by a low-slung crescent moon and feeling like we’d seen something special.

And it was good.

Wellington Wanderers

Tuesday was our first full day in New Zealand.

Monday, we arrived at M and C’s a little after ten. We spent the rest of the day trying to stay awake by exploring the village of Hataitai near M and C’s house in Wellington. The village is quite small and has a nice collection of shops, cafes and restaurants. A chocolate shop full of handcrafted, sugared, delights kept G happy. The evening was spent chilling with C and M – a good end to a long day.

On Tuesday we found we’d acclimatised quite quickly to the time zone and so decided to head into the centre of Wellington. We caught a bus that was both on time, clean and allowed us to sit down. Already I could tell Wellington was going to be a clear improvement on old London town.

The bus journey passed through a series of suburbs lined by wooden houses, painted in a range of pastels and reminded me in places of Georgetown, Washington only cleaner. Indeed there is a strong mix of British, American and European architecture all over the city with downtown Wellington resembling parts of America now lost in time – or that perhaps never really existed save in old television shows.

The weather had been initially cloudy, a continuation of weather we encountered on landing in Wellington, but by the time we got into town it was really quite sunny. Warm enough in the sun that I removed my jacket as we walked up past the Beehive (part of the New Zealand parliamentary buildings) to where we had arranged to meet C for lunch.

Lunch was a joy. We went to a medium sized café called The Ministry of Food where we tucked into some really great focaccia with grilled field mushrooms and goat’s feta; it was fabulous. To be honest I’ve been really surprised at the quality of the food. Everywhere we’ve been so far – admittedly not that much - they’ve cooked the food fresh on the premises. It’s been a lovely surprise.

After lunch, we decided to explore the botanical gardens. The walk up takes you past the beehive through Bolton Memorial Cemetery where many of the Victorian settlers are buried. A motorway was run through it in the sixties splitting the site in two; they’re now part of a walk that leads from town up to the botanical gardens and linked via a bridge over the road. It was surprising, once we were over the footbridge, how quickly the sound of the motorway gave way to the serenity of the cemetery and birdsong from the thriving wildlife.

On emerging from the cemetery we entered a rose garden and despite it being nearly autumn we managed to see some fantastic flowers as well as some boisterous ducks. It was very clear a great deal of love and effort had gone into those gardens. I must confess it was an incredibly relaxing space that I just sat in whilst G took many, many photographs. I wasn’t surprised to hear water because there was a fountain but I was surprised to see a small waterfall surrounded by some type of memorial.

This was the Peace Flame celebrating New Zealand’s strong commitment to conflict resolution, specifically touching on New Zealand’s anti-nuclear stance. New Zealand has strong links to Japan in part because of its stance on Nuclear weapons; New Zealand is a nuclear free country and has been for some time. The flame is a Hiroshima and Nagasaki Peace flame that sits in a lantern in the centre of the water feature. Also present is an actual stone taken from the ruins of Hiroshima. The monument was an unexpected find in amongst the gardens and I spent some time reflecting on it. I’m still not sure how I feel.

I’ll post some photos when I get a chance.

At the top of botanical gardens the fantastic range of trees give way to breathtaking views down over the city and harbour. Having exhausted ourselves scrambling around for good shots and the light deciding to fail we caught the cable car back down to the city. This wasn’t dissimilar to the Victoria cable car in Hong Kong.

From there it was back to the house for another evening with friends.

The Far Side of the World

I am now in Wellington having been traveling for around thirty-five hours. That means this post may make even less sense than normal and without even considering that I’m doing it on my mobile.

Anyway, I’m rambling. I do that.

The flight out was good but long and there was mildly concerning mishap in Aukland. Our flight from LAX was late and we wound up with half anhour to run from one end of the airport to the other. After 24hrs of flying I fear and that run I fear I was nasally uncomfortable company for that hour jaunt into Wellington.

But I’m here, and G is in the shower so I thought a quick, furtive post was in order.

First impressions of New Zealand: beautiful, relaxed and lots of views. For example, as I tap this out I am gazing out at the bay, behind that are mountains.

As previously mentioned we’re staying with friends C and M. C is my oldest friend - we’ve known each other for over twenty-five years - and as we haven’t seen each other for eighteen months I’m very excited to finally be here.

Anyway, bye for now.

Winged Ape

I’m tapping this out in the departure lounge at Heathrow, our jumbo just the other side of the glass. Looking forward to a long break in New Zealand.

I’ll be gone for a few weeks and, although I will be posting periodically, it may take a little longer than normal for me to respond to stuff. For now I’m just hoping the screeching children don’t do that in the aircraft.

Ta ta for now.

PS - Boris? I mean why?!

Friday Flash Fiction: Devil Eyes

This week’s entry is more than a little over the word count and to be frank I’m not sure it’s any good. However, I hope you enjoy it and any feedback is - as always - appreciated.

Devil Eyes
By Neil Beynon

The city was small and ancient. It was also wet. The entire time I was there it was dry for maybe four hours in total, the insidious drizzle leaving the cobblestones slick and treacherous. Threatening to spill you out in front of a car or bicycle. A strange place, a city so small you could walk from one end to the other with ease but full of people so tall I felt like an ant crawling on its back.

I think I was more or less nocturnal during my stay. The days spent in a dry airless state of dreaming as meetings ran on around me and from which I would emerge – daylight spent - desperate for some sign of life. The city beckoned me with neon fingers.

The city carved from blocks of stone, shaped over a hundred years ago, then piled upon each other until they reached four or five stories in the air. There is something to be said for wandering around with your eyes at that level, the occasional gargoyle staring back at you, an odd embarrassing collision or two from not looking where you’re going. Yet that is not what the city is famous for.

And so your eyes travel down, your nose gets to the smoke first. It’s heavy, cloying, sickly sweet and temple squeezing; you pass the scattered sources of this fog with a dizzying regularity. At least you tell yourself it’s the regularity that’s dizzying.

Your eyes itch from the smoke. Your gaze travels down below the hashish haze to street level. Slave girls look back at you from their glass wrappers. Some try to attract your attention with taps or winks whilst others merely gaze blankly as they whisper into mobile phones. A menagerie of faces: bored, tired, excited, aggressive, dead, sad – all on display and all available for a reasonable price. Everything negotiable.

You never see anyone actually purchase or rent at the slave market and yet they must because some of the boxes are empty, some have curtains pulled over - a sure fire indication of a transaction. It’s a strange city.

On my last night, I walked down the high street, my friend by my side and the need to have a large cold glass of beer weighing on my wallet. We no longer turned to tapping glass or half heard platitudes but I still cast my eyes round in general disbelief at the naked nihilism on display.

Certain things draw the eye - as humans we can’t help it. We’re all hunter-gatherers that have risen to the top of the food chain by spotting patterns other species miss. Bare flesh is one of those things. My eyes were caught, by what I’m not sure. I suspect it was a thigh. I was always a fool for a good pair of thighs.

My gaze flicked from a shocked American tourist, camera dangling from his neck and his tongue flapping round his feet, to the glass box behind him. First I saw the legs - slim, lithe, toned - a pleasing curve up to hips that were slim but not unsightly, a simple shift of black silk draped the torso. Smooth elegant arms lay folded across the barest rise of a bust. As bodies go it was unremarkable – neither ugly nor gorgeous – but you couldn’t say that of all the girls.

Then I saw the face smiling at me.

The width of the jaw and consequently of the face was too wide for the neck on which it was located, the contours were angular as if the skull beneath had been carved from stone. The nose was small, barely more than a pointy nub of flesh dropped on top of the bone beneath – think Michael Jackson in fifteen years time – and eyes so dark they were void. The skin of her face was not smooth like the flesh she was waving – now in my direction – but rough, calloused like worn leather.

She…he…it leered at me – I won’t call it a smile – and I realised I was staring that there was a perception of interest, a cold flannel of realisation to the back of my neck. My head flipped round so quickly my eyes blurred and a flood of warm pain billowed across my neck to match the burning heat on my face.

#

The bar was fetid with the sweat of the customers. A dark underground place where the beer was cheap, the spirits strong and the conversation an increasing spiral of bullshit, ever higher as the evening – and beer - rolled on. Just the way I like it. I don’t remember how much I had, just that when I left I had no periphery vision and the cobblestones seemed to be rotating on some hidden axis.

The walk back was a long one, longer than the walk from the hotel to the bar. We got lost in the labyrinth of stone, glass and cobbles, eventually finding ourselves back in the market, now closed. Most of the slaves had already gone to their masters for the night. I kept my eyes on the cobbles lest they move when I wasn’t looking.

It was quiet. Our feet echoed as we walked, a small sound of tinkling glass or the occasional car exhaust backfiring the only accompaniment to our irregular footfall. Consequently when the man swore, his curses punctuated by a chain being yanked, it was not hard to hear. Actually, I don’t know if he swore for sure because he spoke in a different language but certain tones are universal, anger being one of them.

I glanced round because I am an idiot. The man was a little taller than I am wearing a three quarter length leather jacket, a neat beard trimmed round his plump chin, a belly heading south of his shirt. He had a chain in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Attached to the end of the chain was a slave who whimpered and gagged when the man tugged on it, the chain being the kind people used to use on larger dogs but don’t anymore for good reason.

I stopped, shocked. My feet locked, uncertain which way to go.

The smoking guy looked at me looking at him. I blinked, uncertain whether to say something or not and he smiled at me; pointed at the half naked slave who in turn looked at me.

“You like?” he said. “I give discount for rest of night?”

This close and without the glass I could see the girl’s eyes weren’t just dark they were obsidian, her face pulled tight over her too large skull not just aged but actually a different texture to the rest of her body – more like elephant skin. I span away quickly.

More swearing, a meaty whack, crying and the sound of a chain being snapped followed by the clip clop of heels on cobbles followed me into the night. My friend vomited on the corner dragging my attention back to more pragmatic issues like where the hotel had been moved.

#

In the morning, before we left for the airport, sitting alone in the restaurant awaiting poached eggs I didn’t feel like eating but felt I should, I couldn’t remember much of the night before. Just flashes really, glimpses of what sounded like a good night out but had left my head feeling like broken eggshell, and I wondered whether the slave had been made that way or if it was self-inflicted.

I figured there might be a story in it. She…he…it had definitely looked not human, maybe the slave wasn’t? Perhaps it was a demon? Perhaps that was a hook? Perhaps it was time I left for the airport.

The restaurant was one of those every business hotel in mainland Europe seems to insist on having – lots of neon, chrome and mirrored glass. A myriad of me gazed back from a hundred surfaces: Red-rimmed eyes dragging luggage across the hills of my cheeks and the stubbly forest of my chin; a face as familiar in its relief as it was a stranger wrapped in weariness.

But it wasn’t mine.

Holiday Reading

Only three days to go!

I’m seriously ready for my break now and it’ll be great to see C and M. I haven’t seen them in around eighteen months but more on that later in the week. This post is about other things. For today I must compile that all important, critical, make or break item: the holiday reading list.

This crucial document is more than just a shopping list, like a good compilation record get it wrong and it can ruin the whole break. On the one hand - because it’s an English speaking country - the risk is lower as I can always buy more and on the other it’s higher - twenty-nine hour flights do not as yet offer an in flight library.

So here’s my draft list:

King Rat by China Mieville
Singularity Sky by Charlie Stross
The Yiddish Policeman’s Union by Michael Chabon
The Man Who was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton
The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth by Malcom Pryce
Fresh Fields by Peter Kocan
Brasyl by Ian McDonald (Yes, I haven’t read it…stop sniggering at the back)
The Ghosts Brigade by John Scalzi
The Complete Short Stories by Franz Kafka

That’s it for now. Of course, I’m a terrible impulse buyer when it comes to books and so I may wind up with a larger haul.

What do you plan on reading on your holidays this year?

Commuter Capers

Top five comedy commuter capers, go on - I dare you:

5. Next time a free paper is slapped into your chest arm bar the free paper pusher to the ground and tweak him a la Mister Miyagi. Helps your defence later if you yell assault as the paper hits you.

4. Dramatically swoon to the floor, drawing maximum attention the next time someone walks into you or cuts you up.

3. Next time someone with hygiene issues sits next to you remove a can of deodrant and spray the air around you. Use of phrase “For the flies” optional.

2. As everyone rushes to the train to board dance down the platform performing the corect steve tyler moves to classic cheese rock Walk This Way.

1. Next time some one invades your personal space cough loudly, explosively and spraying as much vapour at them as you can without actually spitting on them. Then talk loudly to your companion or mobile phone about how your TB is really a lot better and you hardly bring up any blood these days. Hand wipe to space invadee’s garment is optional.