At Vienna Airport...

As soon as I engage with the mechanisms of travel, I start to get angry. And I'm not always right. Well, to be fair, I didn't get angry, just mildly and inwardly annoyed and it turned out that he was right and I was wrong. And by 'he' I mean a taxi driver who hailed from Ankara in Turkey. The thing is, I just couldn't remember as there was so much going on and it had been a few days since I last engaged with Austrian trains. To be fair, I've had other things on my mind; I'd been in Linz and from Linz I'd arrived at Wein Hbf, the central station, and for some reason, when I hailed a cab with a view to travelling to the airport, I thought I'd have to go back to the main station to pick up the so-called CAT train. Turns out that the CAT train goes from Wein Mitte. In fact, I remember, on the inward journey from the airport, that I couldn't figure out how to get to the central station from where I would pick up a train to Linz. I had to ask for information. So, on my arrival at the central station from Linz on Tuesday evening, I took a cab to my hotel, the Intercontinental. Fast forward a few days – five to be precise – and there I was sitting in the aforementioned Turkish gentleman's cab insisting that he takes me to the central station when, in reality, he was right, I needed to go to Wein Mitte. But could I be told? No. "Take me to the central station," I insisted until I realised he might be telling the truth. He was telling the truth so we went to Mitte, although he was angling for me to go all the way to the airport by cab, which would have cost me 45 Euros. Perhaps that was why I was reticent to take his word for anything – I thought he was after my money (he was, of course). But why should I take a cab to the airport when I had already purchased a return CAT ticket (roughly 12 Euros each way). So he dropped me at Wein Mitte and I walked straight on to a CAT train. Within minutes it left the station and soon I was at the airport. And that's when it got worse. 

Cafe Franzel at Vienna Airport

I tell you what I can't stand: I hate it when we're given all the work to do but the price doesn't come down. It happens in supermarkets with the self-service check-outs. Why do I have to do the job of the check out assistant? And if they expect me to, why can't I get money off? The answer is simple: capitalist greed, pure and simple. I reach the bit where I'm supposed to check in, one of those ribboned off slalom affairs, so I figured I'd save time and just duck below the barriers and make a b-line for the bag drop. Except it wasn't that simple, I needed to use the auto-check-in terminal first. I was determined not to play ball and decided instead to be lazy and let the assistant teach me how to use the auto check-in terminal, got to keep him employed, I was thinking. He did a great job and soon I was humping my bag on to the conveyor that, hopefully, would take it to the plane I'd be travelling on and I'd pick it up at the baggage reclaim in the UK.

The gate changed to G36

It all ran smoothly and so did security. I was through in minutes and then wandering around, as always, through the Society of the Spectacle ignoring the goods on offer. I bought nothing, but I was extremely angry to find that Jamie Oliver had capitalised on the catering facilities. Jamie's this and Jamie's that, I got out fast and then found myself walking alongside the automated walkway in search of somewhere decent to eat and drink. There was hardly anything.

Cafe Franzl raised its ugly head. There were hardly any seats available (and not enough seats in my opinion) and there was a queue. All I wanted was a green tea, but I couldn't be bothered to queue for it, so I walked on by and now I sit opposite said café without a drink.

Earlier, I had taken a long walk of 4.41 miles. I mooched about, went through a park, went down to the river, crossed the bridge, crossed back, found a restaurant for lunch, had some pasta and a Pellegrino and then headed back to the Intercontinental to pick up my luggage and head for the airport. That was when I met the taxi driver who insisted I needed to go to Wein Mitte. As you know, he was right. And now I wait. It's 1523hrs, my flight takes off at 1715hrs so that's almost two hours and there's not much to do here. I'm going to check out Cafe Frankl in a second to see what they have to offer, but I don't fancy much. But then they changed my Gate to G36, a hike and a half, but I got there and the first thing I saw was a bar/café and a man behind the counter shouted: "Big one?" holding up an empty beer glass. "No, I'll have a green tea," I said, grabbing a bottle of Evian. "Fancy an apple cake, Austrian, very good for you?" I couldn't be bothered to argue that the cake was probably not good for me, but I thought I'd have it anyway and I sat, but not for long, I had a plane to catch.

At last somewhere decent to chill out...for all of five minutes

I finished up and paid and then wandered towards gate G36, which was a fair hike. I didn't use the automated walkway because I figured I needed the exercise after all the sitting down I've been doing. When I reached the gate there were loads of chattering young girls and I guessed it was a school trip. I boarded the plane, took my seat (17F, a window seat) and then off we went. Not only did the girls scream as the plane took over, there was also a crying baby that didn't stop for the entire flight. There were mild bits of turbulence, but nothing to get upset about, but I couldn't really settle as a result. I enjoyed the free chocolate (which I remember from the flight out) and I'd brought on board my own bottle of Evian, that was all I had. The skies weren't clear, but there were patches where it was possible to see the ground below and soon we were making our descent into London Heathrow. Once below the cloud all was clear: the Millennium Dome, Canary Wharf, the Gherkin, the Cheese Grater, the London Eye, Waterloo railway station, the Thames winding its way through the city and then the light industrial buildings in the hinterlands around the airport. The landing was fairly smooth, there was a long wait (or a longish wait) for baggage reclaim but soon I was through customs and on my way towards the Elizabeth Line, no more extortionate trips on the Heathrow Express, I thought. Hayes and Harlington, Southall and eventually Paddington where I jumped off and took the tube, the Bakerloo line and then the Victoria Line, to Victoria where I found the 2021hrs East Grinstead train. I was home before 2100hrs. 

Shabbily-dressed people at Victoria station, London

What struck me when I reached the UK was how shabby it all looked; not only were the underground trains creaking and shaking about as they ferreted their way through the tunnels, they were dirty and unkempt... and so were the people. Everybody, including me, looked shabby in old jeans and trainers, dark grey or black anoraks, the complete opposite of Vienna where the women dressed smartly, the men were well turned out and, of course, the architecture and, needless to say, the culture, was way above the level found in the grim UK.

Back at London Heathrow...

When I reached home, the house was cold and so was England. I'd been used to the 28 degrees of Austria, I'd been lying on top of the duvet all week, getting bitten by mosquitoes, but now I found myself underneath it. 

And now it's Sunday morning and the house has been rearranged, lights have been moved around and the dining table too. I'm not sure, it's all a bit gloomy-looking at night, but I need to be a little subtle about it. God! We need the fireplace sorted out as a matter of urgency. Yes, I'm back to the realities of life and it always takes some getting used to.

From Linz to Vienna...

I went back to Bäckerei Danecker for an English Breakfast tea and this time ordered an almond croissant. I sat at the same table as yesterday and simply relaxed after what you could describe as a 'hard day at the office'. In the process I finished Climbers by M John Harrison, arguably (in fact there's no argument about it) the best book I've read in a long time. After I finished reading I people-watched. 

Bäckerei Danecker to finish Climbers by M John Harrison

I awoke early that morning and kept pressing the snooze button to prolong being in bed and then, around 0700hrs, I had breakfast downstairs.  

"Is it worth changing trains?" No, it wasn't...

My 'day at the office' began around 0830hrs and finished around 1530hrs and that's when I took a stroll to the centre of town (or what I regarded as the centre of town, although I think it was). 

There's a first time for everything – waiting on Linz station

While I wasn't too keen on Bäckerei Danecker's high chairs yesterday, I grew to like them and the idea of going anywhere else seemed churlish. What was foolish, however, was the almond croissant. I could have done without it, and the chocolate heart I purchased later, it wasn't that nice. I've simply got to stop eating rubbish, but then I've been saying that for a very long time. I'm hoping to get a walk in at some stage, but who knows? I've got the trim wheel with me, a cumbersome device that resembles the petrol tank of a motorcycle with two handles protruding from each side. I intend to use it daily (as I have been at home). I can't say I've noticed much difference, but that might have something to do with my cake fetish, although generally I haven't been doing too badly. Yesterday, for example, I had very little to eat all day. For breakfast I had granola with yoghurt and berries, then lunch was a ham sandwich on Vienna Central Station followed by dinner here in Linz (stroganoff, salad and beer) without dessert, so if I transferred one of my indulgent treats of today to yesterday things would even out a little bit. Rob Peter to pay Paul. That said, I'm always too willing to start making up little scenarios that let me off the hook, like 'half a dozen Miniature Heroes equals one chocolate bar' and stuff like that designed to make me feel better about my over-indulgence. In truth though, it really must stop. Either way, I'll be on the trim wheel later tonight.

On Viennese streets after dark...

For some bizarre reason, my hotel closes at 2000hrs, but I have a key to get in so it shouldn't be a problem except that the keys have been an issue. Locking or unlocking the hotel room door has been a real hassle, requiring glasses to be worn and my own sanity to be questioned. Part of it is remembering which of the three keys open the door, although that problem can be narrowed down to two keys as one of them is for the minibar and it's very distinctive. If you so happened to be passing by while I was outside of my room trying to get in, you would see me, glasses on, trying to fit the key in the lock and having many problems in the process. You might think I was trying to break in to somebody else's room.

I enjoyed a burger with a colleague in a restaurant called Glorious Bastards and then I went back to my hotel and straight to bed. The following day, more work, but the day wasn't as hard as the previous one and soon I was back at my hotel, collecting my luggage and taking a taxi to Linz station. I wanted to ensure that I reserved a seat as I didn't want to be roaming up and down train carriages looking for a vacant seat or sitting waiting for somebody to turf me out of where I was sitting. I was offered the 1617 train to Budapest, but it was delayed until 1706 which meant I had to find somewhere decent to sit and wait. I chose a bakery and ordered just a cup of green tea. I spent the time messing around with my phone and then moved on to, of all places, a McCafé, which was a first for me; there I met a hairdressing student waiting for her boyfriend. She was from Northern Italy but was now living close to Linz. We passed the time of day and then I went to platform 7 to wait for my train, which rolled in slowly around 1710. I was in coach 22, seat 91 and soon settled in to a journey punctuated by bouts of sleep until the train reached Wein Miedling (the stop before the central station). I jumped in a cab to the Intercontinental Hotel, checked in and then went in search of my colleagues. We worked until late and then headed off by cab to a restaurant close to the fairground.We tanked up on food (much needed) and then took a cab back to the Intercontinental and hit the sack. Or rather I worked and in the process had plenty of office equipment hassles down in the hotel's business centre. I eventually went to bed around 0200hrs and then woke up at 0600hrs, pressing the snooze button until 0630 and then having the most rushed and uncomfortable breakfast ever (a bowl of muesli and a cup of tea in double quick time).

Stepping out...

Work beckoned and continued all day until around 2100hrs when I found myself back in the room contemplating hitting the sack. It's now Wednesday evening on 20 September. After using the trim wheel I reconsidered hitting the sack.

After work a walk along Johannesgasse to an Italian restaurant, IL Cavalluccio on Göttweihergasse. It was very pleasant and I rounded things off with a cappuccino, but not the huge fuck-off variety you get in Costa Coffee, a far more polite cup with a tenth of what you might find in a UK coffee retailer's 'bowl' where even a medium sized beverage is large enough to bathe in. That's one of many things wrong with the UK. It's now 2317hrs and time to hit the sack again. I've spent most of the day in the Hilton Vienna Park Hotel and only managed to get out briefly with a walk through the Stadt Park. The weather here is good, very good, 28 degrees good. Bright sunshine, people sunbathing on the grass – and it's late September, let's not forget that. 

Hotels invariably mean a lack of sleep. I don't know why. Unfamiliar surroundings probably. The worst occasions follow transatlantic travel and possibly the fact that I often sleep with a light on, but not a glaring light, just a jagged, arrow-like shape of it that barely intrudes on the night scape of the room. Sometimes, like in Linz, the need for light is scuppered by a glass-walled bathroom or, like in Brazil a few years ago, Rio to be precise, a toilet observation window (as I called it). A bit like a hide in a wetlands centre except that those doing the looking wouldn't need binoculars. Sometimes, too many thoughts keep me awake, looking at my surroundings in the dim light of the early morning. Because it's always the early morning, something unfathomable like 0354hrs when I think it's too early to get up and end up just lying there looking at the blank screen of the television on the wall or the tiny slit I'd left in the curtains that was beginning to let in light, even if there was a long way to go before I could call it daylight. "I find myself in that position now, Jim, and I'm asking you to report for a medical examination."

Enjoying the delights of the city...

I've often (of late) been thinking about the way we all lead our lives, like rats in a man-made maze of brand names running around aimlessly from one piece of concrete to another and never seeing much of grass or big skies. Life is characterized by shopping malls, the interior of supermarkets and multi-storey car parks, open-plan offices and auditoriums, not to mention eery hotel corridors and hotel rooms, trestles on which our suitcases rest; glass tables, desks, ironing boards and mirrors, all impassive and, unlike us, clinging to the side of the bank as we, motionless, are nonetheless swept away by the tides of time. We could sit in that hotel for years in front of a mirror and watch ourselves wither away into nothing only to be replaced by somebody else, someone we don't know. The hotel is a very transient environment. "Radio, live transmission. Radio, live transmission...". Sometimes I have to listen to Joy Division, and fortunately I have them on my iphone.

I often wish I could open the front door of my house and be greeted by nothing but wilderness, mountains and the sea and weather drifting past indifferently instead of seeing the house across the road, the parked cars, solitary commuters on their way to the station, leaves caught in the wind scuttling past, chatting amongst themselves. Not that there are many brand names where I live, although I suppose there are many of them hunkered down in the gutters, their doors closed, their windscreens iced over – perhaps no ice, not for at least another month. Cars. Vans. Motorcycles. Reminders of our subservience to capitalism.

Oftentimes I don't think I'm achieving a great deal. Other times I feel that I am but to what gain? And then I wonder whether there needs to be a gain, why should one thing lead to another? Perhaps recognition is the best gain. We all want to be loved and we probably all think we're not loved enough. 

You're supposed to do this!

I can see daylight out of the window and that means I can legitimately head down for breakfast in this corporate of corporate hotels. It's a strange place. From the outside, the Intercontinental Wein looks like the sort of building you might find on an inner London housing estate. In short, it's ugly, but once you travel through the large revolving door and into the lobby, its grandiosity will take you aback. There are uniformed men and women behind the front desk, rich looking carpets and rugs, a large tapestry on the wall, the dim but unmistakable sound of lounge lizard piano, making everybody feel a little bit James Bond – shaken but not stirred as they make their way towards the elevators that ping as they arrive on the ground floor. The hotel offers 12 floors of fairly luxurious rooms with big lampshades and gleaming bathrooms, huge beds and massive desks. Behind most doors is somebody living the transient life, the hotel life of suitcases and razors, shaving foam and toothbrushes, unpressed shirts, receipts and upturned glasses guarded by bottles of mineral water. An angle-poise lamp.

It's 0703hrs, time to get ready for breakfast. This is the only hotel where I haven't almost flooded the bathroom floor. The shower, in other words, has been good and not out of control like most of them. I've stepped on to the little mat on the bathroom floor and found it dry for the first time in living memory. Why that is I don't know, probably because it's not a fixed shower head and, for some reason, it's easier to hold the 'telephone' in my hand rather than simply stand there under it. Anyway, I'm showered and dressed and ready to have breakfast at 0800hrs.

"A great bloke, he's Intercont!"

Catherine and I took a wander around the city, through a botanical gardens where we spotted a red and a black squirrel and a little kid feeding them, and then to Gerstener for a coffee and a slice of cake in true Viennese fashion. My two colleagues leave today, I'm leaving tomorrow. Later I went for a mooch around town alone and found myself on the other side of the river bank with nothing much to do. There was little to look at so I made an about turn and walked back to the hotel, joining throngs of tourists as they made their way through the thick treacle of consumers who were window shopping or holding bags containing their purchases or taking photographs on their iphones or queuing (unbelievably) presumably to buy the latest iphone from the Apple Store, I'm not sure. I found it all rather sad and depressing as I peered inside and saw the regulation light wood tables displaying the Apple watches, the iphones, iPads and lap tops. There was absolutely nothing I wanted, nothing whatsoever. I had no interest. No watches, no clothes, nothing. In truth a good sleep would be good. I never sleep well in hotels and it leads to feelings of tiredness later in the day. I won't lie down in case I fall asleep and miss my meeting planned with a colleague later on. I wish the minibar was full. It's really just a mini fridge, but there's nothing in it. A bar of chocolate would probably do the trick. I skipped lunch and I'm holding out until dinner time, but a bar of chocolate would go down a treat and might liven me up a little bit.

Crossing the Danube...

Tomorrow I depart for London Heathrow in the early evening around 1715hrs and arrive home some two hours later. I'm already thinking about the Elizabeth Line rather than a taxi, but let's see how things go. I wish it could be Gatwick, but it isn't. I need some time off and I think I'll take Monday. Right now, while tired, I might do the trim wheel exercise, but then again I might leave it until later. I might go in search of a chocolate bar.

Except that I didn't bother. Instead I went to the opera and listened to Mozart and Strauss performed live by the Vienna Mozart Orchestra, which was founded by musicians from the most prestigious and famous Viennese orchestras and from various chamber music ensembles. In short, it was absolutely amazing and an uplifting experience. Many thanks to my pal Illka Hiirsalmi.

It's nearly midnight so I'd better get some sleep. "Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer. Count the headlights on the highway." Another great song I've found on my iPhone!

As is customary, I awoke early, sometime around 0500hrs or shortly after. Rain had been promised and sure enough when I peered out of the window the roads and rooftops seemed mirror-like and damp. Typical, I thought, just when I have to fly home, bad weather, I just don't need it. There's nothing to do except have breakfast and then mooch around although I need to check all the flight details. I won't be doing any mooching if it's raining.

The Intercontinental, Vienna: it looks better on the inside...

I left my room and headed down to the breakfast. I was unshaven and wearing an unpressed shirt because, quite simply, I was now a conference refugee, the last man standing, no more clothes to wear. I walked to the elevator, pressed the button and when the lift arrived I jumped in and as the doors closed I listened to the musak being played. It was the same old lounge lizard piano music that had been with me all week and I started to feel as if I was alone in the hotel. Nobody had joined me in the lift and when I arrived at the ground floor, for a moment it seemed as if I was right. Everybody had gone home. And then I heard American voices. There were lots of tourists here from around the world and there were two women who had clearly just finished breakfast and were heading back to their rooms.

I made my way to the breakfast room and gave the waiting attendant my room number, 810, and then I found a table and went to the self-service buffet where I loaded up with my usual muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruit. I ordered a green tea and later fetched myself two fried eggs, mushrooms and potato wedges and I ordered another green tea. I sat there for a while, messed around on the phone and then realised my time was up. The last man standing was going to head to back his room, take a shower and then check out, leaving his bags with the concierge and then stepping out for one last time on to the cultured streets of Vienna. Perhaps a coffee, possibly just a wander around. Either way I'll be bored and preoccupied with the thought of getting home or rather getting to the airport. I have a return ticket for the CAT, the airport train, and then I'll be back with security and passport control, the Society of the Spectacle and, ultimately, the flight home. Soon I will be at Heathrow airport, waiting at baggage reclaim and then heading home, another trip over.

In Linz...

I won't say it hasn't been fraught because it has and in so many ways it's just me allowing the little annoying things in life to hit me hard. Normally, it starts with the taxi ride to the airport, but not today. He was fine, he said nothing and just drove me to Heathrow Terminal Two at the crack of dawn, 0600hrs to be precise, although I'd been up earlier. I probably hit the sack around 2300hrs or thereabouts on Saturday night, wishing I didn't have to get up early and fly to Vienna, but I did. I must have woken up around 0330hrs and decided to just lie there trying not to fret about anything. It's easy to start fretting about things and then there's no hope in hell of nodding off again. However, I must have started to nod off because, just as I did my alarm went off. It was 0500hrs.

Time to head for gate A25 and the 0905 flight to Vienna...

The first problem was there were no dishes so I had to skip breakfast. Most of them had leftover food in them and were residing in the fridge. I just couldn't be bothered. Then there was no bread so I scavenged around until I found a bag of brioche burger buns, toasted one of them but could only eat one side as the other bit was burnt. That annoyed me, so I had another one, with marmalade but not toasted. That and a cup of tea was breakfast. I did my final checks and then I was off, the taxi arrived and I was gone. Not that I particularly wanted to go. I wasn't looking forward to the flight and I'd found out that I could take a train all the way to Vienna and that it takes 16 hours, sometimes a little less. I liked the idea of a stress-free journey.

On the plane...

I started to get annoyed when I entered the terminal building. Where should I go to check in? It was zone B and when I got there I found self-service machines. Now, I hate self-service machines. I used to hate them in the supermarkets (and still do) and I hate them even more at airports. These days it seems that we're all expected to do half of the job for the supermarkets and airlines, but I note that the prices remain the same or possibly higher. I hate supermarkets with a vengeance mainly because we all know, like with all capitalist scum, they're not there for the customer, they're there for themselves. I always have this desire for vengeance but I haven't worked out how to exact it without getting myself in trouble (yet!). I fully support shoplifters, by the way, and I'm so glad that our inept Government has made so many cutbacks that our police forces are unable to deal with petty crimes like nicking stuff from shops. 

Standing a little angrily at the the check-in terminals a man asked me for a reference number. I thought my passport would be good enough and told him so. "No, you need a reference number." "Well, I haven't got one," I said aggressively and he said nothing. "What about a human being?" I asked and he pointed to a check-in terminal. I skulked over there and had my bag checked in and then went through security, which would have been fine had my bag not been sent along the track to be double-checked by a human. Normally, this is because the system detects something of interest in the case, but mine was just full of USBs and a couple of notebooks. It happens to me regularly now and it means I have to wait just a little bit longer than normal before I can chill at the café beyond the Society of the Spectacle. I waited and waited. There was a guy from Brisbane en route to Stockholm and he clearly missed the memo about liquids; he had loads of them, probably mainly belonging to his wife as he didn't look particularly cleansed (nor did his wife). The security guy spent ages checking every bottle. When my turn arrived it was fairly simple. Basically there was nothing wrong and soon I was on my way.

Time to catch the train into central Vienna...

Because I was generally in a bad mood, probably because I'd allowed a situation to develop where I would have to fly off early on a Sunday morning – forfeiting a ride with Andy – I didn't really enjoy the breakfast. I ordered granola and yoghurt with a pot of English breakfast tea and sat there inwardly scowling to myself about virtually everything. I appear to be surrounded by absolute wankers. Whichever way I turn, there they are and their sole purpose in life is to annoy me. The gate was announced at 0825 and shortly after that time I paid up and headed for gate A25. And then the next hassle. I stood queuing and when I reached the passport check lady she told me I was in the wrong queue, so I had to go back, I wasn't allowed to pass Go or collect £200, I was suddenly at the back of the queue. 

View from room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz on Sunday 17th Sept

Soon I was through and sitting in the plane. I thanked God for small mercies, namely a window seat (19F). Outside it wasn't that clear. A blanket of grey cloud shrouded England but there wasn't much of it. Soon after take-off we broke through and the flight, bar a few bumpy bits, was fine. I took the train from the airport to the centre of the city and then jumped on a train to Linz. There were a lot of people and I could already feel my hackles rising as the seats, most of them, were booked and my ticket didn't seem to have a reservation. I stood up waiting for somebody to claim where I hoped to be sitting, but they didn't so I could eat my lunch in peace, although throughout it I kept thinking some bastard was going to turn up and turf me out.

A word (or two) on the weather: it was fantastic. No cloud cover in Austria just blue skies and sunshine. It was hot and at one point on the train journey I saw people paddle boarding on a huge lake. Summer clearly hadn't left the building in Austria and, to be fair, it hadn't left the UK entirely.

Room 41, Dom Hotel, Linz

I was sleepy and kept drifting off, almost missing my stop. The train journey to Linz from Vienna took around three hours, but I wasn't counting so I couldn't be 100% sure. My taxi driver took me to the wrong hotel, although it must be a common mistake as both had the word 'Dom' in their name. I had to walk all of five minutes with that irritating sound of plastic casters on cobbled streets. It wasn't easy and at some points I pulled and yanked at my suitcase as if it was an unruly a dog on a lead, unwilling to do anything I asked. I arrived at the right hotel and checked in and then realised that none of my shirts were pressed, but there wasn't an iron in the hotel room. Fortunately there was one in reception so I spent around 20 minutes on the floor ironing three shirts and then placing them in the wardrobe on hangers, at least I'm ready for my first meeting tomorrow morning.

I went out for a wander around town. It was warm and there were lots of women with smooth legs wearing summer dresses. I stopped at a bakery and coffee shop, Bäckerei Danecker, and ordered an English breakfast tea. And for a short while I felt better. I managed to sit and read a bit more of Climbers by M John Harrison. I've very close to the end now and I don't really want to finish it, although I have another M John Harrison book, the Centauri Device, so all is well on that front. The tea was served in a clear plastic cup without a handle, it wasn't glass but it looked like glass and was hot (the tea, not the 'glass'). Towards the end of my stay, the woman behind the counter gave me a jam-filled bun for nothing. I was chuffed! Somebody DOES love me, I thought, not realising at first that it was filled with jam, not that the filling meant she didn't love me. It was pleasant and it almost prevented me from having dinner, but after getting fed up with walking around I found a café and took a seat outside under an awning. It was warm and summery and I ordered beef stroganoff and an alcohol-free wheat beer. Perfect. I continued reading and then decided to retrace my steps back to the hotel.

I ordered beef stroganoff and beer

There wasn't much open. It was Sunday and it was like being in the UK when Sundays were sacred and nothing was open. Today, of course, everything is open in England. When I reached the hotel, the lift was on the ground floor waiting for me so I jumped in and pressed the button and soon I was in my room. It's a large room but it has one of those bathrooms where the walls are frosted glass. Now that's annoying because when I'm in a hotel I like to sleep with a light on. Normally I put the bathroom light on and then shut the door so there's just a little bit of light illuminating the room, like a little jagged piece strutting out from the source. But if I put the bathroom light on here it will blast out light all over the place I won't be able to sleep so I'll have to sleep in darkness and leave the curtains drawn back and thereby rely upon the natural light of the city. I'm in Linz, I've been here a few times and I like it a lot. In fact, on my earlier wander I actually arrived at a bike shop I remember from a previous visit, but being as it's Sunday it was closed.

I'm drinking a refreshing Gasteiner sparkling mineral water, which is much needed and afterwards I'm considering using my trim wheel, which I've brought along on the trip. I might not, though. Actually I will, why not, keep it going. I've been doing it daily for at least 10 days, probably longer, but so far I haven't seen any results. But I'm carrying on with it.

Alcohol-free wheat beer...lovely!

The bed doesn't look very inviting, especially that duvet laying diagonally across it, but I won't be hitting the sack just yet. One of the wardrobe's sliding doors sounds like a yelping puppy whenever I open it. Everything is so sterile and sad but I'm hoping that I'll feel better in the morning. Time, I think, to flick through the television channels and either watch something in a foreign language I don't understand (that's fun – not!) or check out BBC World, another sterile lump of politically correct, fence-sitting rubbish, not that I'm the sort of person who's going to watch GB News or Talk TV, they're even worse!

It's just gone 2100hrs and I've yet to switch on the television. I think the trim wheel will be first, although I'll call home and have a chat. They're watching Gaslight but I'll speak to them later.

After a brief call home I hit the sack around 2300hrs. I switched off all the lights and just lay there deep in many thoughts, one of which was thinking of my hotel room as an apartment. It was big enough. I decided that I would put shelves on the far wall for books and that was basically it. There were other thoughts, many, many thoughts, but I can't remember them now. I eventually drifted off to sleep and awoke around 0400hrs. Then I must have drifted off because the alarm rang out at 0600hrs and I kept pressing 'snooze' until it was 0630hrs, then got up and showered. It's not a bad hotel room, quite spacious and bright, but the most annoying thing about it is the door key. I've always been full of praise for hotels that don't have key cards, but not in this instance. There are three keys on the ring and they all look similar so the first hassle is always finding the right key, then it's all about getting the key in the lock and ultimately it means putting on my glasses, trying one key, then the next, does it go in upside down or the right way up, what is the right way up? Just opening the door is a faff, believe me.

Breakfast downstairs on the ground floor is fine. I ordered muesli with yoghurt, sultanas and nuts, a green tea and a couple of small slices of bread with apricot marmalade, not forgetting a banana. I sat there texting and then headed back to the room.

A busy week lies ahead of me and I'm looking forward to getting home. Shame it's Heathrow and not Gatwick, but you can't win 'em all.

Heading for home...

There was a time when getting up early, being 'up with the lark' and so forth, was not impossible, but not pleasant. I distinctly remember feeling like a fish out of water, standing in the kitchen unable to do anything, and everything around me looking as if it was something I simply shouldn't be witnessing or watching or whatever at such an ungodly hour. I remember using the snooze button on alarm clocks with regularity as a kind of step-down towards waking myself up; so I'd be rudely awakened by the alarm, but would reach over and press 'snooze' and then relax and try and enjoy being in bed until the 10 minutes were up and I'd end up pushing snooze again and again until I felt awake enough to deal with what the world had to throw at me. Not any more for some reason. Nowadays I'm invariably raring to go at around 0530hrs (my alarm is normally set for 0600hrs) and I have to stop myself from just getting up, trotting downstairs and making breakfast ahead of time.

Stockholm airport, about to board...

Yesterday was a long day and was rounded off with a pleasant dinner with a colleague, not somebody from my workplace, but somebody I knew, an American from upstate New York who was in the advertising business. We parted quite late, around 2300hrs, and I then I made my way back to my hotel on foot, it took about 10 minutes and towards the end of the walk I passed Dolce Vita (see previous post) long closed and the tables and chairs left outside because nobody in Stockholm was going to steal them; it would be a different case in the UK, I thought, as I passed the darkened restaurant and headed up the street towards my hotel, the Clarion Amarantem.

I messed around on the lap top and probably hit the sack around midnight, waking around 0530 and then heading down for breakfast a little later having decided not to shave until I'd eaten. Breakfast was a cacophony of chit-chat and clattering plates, very busy, lots of people and I wasn't impressed or prepared for it. Porridge, sliced pineapple and melon, a green tea with ginger and that was about it. I sat and read Climbers for a short while and now I'm back in the room, about to shower and get ready to check out and then fly home around lunch time (1310hrs to be precise). Generally speaking, time just disappears and if I don't get up from this desk now and set things in motion it'll be a huge rush.

Leaving Stockholm...

The shower here is rubbish. It leaks water all over the floor. I watched as the small towel I had placed on the tiles quickly soaked up the water that was falling on to it. And then, because there was water all over the floor, I had to shave whilst standing in the bathtub at an awkward angle. The tap in the sink was rubbish too as it worked on a kind of overly sensitive gear stick mechanism that turned hot and cold pretty quickly at the slightest touch. Function before form, I remembered a hotel designer once telling me, function before form. Clearly the Clarion didn't read the memo. Look, the hotel was alright, but because a lot of things simply pissed me off – the room was too big, the shower sprayed all over the floor, the breakfast was loud and clattering and not that good, there was no restaurant, just a bar offering – I won't be going back even if it was just a short walk to the central station.

I trundled my way down to the Arlanda Express, bought a ticket and boarded the train, then I fell asleep and miraculously woke up as the train reached the stop for Terminal 5. I checked in, secured myself a window seat and then swanned around. I had a cheese and ham sandwich at Caffé Ritazza and a cappuccino and then I went through passport control and now I'm in a Lavazza outlet with another cappuccino (I wanted a mint tea but there was no water) so I bought a bottle of still mineral water from which I am now sipping. I can't waste too much time sitting here writing this, mainly because there's not much to write about. I'm on the 1310hrs flight to London Gatwick and then I'll be home after a short train journey. I could get a cab from Gatwick but we'll see. The train's easier, to a degree, but the taxi just means sitting there and getting home. I'll probably train it. Anyway, that's about it, better stop writing, drink my coffee, sip my mineral water and then board the plane.

At Gatwick in the sun...

The flight was full but I managed to bag a window seat (22A) and, like the outbound flight on Tuesday, it was as smooth as you like. I ordered nothing and when I jumped off the other end and into the furnace-like heat of the UK's September scorcher, I felt as if I'd just landed in Greece, it was that hot. Taking a taxi would have meant waiting around for around an hour at the airport, possibly longer - and I was fed up with coffee shops - so I jumped on the train, called Natalie, who picked me up at South Croydon station and now here I am, back home, sipping a decaff PG Tips and feeling hot and increasingly sweaty in the heat. I might nip outside and continue with Climbers, but I figure the heat outside might be a little unbearable. Either way, I'm glad to be home.

Sweden is a great place and the weather over there was warm and sunny but not as sweltering as it is here. There was a warm breeze which made all the difference. Here, it's a dry heat and no breeze, but nobody dare complain as we've had a pretty crap summer, apart from June.

To Stockholm...

I can't stand technology. Just give me a receipt, I don't want one emailed to me, Friendo! But that's what was on offer as I sat in a taxi outside of Gatwick's South Terminal about to embark upon a trip to Stockholm. All very annoying. But that said, I've done it now and I've walked through the Society of the Spectacle without even stopping for a free tester. I didn't even want to be sitting here in The Grain Store restaurant eating granola and sipping a mint tea – for some reason I wasn't hungry – but the alternative was sitting 'out there' with my lap top resting, appropriately I suppose, on my lap. Give me a table any day. 

I could have ordered a pastry or a 'breakfast bap' but in all honesty it's best that I don't. So I settled for granola, yoghurt and berries and, yes, a mint tea. Haven't had one of them for a long while and it feels good. Normally I'd order a cappuccino, but perhaps I've turned a corner on coffee, who knows? Perhaps I'm back to the delicate touch of mint tea. 

At this stage in the proceedings there's not much to say. The Grain Store has filled out. People going places, just like me.

Inside Dolce Vita, Stockholm...great restaurant

The weather's been good. Very good. Clear skies, so I'm hoping for a decent flight, although, sadly, I've got an aisle seat. Seat 13D if you please. I'll see if I can get a window, but what's the betting it will be a 'full flight'? It always is and I hate that. "Sorry, sir, it's a full flight," they'll say and I'll sit there for over two hours unable to benefit from the view outside the window. My favourite flight of all time in this respect was Miami to Monterrey in Mexico back in 2019. It was about three hours in a smallish plane, but it was great.

Room 241, Clarion Amarantem, Stockholm

The gate for my flight to Stockholm wasn't going to be called until 0910hrs so I moseyed around looking at all the consumer electronics and realising I neither need nor crave any of them, similarly the aftershave and definitely not the wines and spirits, which look a little gaudy and downmarket in the same way that bags of crisps and other potato-based snacks look cheap and nasty when I find myself in their aisle at the supermarket. As I sit here now, at my desk in room 241 of the Clarion Amaranten in Stockholm – yes I've jumped ahead in time, but only temporarily – I notice a bag of crisps and a small bottle of red wine in front of me. It's a bit of a con because, well, putting aside the fact that I gave up boozing nearly six years ago and haven't touched a drop since, I was being made to think the food and drink was complimentary and could, I realised, quite easily have turned the screw-top and 'enjoyed' a glass without noticing that it would cost me 240KR. As for the GARDCHIPS, RÄFFLADE HAVSSALT (I'm guessing ready salted), there's no price attached to them so perhaps they are free. I'm leaving them well alone. Back in the day, however, I would have enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with a bag of crisps, even if the end result would be waking in the dead of night, heart racing and unable to get back to sleep. Apparently, it's common and nothing to be worried about, but oddly – or perhaps not oddly at all – since I gave up drinking it rarely happens.

View from room 241, Clarion Hotel

But let's go back to being at the South Terminal of London Gatwick Airport. I was wandering around, disinterested in what the Society of the Spectacle was pushing in front of me. I checked out the consumer electronics and couldn't really escape the gaudy bottles of spirits, but there was no way I was going to window shop in Superdry or any of the other clothes retailers. I simply wandered about feeling, it has to be said, slightly sorry for myself. Initially, it's always a wrench leaving home at the crack of dawn for a two-day trip or longer, so I called home and made small talk. Actually, let me qualify that a little bit, it's not always a wrench, there are many times when I look forward to a trip (and there are many) but sometimes it would be nice if I could be with my family. The flight was departing from Gate 10 so I made my way there while chatting on the phone. I was destined to sit in seat 13D and was getting that 'full flight' vibe from all the people queuing to board when I reached the gate. It turned out there were 80 vacant seats. I managed to bag myself an exit row aisle all to myself and with the weather outside the plane looking amazing I just knew the flight was going to be smooth and enjoyable: it was! I had an Earl Grey tea and a bottle of mineral water and read my book, Climbers by M John Harrison – a brilliant novel.

Once on the ground I stopped for lunch at the airport where I found a Caffé Ritazza and ordered a cheese and ham sandwich and a herbal tea of some sort that I couldn't quite identify. It didn't matter. Then I tried to find out where the hotel might be located and was told it was close to Stockholm Central Station so I jumped aboard the Arlanda Express and 18 minutes later I cabbed it to where I was staying, but only because of the cumbersome baggage I was hauling around, normally I try to walk it. When I got to room 241 I was pleased to note that I had some kind of apartment. The room had its own lounge area and two TVs, one in front of the bed, the other in the aforementioned lounge area in front of a huge sofa. I'd say it was good, but I had nobody to brag to as I was travelling alone on this trip. One thing about big rooms is that I never feel comfortable. I don't know about you, but if somebody told me to sleep in a huge grass field, I would choose a spot in the corner close to a hedge separating my field from the others. I wouldn't sleep anywhere else, like bang in the middle, as that would be too exposed. It's the same with big rooms. I found myself thanking God that the bed in my room was against the wall and not, like Victorian baths in some boutique hotels, stranded in the middle of the room. Had it been, I would have 'camped' in a corner somewhere.

A lonely table for one at Dolce Vita

I think tiredness makes me depressed – and let's not forget, I was up at 0530hrs this morning. As I walked along towards St Göran's Hospital with no particular plan in mind – I was just mooching – I found myself feeling a little pointless. I think it had a lot to do with the new buildings going up around a street called Franzengatan. New apartment blocks, a strong sense of renewal and an air of anticipation brought about by a sense of imminent switch-on, activation of the buildings and the surrounding area as a whole, it had yet to be plugged in, I thought, as I reached a kind of dead end and turned to retrace my steps. Somehow I didn't feel a part of things and it depressed me a little bit and I didn't know what to do or how to deal with it. There were no coffee shops to dive into, which would have diffused the situation a little as I could have ordered a cappuccino and resumed reading. Instead, I walked back to the hotel, hovered around in the room for a little while and then started thinking about dining (alone). There was always the hotel bar. The restaurant on the first floor was being refurbished, I was told, and the bar was serving food, but I thought I'd take a walk around in search of somewhere decent before admitting defeat and falling back on the hotel. Fortunately, I found Dolce Vita diagonally across from the hotel at Kungsholmsgatan 16. Red gingham table cloths, candles on every table, very cosy. You can't beat an Italian restaurant and I had a good feeling about this one. I perused the menu and eventually chose Bruchetta al Pomodoro to start followed by Salmone All Italiana. Sparkling mineral water and a coffee rounded off the meal and I forced myself not to have the Tiramisu (and felt great about resisting it!). I was the only person dining alone – I always am. I've dined alone in many an Italian restaurant: Da Bruno in Dusseldorf, Belini in Philadelphia, Bocconi in Brussels and countless others. In Dolce Vita, there were two other couples and a few people sitting outside under an awning enjoying the late summer heat. On my table, it was just me and my phone and I was left to my own thoughts of which there were many. 

Tasty starter at Dolce Vita

After paying the bill, I walked down to some water as the light of a great day began to fade and watched as a boat with a powerful, rumbling engine emerged like a gun ship from under the bridge I was standing on; it disappeared in to the distance a bit like that motorboat at the end of Tales of the Riverbank, a fantastic children's programme I used to watch as a kid, and I must say, re-watching the intro (especially the end bit when you see the motorboat carrying the hamster) almost brought a tear to my eye as I found myself thinking of mum, now 94, and how we used to sit and watch it together. If you want to see it, click here, and if you linger awhile at the end, you'll see another wonderful programme intro, Stingray. "Anything can happen in the next half hour!" I found myself looking at other YouTube videos including What's My Name, a track from the first Clash album which, in so many ways, summed up my state of mind when I reached the ripe old age of 19. I remember being 19 and going to the Nelson for a drink having bought an album by the Stranglers, the one with No More Heroes.

Time moves on, it's now 2123hrs and my hotel room is lit only by a desk lamp and a light in the vestibule. Now there's a strange word, 'vestibule'. It's one of those words, like 'gable' and 'buttress' that I've never really understood. In fact, I recently keyed them into Google Images to get a definitive meaning. Strange, isn't it, that you go through life not really understanding everything in front of you and not really needing to either until one day, curiosity finally catches up with you and like everything else, you wonder what the fuss was all about. Another word I have trouble with is 'cantilever'. I know, it's stupid, but this is me, it's the way I am, and if somebody said to me, 'what is a cantilever', I'd have trouble providing them with a clear verbal explanation...better check out Google Images, which I have done and I'm still none the wiser.

Main course at Dolce Vita...

There are loads of things I'd have trouble describing to somebody verbally and all the words I've mentioned above are in that ballpark and in all honesty it's not something worth worrying about. I know what my dad would say if he was reading this, he'd say something along the lines of 'you're not unique' – he said that a lot to me growing up and it helped, suddenly realising that there were always other people in the same boat and that whatever was bugging me, it was not something I was dealing with alone. It's always worth remembering: you're not unique, although, of course, in so many ways we're ALL unique, but dad was talking about day-to-day ailments and run-of-the-mill observations that everybody experiences, or thoughts we all have but often think, perhaps, that we're alone in our thinking. The reality is that whatever is on your mind, you can bet that many other people think the same way and in that sense, you're not unique. And how heartening it is when you mention something or other and somebody else says, 'I know what you mean, I feel like that too' or 'that's what I think'. I still find it pleasing when somebody says that to me as it's good to know that I'm not alone and I think that's what it's all about, not being alone, be it physically or mentally. This is all getting a little bit heavy.

Tales from the Riverbank. Stockholm at dusk.

Anyway, I suppose I ought to be thinking about chilling out and watching something on the television or even hitting the sack. I've got to be up with the lark tomorrow. I thought for a minute I'd be missing breakfast but no, breakfast will be served on a coach and you can't get much better than that, can you? Well, alright, breakfast downstairs in the restaurant would have been quite nice, but on a coach? It's an experience for sure*.

* As it turned out it wasn't so great. A paper bag carrying a small plastic bottle of orange juice, a filled croissant and a bowl of cereal none of us would eat because there was no spoon. It didn't matter, I eat too much anyway. In many ways it was a shame as most of those breakfast bags went to waste. I remember they were still on the coach when we embarked upon the return journey to Stockholm.