Thursday, April 11th .....

We went into Glasgow today on the bus.  Jean and Sandra walk everywhere which suits me find but they don't usually stop for a cup of coffee and that's against my nature.  Sandra had booked us on the tourist bus; it was too cold and wet to go upstairs so we huddled on the bottom deck.  Glasgow has some beautiful buildings but there are some  pretty shabby areas too.

I was particularly impressed with Glasgow University which has is spectacular and Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum.  Across the road from Kelvingrove is Kelvin Hall where I remember going as a kid to see a circus. Both these places are named after Lord Kelvin who worked at Glasgow University in the field of thermodynamics.

I'm a fan of Taggart on TV which has a background of the Scottish Exhibition Centre in its opening sequence.  I always think it looks like a poor man's Opera House.  It's not as big as it appears on the screen.  They're building a new, fantastic Concert Hall beside it and they're already taking bookings for performances in September.  It doesn't look to me that it will be finished.

The commentary on the bus was by Neil Oliver who presented the TV series Coast and History of Scotland, but it didn't matter because it stopped working on our section of the bus so we just enjoyed the sights with no explanation.

I had booked in to go to Rotary tonight and I was made very welcome.  The guest speaker, a man of my age, told us about his trip to Everest Base Camp.  He made a fabulous trip seem mundane by his focus on distances, names of places and other trivial details, but what an achievement!

Edinburgh tomorrow.

Wednesday, April 10th .....

After the long flight and my adventures in London, the plan was for a quiet day on Tuesday and, perhaps, doing something a bit more strenuous today.  I needed to stretch my legs so Jean took me up to the grounds of Chatelherault, the hunting lodge of the Dukes of Hamilton.  The trees are still bare, with very little new grass and the air was very cold but it was great to stretch out.

We met Sandra later and visited the Low Parks to see the exhibition of the Cameronian Regiment.  My grandfather, and Jean and Sandra's father served with this extraordinary regiment.  It arose from the Covenanters movement which fought against the appointment of bishops in the Scottish Church and eventually became the only rifle regiment in Scotland.   I won't try to explain the significance of that: I don't suppose I really know and you don't need to know.  The regiment has now been disbanded.

We had a look around Burnbank where my Donachie grandparents lived and Blantyre where I spent the first seven years of my life.  Sadly, almost everything I remember has been changed. My school has been demolished, the street where I lived has disappeared and all the shops I remember are no more.

We did find the house where my grandparents lived, now a little run down but it brought back memories of my last day in Scotland, December, 12th, 1950.  Everything was packed and we were dressed ready to catch the train to Liverpool where we would join the ship. There had been snow but my brother, Sandy, and I were still sent outside to play.  We enjoyed ourselves sliding up and down the footpath in front of the house.  We also had a sled, I remember.  Endless to say, when we were called in, we were grubby and our shoes were saturated.  Mum had to somehow get them dry before we left.

We also started today with a walk, of nearly two hours!  A bit over the top I thought. A last word about the food - dessert last night was clootie dumpling and custard, and tonight's dinner was chicken stuffed with haggis, I kid you not.

Monday, April 8th .....

I was very confused with change of time zones and found myself under the misapprehension that the plane was three hours late.  I didn't work out what the problem was until I saw the proper time on a clock dial, and the first clock I saw in London was Big Ben!

So, I'm in London after a pretty good flight.  I'd recommend Royal Brunei to anyone who is happy to forego the odd drink while they're travelling. And don't take their advice about where is the best place to sit.  59H was rubbish; I was much better off in 49D.

The tour of London was great.  I didn't get off the bus but I saw the famous images and got a feel for the depth and breadth of history.  I was reading the Daily Mail and although it seems to be a much better paper than any in Australia, it's still obsessed with scandal and celebrity and parading the hard-luck story of the week.  When you consider what sort of people the Brits have been through history: nation and empire builders, innovators and adventurers, stalwart in hard times and the world's most powerful nation for three centuries, and then look at them now.  Nuff said!

It's easy to be awe-struck by the beauty of London but the Tube soon brings you back to earth.  Designed when the average Londoner was about 5ft6in, the carriages are so tiny and the tunnels are made to match.  And even Sydney has tried to bring their station into the  21st century by installing lifts.  London still depends on the old stairs worn down by the feet of the Londoners who sheltered there during the Blitz. The doors on the trains are sudden death too.  The train came in and we all rushed for the door. Being the gentleman I am, I let a couple of women go ahead.  As I threw my suitcase on the train, they propped, leaving me in limbo, bag on the train, me still on the platform. 'Keep going, ladies,' I said and

 squeezed up behind them.  They never moved, the doors slammed shut trapping me (just) on the train but my backpack, still attached to my shoulders outside the door. It took two beefy passengers to force the door open enough for me to drag it through.

I had one mishap: I lost my wallet (don't worry, I found it again).  Before I started on the tour, I checked my suitcase and carry-on bag into Left Luggage at Charing Cross Station - 2 pieces at £8.50 per piece.  By the time I got back to collect them, I was starting to feel the results of the long flight and lack of sleep.  Somehow, after paying the ransom for the bags, my wallet must have  fallen out of my pocket.  I didn't't discover the loss until I got to Euston Station.   The brain was working for once and I realised where I had last seen it. I proceeded in a northerly direction (too many police dramas!) until I found the Euston Left Luggage office, asked the man there to ring Charing Cross and see if it had been handed in.  It was.  Not wanting to drag my heavy luggage up and down an endless number of rather dangerous stairs, I checked two pieces in to Euston and shot off to get the train back to Charing Cross.

I'm really getting to know London, I can tell you.  Went to Left Luggage, sent on to Information booth, here's your wallet but I've paid the £135 into the ticket office. Why? I didn't want to take responsibility for it, here's a receipt.  OK, went to the ticket office, no idea what I'm talking about. Here's a receipt, can you ask someone else?  He's on his break and shouldn't be long.  He was.  Do you have the receipt?  I gave it to the other fellow.  I can't give you the money without the receipt.  I gave it to the other fellow.  OK.  Do you have the wallet? Yes, thank- you.  Can I see it? Can I see the inside?  OK, I'll have to give you a voucher.  What do I do with that? (See how calm I am) I'll cash it for you.  Laboriously  he counted out the money, checked it, then counted it out note by note in front of me.  Thank you, I said between gritted teeth.  Now you count it please, he said.  I did.

Back to Euston, mopping my brow.  At Left Luggage, there's another jobsworth at the counter.  Can I help you? I left two bags here when I rushed off to Charing Cross to collect my lost wallet.  Do you have a receipt? He didn't give me one, I was in too much of a rush.  Well, there's no receipt left on the counter.  What do the bags look like? Is the other chap here?  He's on his break.  (Oh, God) Can you, please ask him if he remembers me?  He says that everybody gets a receipt.  Well, I haven't got one.  What do I do now?  Show me some photo ID and pay a penalty of £15.  That's a total of £32 (for looking after your bags for 35 minutes).  Welcome to London!

Sunday 7th (even later)

We're well on the way to Dubai.  We've had another very nice meal, I've seen the end of Jack Reacher and I'm now listening to Adele before I have a snooze.

During the stopover in Brunei, I noticed the bloke who had pinched my seat waiting among those of us going on to London.  I suspected he would be in the same seat for this next leg which would leave me once again in limbo, so I accosted him.  I should have known ... he was a pommie!  There was certainly no way I would share my seat with him so I was faced with two options: fight him for it, or try to get another one.  Being both a pacifist and coward I decided on the latter, so now I am happily seated in 49D. The FPBis down the back with his smelly socks and snores, and good luck to him.

I also noticed a fellow with a flannelette shirt and bib-and-brace overalls.  I thought he might be a maintenance man travelling with us to carry out some running repairs to the plumbing but, no, he was a passenger.  I'm just imagining the conversation with his wife at breakfast.  'What are you going to wear on the flight to London, dear?' 'I'll be going straight from work and I won't have time to get changed so the overalls will have to do.  Anyway they'll be handy if they have trouble with the plumbing.'

Wouldn't you just love to hear the captain ask over the PA, 'ls there a plumber on board?'

Anyway, it's time for a snooze.  This post is getting silly.

Well, we've landed at Dubai and taken off again for a 6 hour 50 minute flight to Heathrow.   It's been pretty painless so far and I don't expect the next few hours to be a problem.  I picked up the London Daily Mail to read on the plane and I'm about to attempt their crossword.  TTFN

Sunday, 7th (later)

I'm on the plane, writing this note and watching Les Miserables on the tiny screen in back of the seat in front.  I had been worried about having enough legroom and there was nowhere on the booking website to request it, so I sent an email to the Royal Brunei office.   They  replied straight away suggesting I take the very back seat 59H.

When I got on, there was another bloke siting in 59G.  That's not what I was expecting especially when there were lots of empty seats; they might have given me the double-seat to myself!  He was clearly settling in: organising a pillow at his back and taking off his shoes.  I didn't fancy snuggling up to him on a long flight so I made a dignified exit, taking up an unoccupied row of three seats elsewhere.

They're starting to bring lunch around so I'll log out for now.

Back again. Good lunch and I've really enjoyed the film.  I haven't read any reviews but I think they're on a winner.  Of course, the music is wonderful.

I've just been for a walk and found the big-hat man sitting in the next cabin; he's fast asleep - and still wearing his hat!  The brim pokes out into the aisle and the hosties have to sway their hips out of the way when they go past.  The bloke who has hijacked my seat is also sleeping, sprawled out as if he owns both seats. What a cheek!

I've started to watch the movie, Quartet which Sandra and Jeff have recommended.  It's started well and I think it's going to be outstanding.  I'll have to stop writing as the film demands my whole attention. Back again. What a feel- good film!  This is one for the list of 'worth-watching again'.  It should be enough just to have Maggie Smith and Billy Connolly in the same movie but add Pauline Collins as well and the sky's the limit.

Now it's time for Jack Reacher.  Back soon!  

I've been enjoying the Reacher books by Lee Child although I'm not really a fan of pugilistic heroes.  Reacher is different.  Although he's a match for any three or four tough guys, his main skill is as  a problem-solver and the books are very cleverly written to keep the reader guessing to the end when all the threads are  masterfully drawn together. In the books, Reacher is 6 ft 4 and big all over.  In the movie, they've cast Tom Cruise.  What a joke!  He's too small to do the role justice.  

However, it's not that bad.  Cruise is too slick and pretty-boy handsome to carry it off but the story-line is so good it will be enjoyable.  I've only seen half as we landed early so I'll have to finish it on the way to Dubai.

Sunday, April 7th .....

Sunday, April 7th

It's just after 9 o'clock and I'm sitting in Melbourne Airport waiting to book in for my flight to Bandar Seri Bagawan.  It doesn't slip off the tongue, does it? But it's just a stop on the way to London.  The gate hasn't opened yet so I am just filling in time.

I flew into Melbourne last night and stayed over so that I wouldn't have to suffer the, inconvenience of an early-morning flight from Launceston, so I'm refreshed and ready to go.

We took part in a car rally yesterday and managed to win. This is the third rally organised by one of our Rotarians and Marilyn and I finally got our act together and did most things right. She drives and I keep track of the direction and clues.  It's a good division of labour and plays to our skills.  I was surprised, though, to hear that the standard time for the course was 110 minutes, and we only took 99! And that included some back- tracking to check answers.  Maybe we should look at Targa Tasmania next year.

It's 10.50 and I've managed to make my way through check-in and security.  I used to be bemused when security was dramatically increased after 9-11.  The government-inspired bogeyman of that time was the bearded Muslim terrorist and yet, many of the security personnel had a decidedly middle eastern look.  This morning, though, I felt that there had been some recruiting in Eastern Europe.  The bloke at my gate was about 2m tall, bald, chiselled Slavic face and a menacing glower. (I've always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence: menacing glower, very James Bond).  I'm of that generation which looked to Eastern Europe for villains - think of Dr Blofeldt and Kaos in Maxwell Smart.

Any way this fellow was very polite and there was no sign of thumbscrews or nipple tweakers and I survived the ordeal.

As I walked to Gate 8, there was a raucous voice on the PA system, calling passengers for the Jetstar flight to Singapore.  It was that embarassing Australian accent which really makes you cringe and when she started to mispronounce the names of the passengers I wondered what the multicultural listeners thought.  There are some people who should not be allowed near a microphone.  Apart from that, I love airports.  It's fascinating to watch the people and  wonder here they are all going. Once upon a time, everybody dressed up to catch a plane. The men wore suits or at least jacket and tie and women looked as if they were going to church. It's not that now!  And people make such strange decisions about what to wear.  There's a big fellow waiting for my flight with biggest straw hat I have ever seen.  Where will stow it on board?  It'll get squashed in a locker but maybe he hopes to have a spare seat beside him.  Or maybe he bought a seat for his hat. Who knows.

There's another fellow with a little backpack as carry-on luggage.  That's reasonable but he's got things stuffed into outside pockets and bits hanging off it - camera, passport wallet, raincoat pouch and so on. I expected to see a billy and drinking mug as well.  But it takes all kinds.  Maybe there are people sniggering at me but I can't imagine why.

Tuesday, April 2nd .....

I was reading the other day about a Muslim preacher in UK commenting about why men in Islam wear a beard. This preacher says the practice was established by the Prophet who expected his followers to have facial hair.  The preacher believed that Mohammed deplored women who looked like men and men who looked like women. I think it was John Wayne who agreed, saying, 'I like my women to look like women.'

The preacher went further and suggested that men must have beards so that other men might not look at them and feel desire. Hmmm!  Something being repressed there, I suspect.

The article made me think of beards and how they can tell you so much about the people who hide behind them.  There are too many men who grow unruly, straggly beards with no sense of style.  Clearly these fellows are lazy and insensitive, with no pride in their appearance nor any concern for the feelings of their wives.

Then there are the increasingly-common thick goatees - usually dark hair, just a bit too long, with shaved cheeks and neck.  This is almost a uniform requirement for men who drive log trucks or work for the council - beard as social indicator.

There's a phenomenon here which I call the Tasmanian beard.  It's a long-term decision to have a Tasmanian beard as it takes many years to come to fruition.  Long and shovel-shaped, it is usually grey and well looked after.  I think it's often sported by old hippies who have had plenty of time to cultivate the biblical look.

Men who have luxuriant moustaches, curled at the ends in imitation of a WW2 Spitfire pilot are vain and just a touch insecure.  Like powerful cars, these moustaches can be a compensation.

On the other hand, men who have neat, trimmed beards are indicating that they are trustworthy, intelligent and sincere, especially if the beard is grey. It's no accident that primitive tribes call their most able elders, the Greybeards.

And, by the way, I won a prize the other night for the man in the theatre with the best moustache.