London town

I recall my Dad once telling me – ‘never fall for an Englishman.’

Not one for listening what did I do…

Brutal lesson I suppose, but the Casio Watch Boy I met in Naples and the Casio Watch Boy I met on his home turf of London aren’t the same Casio Watch Boy.

It ended badly, very badly, although I must say I’m keeping the watch, one because I can’t afford another one, and two because it’s quite handy.

Luckily, there’s been a lot of other stuff going on in London to keep me occupied.

For one, Wimbledon’s been on, and being a bit crazy I decided to try my luck on final’s day for a ground pass, though it took me a good hour to work out where ‘the queue’ actually began.


By the time I found ‘the queue’ it was 500 yards long, I was given the number 3,465 for the day and told I could be waiting up to five hours to get in, meaning the final would be over.

This is as close to the action as I got before I gave up.


I ended up settling for the next best thing, watching Wimbledon at a Wimbledon pub, where I got myself quietly drunk on Pimms and tried to sober myself up with a Sunday roast, though not in time to prevent myself from balling over Andy Murray’s speech.

If you missed it, it’s worth a watch.

Besides Wimbledon, I’m proud to report that I’ve been playing tour guide to a New Zealand friend and I’ve managed to not get either of us lost.




We also wound up outside Buckingham Palace and before you ask, the massive bag I’m holding is a selection of clothes my friend kindly brought over from home.


I can’t even describe how exciting it was to slip into my favourite dress, until I discovered it had a massive hole in the side thanks to my sister wearing it during her pregnancy.

To be honest I’m not mad, I’m more gutted my sister wore my normal clothes as maternity clothes.

I digress.

Back to my New Zealand friend, I’m pretty sure I’m not exaggerating when I say that she is the nicest, sweetest person I’ve ever met.

She’s the girl who when someone smacks into her on the tube she apologises and she’s the girl that stops to talk to homeless people.

Not that I’m cold hearted, but I’m naturally sceptical, so when she stops to ask a well dressed woman with nice jewellery sitting on the footpath crying on London’s West End if she’s ok, I’m naturally suspicious.

Apparently she’s an overstayer who’s going to be deported next week. I have to bite my tongue as I’m pretty sure if you’re caught overstaying you’re on the next plane home…

Anyway, she goes onto reject every offer of assistance we can think of: helping her locate her embassy, a homeless shelter, a hostel. Nope, it’s clear she wants just one thing – cold hard cash.

We give up.

It was a bit of a downer on an otherwise amazing night seeing the Broadway musical ‘Wicked.’

Thanks to queuing up at 9am we managed to secure ourselves front row seats.


Although, we didn’t realise they were front row until we asked the lady at the counter where the seats were.

She gave us a look of you must be f$&@ing kidding me and grunted – ‘front row, that’s why you’re queuing.’

We just thought we were queuing for good stall seats. Bonus. And, we were so close to the action you could see the actors spit when they sang.


Apart from that I’ve wasted a lot of time on life admin of late.

Turns out not having a fixed abode makes setting up a bank account and going to the doctors a particularly painful ordeal.

Take going to the doctors for instance. Because I can’t register with a GP I had to wait four hours to be seen at a Drop-In Centre to get some routine prescriptions.

Then when it’s finally my turn, the doctor says to me after I politely query her advice – ‘frankly, I don’t really care about you, this is just my professional advice ok.’

I walked out slightly demoralised and clutching a one month’s prescription, meaning I’ll be doing it all again next month.

I decided the only thing to cheer me up was to go and watch half naked men in the new male stripper movie ‘Magic Mike.’

It worked, although it would have been better if it was in 3D.


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