In Amsterdam...

Took a local train into central London around 0839hrs and then jumped the Underground, Victoria Line, all the way to King's Cross. Then, a shortish walk to St Pancras where I discovered a huge queue for the 1104 Eurostar to Amsterdam. Surely I would'n't have to queue! Why? Normally I simply check in, go through the baggage scanner and passport control and I'm there, in a kind of no-man's land, sipping coffee and munching on an almond croissant. Not today. "It's half-term," said a man in uniform after I'd retrieved my tickets from the machine. I skulked away and found the end of the queue; fortunately, it didn't take long and I was soon placing my suitcase into a large black plastic tray and walking through the scanner, just the same as when I'm flying. And was I glad I wasn't flying? Apparently, I could make a ridiculous amount of Eurostar journeys to Amsterdam and back and not get anywhere close to the amount of carbon I'd be emitting if I'd flown there. 

On the Metro, leaving Amsterdam Centraal...

I was in coach 7, seat 67, an aisle seat and the journey was, well, I wouldn't say pleasant, there's something rather unpleasant about travelling on the Eurostar and I'm not sure what it is; I suppose it's something to do with the cramped conditions, then it's the frosted (or are they dirty?) windows which mean you can't see properly, there's a kind of grey film over the windows which makes looking out pointless. So I sat there reading The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor (oh, please, let me finish it soon, I can't stand it!) I read a few pages, then stopped, then read a few pages and stopped. Around lunch time I made my way to the buffet car and bought a cheese and ham panini or baguette, a bottle of mineral water and a KitKat. I returned to my seat and then realised that my tray, the tray in front of me, was already laden with my beanie hat, glasses, book, notepad, phone and tickets. I decided to pick up the important stuff (tickets, passport, phone) and head back to the buffet car to eat my baguette. I didn't really want to subject the guy sitting next to me to that awful whiff of hot food. There's nothing worse than the smell of somebody else's hot food when you're not eating anything. Afterwards, I returned to my seat and in between sips of green tea and that KitKat I just sat there trying to work out why I seemed to be constantly down. It's a mixture of stuff: the country, the government, the future, and it's not good, it's almost physical in nature, but I won't bore you with it now. Suffice it to say that I need to chill much more than I am doing. I often wonder what other people see when they look at me and I'm guessing it's somebody preoccupied, somebody staring at something invisible, somebody with a look that says paranoia, a look that says I'm being attacked from all sides, nobody can be trusted (or very few people) and so on and so forth.

Postillion Hotel (centre)...

First we stopped at Lille, then Brussels, then Rotterdam and then Amsterdam, our final destination. All was fairly straightforward. I jumped off the train, found the exit, checked my phone for directions to the Postillion Hotel, jumped on the Metro, six stops, and then a walk, not that far, and a much-welcomed breath of fresh air. I love Amsterdam. I love Holland. The bike lanes, everything. As always, I wish I lived there, it would be better than the UK, mainly because everybody rides a bike, anybody can go anywhere in and beyond the city on a bike, it's safe, it's easy and everybody gets exercise, free exercise, no need for gym membership in Holland.

Inside room 915, Postillion Hotel

I checked in to the hotel. Room 915 on the ninth floor. A great view from the window. The room is pleasant, a twin room, decent facilities, nice bathroom, a flatscreen television on the wall in front of the bed, free wifi. CNN is on and of course it's nothing but depressing news about war and earthquakes.

I'll be picked up at 1900hrs and taken out to dinner. I'm looking forward to that. Tomorrow an interview then I'm back on the train at just gone 1600hrs and heading home. A whistle stop trip. I'll arrive back in the UK around 2000hrs tomorrow night and I'll probably get home around 2130hrs.

Being on the ninth floor of a tall building is fine if you're in Amsterdam; I'm just glad I'm not in Turkey where the recent earthquake has taken over 30,000 lives. The Postillion is a quirky sort of place. Check-in was easy and fast and, as always, I found myself standing in the lift wondering why it wasn't moving after I'd pressed the number nine for my floor. The answer was simple: I needed to use my keycard to activate it. Once I'd brushed the card over a specific area of the lift's control panel I felt movement and soon realised we were on the move, upwards, to room 915. I would have preferred room 918 as nine plus one plus eighgt = 18 and that's my lucky number (yes, I've resorted to superstition to relieve my constant anxiety). The number of the train was 9126, which adds up to 18, I was in coach 7 (lucky number 7 perhaps) and the other day I spotted a spider in the kitchen. It was early in the morning, I even wished him (her) – or perhaps it was a transgender spider or a spider version of Sam Smith, in which case I'd probably have to refer to my eight-legged pal as 'they' or 'them' or 'it'. Or in Sam Smith's case, 'nob'. Actually anyone who expects me to address them as 'they' or 'them' will be given short shrift. In my world if you have a dick, you're a bloke; if you have a vagina, you're a woman. But let's not go there as it's just something else to annoy me. The Brits were on over the weekend and Sam Smith arrived in ridiculous inflatable outfit. To be fair to the guy, he made me laugh and I think he was given a lot of (much needed) media attention as a result of what he was wearing, but I found myself wondering how he would manage to sit down and eat dinner, I've always been a fairly pragmatic person. Perhaps he'd dine alone (he'd need the space, otherwise he'd be invading his fellow diners' space, possibly knocking them off their seats).

View from room 915, Postillion Hotel

CNN's still on behind me and they're talking about the UFOs that American fighter jets have been shooting out of the sky. I say UFOs, it's more likely that they're surveillance balloons operated by China, but why? It's not as if they're not going to be seen and shot down. The Chinese are saying that the US has been doing the same, but the US denies the accusation. Four 'UFOs' have been taken out. It's very childish when you think about it. Childish and ridiculous, but let's see what transpires. The first one was definitely Chinese, let's see where the others come from, although I'm putting my money firmly on China.

The hotel room annoys me. It's one of those hotels that relies upon technology and we all know that technology simply doesn't work. There's a panel by the side of the bed that lets you control the room, draw the curtains automatically, turn lights on and off and so forth, but of course it was going to let me down. I went through the panel switching off the lights and then on again to check it all worked and, to be fair, it did work, except that I couldn't turn the bathroom light off. The television came on unexpectedly and eventually I worked that out, although it was easier to simply use the remote control. When I woke up early in the morning I used the bathroom having gone to bed wondering how I could possibly turn the bathroom light on again as there was nothing on the control panel that said 'bathroom light' – which would have been far easier. Actually, a switch on the wall, or cord dangling from the ceiling, would have been far, far easier, but technology doesn't do 'easy', it's not about ease of use, it's just about technology. 

So here I sit, at 0601, in the dark. The control panel now reads 'insert card' but it's already inserted in the slot by the door, so I can't even use the technology, apart from some mini bedside lights, which are next to useless. Fortunately, as I say, the bathroom light comes on automatically, but I'm guessing that half way through a shower the light will switch off 'to save power' and I'll be stranded, naked, and in the dark, covered in soap. For all I know the shower won't work at all for some inexplicable reason, who knows? I feel my first Trip Advisor review coming up, the first in ages, and it won't be good. Not even a decent breakfast will redeem this place. Even the shop downstairs by reception! "Can I put this on my room?" said I, picking up a bar of chocolate, but oh no, there's an automatic system, just like those in the supermarket, so I had to faff around. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, but that's not the point, is it? Just put it on the fucking room bill!

I'm being let down by technology left right and centre and it's happening a lot these days. Like right now. Here I am sitting in the dark early in the morning because the lights won't come on and I have a new digital recorder which is pants basically, the highest volume is too low, the whole thing simply doesn't work the way I want it to and once again, like in Sweden a few months ago, I'm beginning to panic: I have an interview in about four hours from now and I find myself thinking where is the nearest shop where I can purchase a decent recorder? I know darn well that when I reach reception they'll say there is a place but it's on the other side of the city and I'll be left relying upon the voice recorder on my iphone, which is also rubbish. So, not a good start to the day by any stretch of the imagination. I seem to be followed around by calamity and all the faffing about trying to get the recorder to work means I'm missing breakfast and time is moving on. I'm not happy at all.

Breakfast was actually quite good. I had two fried eggs on toast, some yoghurt and granola, a mug of green tea and a couple of mini pastries, not forgetting an apple that I took with me to the room. But just because it was a good breakfast didn't mean I forgave the hotel. When I got back to the room the lights mysteriously came on again. Too late, I'm afraid, I had already been inconvenienced. The problem of the crappy Philips digital recorder was still alive and kicking. Eventually, when a cab arrived at 1000hrs to take me to my appointment I asked the driver if he could take me to Cool Blue, an electronics retailer. He did and soon I was in possession of an Olympus recorder, a brand I trust. I now have two recorders and one must be returned.

After lunch I was driven to the beach to take a look at the sea, then another cab took me to Centraal Station and I was soon onboard the 1647 Eurostar to London. I say 'soon', I got there miles too early and had to sit around until the train arrived, but eventually we got underway and, fortunately, I didn't have anybody sitting next to me, which was good. I ordered some food from the buffet car (a cheese and ham baguette, an English breakfast tea and a KitKat (roughly the same order I had on the way out) and then settled down (with the same book) and got on with the journey. We arrived into St Pancras 10 minutes early, the escalators didn't work, but soon I was on the Victoria line and heading for Victoria station where I jumped aboard the 2050 train to East Grinstead (I'll be getting off at Sanderstead). Yes, folks, I'm on the train now, writing this blogpost, finishing it off and I'm sipping a large green tea I purchased from Starbucks on the concourse at Victoria. Next stop East Croydon and then it's my stop.

A good trip, but rushed. I could have done with another day and a little bit more mooching about. In fact, that's what I didn't get on this trip: mooch time, but I guess you can't have everything.