In Pittsburgh...

View from my hotel window, the Pirates stadium, Pittsburgh

First, the flight. It was fine. No turbulence, nothing. Despite the captain saying something about the possible of 'weather' as we crossed the Atlantic, there was zilch, not even a great deal of cloud until, admittedly we were flying at almost 40,000 feet and when I looked down, way down, there was a blanket of white cloud like cotton wool balls tightly sewn together, but it wasn't in the slightest bit bothersome and remained that way until we were on the ground. What did the pilot mean when he said there might be the possibility of 'weather'? There's always weather, whether it's good or bad, there can never NOT be weather. The flight was long but bearable and the only thing that let down those on the flight deck was the hard landing which, it has to be said, wasn't exactly textbook.

40,000 feet from earth...

Having disembarked, immigration was as easy as pie, no huge queues, no connecting flights to miss and after around 35 minutes in a cab, we were checked in at the Residence Inn and safely ensconced in our rooms. It was around 2100hrs and neither myself nor my colleague Pete were interested in anything other than hitting the sack, which we did, in adjoining rooms, although we didn't know it until we discussed it later the following day that we were, in fact, 'neighbours'.

I slept reasonably well considering. I awoke at 0130hrs, but it was bright outside and I thought it was lunchtime. Foolish me! It was very early in the morning, and I'd had around four hours' sleep. I'm always told not to get out of bed and not to start writing. I've tried that before and the end result is I stay up until it's breakfast time, laptop on and writing for England, well, for myself actually, but it's not a good idea. By mid-morning I'm wasted, so on this occasion I did as I was told, lay there and eventually fell asleep, waking around 0630hrs and then waiting for breakfast.

The shower was proficient, it worked. It wasn't the most powerful, but it wasn't the weakest and, like the flight the day before, it did the trick; the only thing that really got my goat (as always) was the shampoo and shower gel being screwed to the wall. Clearly, the Residence Inn doesn't trust its guests, like so many hotels these days.

Mid-flight to Pittsburgh...

The room was huge: a double bed, a flatscreen television, fridge, mini hob, dishwasher, plates, bowls and so forth. I could have saved a fortune and entertained my colleagues in my room. Pete's room was the same; there was also a sofa, a desk, a smaller desk or console table, a table and chairs at which I could have sat after making my meal, there was a sink and a coffee maker and, of course, there was an oven or a grill, or something that had a door meaning I could have made something special if I was that way inclined. In short, I could have lived in the room long-term. 

Out of the window and directly across the road was the Pittsburgh Pirates stadium (the reason why I thought it was lunch time when I woke up).

As I lay in bed, however, prior to having my shower, I could hear somebody playing a jazzy number on a tuba somewhere nearby and then I remembered that it was the day of the Pittsburgh Marathon. The tuba playing was annoying and catchy, which meant that getting back to sleep wasn't going to be easy. I think I snatched around an extra 40 minutes and then I figured I'd hit the showers and head down for breakfast.

The breakfast offering wasn't that good. There were biscuits and gravy (never an option for an Englishman) but there was also scrambled eggs and pork patties (small burgers basically). I lumped two of them on my plate and later had toast with butter (the toaster being set to 'obliterate' meant blackened toast, but what the hell. A bowl of cereal with added seeds and other healthy 'stuff' completed the most important meal of the day. 

Then, a few minor hassles, linked inextricably to a lack of sleep: I left my key card in my room and my glasses in the breakfast room. Ridiculous. An additional key card meant I could get into my room and retrieve my key cards, which I had left on the desk and then the day began. We wandered around the city among the joggers and their supporters and soon found ourselves on Station Square, close to the Sheraton where, in 2019, I discovered that the hotel had taken my laptop and passport out of the safe and forgot to tell me. Click here for more on THAT story!

Our wander took us everywhere, including a brief stop at Tupelo Honey's for, in my case, a pot of English Breakfast tea, and then we headed off again to register for a conference on the other side of town. It was good to walk and there was no tiredness although now, as I write this, I am feeling a little jaded, but I know that if I climbed into bed I would fall asleep and wake up at some ridiculous hour, like 2130 or 2200hrs, feeling hungry and thirsty and having to sit it out throughout the long night ahead until it was morning and I could go downstairs for another fairly sub-standard breakfast. So, I'm not going to bed, not yet at any rate.

For lunch we stopped at the Westin Hotel and had a burger and fries, or at least I did. It was fine, but, by and large, it's what's available everywhere, and I don't fancy going out for more burgers and fries and some God-awful drink. The problem with not drinking is that beverages become boring: the best thing to have is a sparkling mineral water or a coffee, as most no-alcohol beers are rubbish and it's often impossible to endure more than one of them. I spoke to Paul and told him I wasn't bothered about going out; Pete was interested in going somewhere but not for the whole evening. I was thinking about the early start in the morning (we have to be at the conference by 0800hrs). The plan is to go out for a short while, possibly not eating anything or having something light, but who knows. My aim is to get back to the room early and get a good night's sleep so as to be fresh and ready for the early start, which continues all week. 

The flight was so good that I managed to read a lot of Geddy Lee's My Effin' Life, which is an excellent book. Knowing of Geddy's love for baseball and being across the road from the Pittsburgh Pirates' stadium made me wonder whether he'd be over there watching the game, not that I'd find him, but if I could I'd have asked him to sign the book. Perhaps one day.

As I write this, it's 1630hrs and a long way from dinner. I suppose I could set my alarm for an hour and get some shut eye, but it's best not to; they always say stay up until the night time, the bed time, of the country you're in. Fair enough, I'll do that, except that, as I mentioned above, I started to feel a little weary and certainly not in need of another American food experience. The trouble is, if you want anything you have to go out, there's no restaurant in the hotel, so Pete and I are meeting in the lobby at 1830hrs and we'll nip out for 'a brief one'. 

Idle thoughts from a Nashville Starbuck's...

After a while – and especially when I know I'm just hanging around waiting to go to the airport – I start to get bored with everything that's going on here in "Nash Vegas" as an Uber driver told me it's known. It is, like Vegas, he said, a party town, but it caters mainly to women or, as he put it, 'bachelorettes'. By that he meant women in denim skirts and cowboy boots, drunk, yelling out Shania Twain songs from a boogie bus travelling a proscribed route around the city. It's the last thing you want to see, believe me, let alone hear. "A-woo-hoo-hoo!"

Inside Biscuit Love, which made the trip!

I wandered up Broadway to escape the downtown razzamatazz, the grating sound of too many bands playing different songs next door to each other and simply making a racket as a result. All the good bands were playing in the Bridgestone Stadium, Pearl Jam last night. I met two fans in the elevator back at the Moxy. "I love that song Debaser," said I, but they didn't know what I was talking about. How can you be a Pearl Jam fan and not know about Debaser?

It's hot out there, the weather that is, and as I crossed from Broadway on to Demonbreun Street – with a view to paying one last visit to the Gibson Garage before attempting to walk back to the Moxy (with whom I've made my peace) – I spotted a Starbuck's in the red-bricked Cummings building (it used to be a railway freight terminal). Decaffeinated black coffee, it's awful, but drinkable – just – so I'm sitting here writing this and because I have no idea how to save a draft of what I'm writing, I'll finish it before I head to the guitar Mecca next door.

The look here for women is definitely denim skirts and cowboy boots. The men wear what the hell they want, which is normally tee-shirts and knee-length shorts with trainers. I'm quite happy in my new Carhartt jacket and black chinos, but I wouldn't say I was the height of fashion, never have been.

The worst thing about knowing you're going home is, ahem, knowing you're going home, not because you don't want to, but because you know that to get there you've got to endure the hassle of airports and, in my case, a nine-hour flight across the Atlantic. But that hasn't really sunk in yet. At present I'm trying to work out how I made such a pig's ear of trying to find East Nashville. It started yesterday when I keyed into my Uber app "East Nashville" and got nowhere fast. Today I figured the best way to find it would be to go on Google and key in "lunch in East Nashville". This would bring up a list of restaurants in this supposedly magical area of the city (where I might find enchanted book shops and places that sell wind chimes). I found a place called The Wash and took a chance. It seemed to take ages to get there, even the Interstate was involved, and when I was dropped off I found what used to be a car wash turned into around half a dozen ethnic food kiosks selling everything from Mexican food to Peruvian food, Vietnamese street food and Cuban food. I settled for the latter, a chicken dish with plantin, rice and black beans and it was very very good, but that was all there was, no bookshops, no nothing apart from a vintage clothes shop across the street selling stuff from American yesteryear, mainly hippy garb, belts and Zippo lighters, you know the rap. So I left, ordered an Uber to take me downtown and here I am, escaping the marauding drunks and the women singing Shania Twain on 'boogie buses'.

I tell you what is making me smile, something so miniscule you'll think me a fool – and perhaps I am. Back in 2017 or 2018, I can't remember the year without looking it up, I was here in Nashville for the same reason I'm here now, AISTech, arguably the best event in the steel industry's global calendar. I love it, pure and simple and always enjoy the Town Hall Forum on the last day. The last time I was here I paid a visit to the Hard Rock Café but forgot to pick up a fridge magnet. Well, I nipped in there and bought one for my fridge door, which is creaking under the weight of too many fridge magnets from around the world. It was something that needed to be ticked off.

You know what? I could walk straight into the Gibson Garage and buy that guitar. It's tempting, but I just know that British Airways will charge me big for it, so I guess the sensible voice inside my head will stop me. It's probably for the best as I dread to think what my wife will say as I bowl through the front door with all the bravado of American game show host and tell her I still need to buy an amp. Actually, it's probably worth doing just to see what she would say!

Nashville is a nice place, on the outskirts of town, but as I'm often criticised by those who know me for saying of every place I visit that "I could live here!" I won't say it now, although, let's face it, I could live here. Doh!

In Trentino*...a long way from Verona

Sometimes I have a strong impulse to make a stand, make a point, a statement, and it never does me any good. Yesterday, after loitering around the terminal building I made my way to the gate, Gate 22, which was a fair walk, but I needed it after that ill-advised almond croissant and cappuccino back at the café. Remember, I had already enjoyed breakfast, albeit at around 0700hrs and it was now mid-morning. 

Verona airport

I decided not to use the automated walkway – or conveyor – as it's just too lazy for words, and besides, it was quicker walking unless I walked whilst on the moving floor. I passed Gate 13 and realised that I would make a stand if my flight was leaving from that gate. No, I won't have it, I simply won't have it.

At Gate 22 there was a little queue and then Groups 1 to 6 were invited to board. I was Group 6 and I haven't the foggiest idea what that meant. I walked through the tunnel to the plane, getting a little angry at the HSBC ads that lined both walls as it was all part of the air travel thing, along with the big brand perfumes, the international banks and suddenly everybody was an Economist reader, everybody knew a great deal about central banks and international politics – or that was what we were being led to believe: that here, inside the claustrophobic passageway that led to the plane, it was all about 'international business' and entente cordiale and all that cosseted clap trap of the well-pressed shirt and the whiff of Paco Rabane. Those days have gone, I felt like saying out loud, "they've gone, do you hear me!" but for the sake of revealing my inner craziness and saving myself the humiliation I zipped it.

I hate the moment of stepping from the jetty on to the plane and being greeted by the cabin crew, this time with a complimentary wet wipe, which I refused. What the hell would I do with a wet wipe? I found my way to seat 28a where I found Dorothy, a 71-year-old woman celebrating her birthday with a trip to Verona to meet her children who were already there [although later I didn't see them at the airport waiting for her, she was looking for a shuttle to take here somewhere and was after somebody who could tell her where it was].

My anger built up [but remained concealed] when it was announced that we would be sitting on the tarmac, in the plane, for the next hour, something to do with our slot, our time of take-off. I seriously considered getting off the plane, making some excuse and just going home. I was on the cusp of doing it because I didn't like the look of the grey skies outside the window and was already imagining turbulence, something I hate with a vengeance. But I stayed put and struck up a conversation with Dorothy and Francesca, a 21-year-old American from Nevada who was studying in London but was visiting a friend who was studying in Verona. 

Dessert at Polentera Hotel (apple strudel with vanilla cream)

Dorothy had a sad tale to tell. Her ex-husband, an airline pilot, ran off with a younger woman and has since had four kids with her, but Dorothy was left alone in Dulwich, albeit with the support of her kids (also his, although they have disowned him). Dorothy is a diabetic, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's also an actor of sorts and has appeared in movies and pop videos. She was in one of the Terminator movies, she told me, unless I wasn't listening properly, although I think she was an extra. Francesca was quietly spoken and clearly from money, she showed us movies of her water skiing in blue seas off the coast of somewhere extortionate and I could tell by her tanned skin that peeked through her ripped and trendy jeans – and the fact that her father was also a pilot (of his own plane) – that an easy life lay ahead. We all 'got on', which was nice, although chatting whilst confined in an airliner doesn't really constitute 'getting on', but I got the feeling that Dorothy wished we all had more time together; this was, however, the conventional brief acquaintance of travelling and while we all made noises of 'see you again one day!' we all knew, of course, that this was our first and last meeting and that we would never see each other again. Nobody exchanged email addresses, put it that way.

View from Polentera window

We were in the air for around 90 minutes, there was no turbulence but a lot of cloud until we'd cleared the English Channel and were half way across France, then the Alps appeared in all their glory and soon the plane was chuntering towards Verona. The landing was smooth and Maria was there to greet me. We drove towards Storo and the Polentera Hotel, which I would later discover is surrounded by mountains. I had dinner alone and then went back to my room to watch television, all of which was either dubbed into Italian or was Italian. I gave up and turned in, but awoke around 0300hrs and found it difficult to get back to sleep. Eventually I must have nodded off because the alarm sounded at 0630hrs and wearily I made my way to the bathroom.

Breakfasts in these small 'agriturismo' hotels – let's not forget the Villa Dragoni in Buttrio, Italy – aren't particularly healthy: cappuccino (well, I asked for one because it was offered) plus biscuits, sugary fruit juice, a bread roll filled with jam and a slice of cake – were on offer and I scoffed the lot, of course I did, 'when in Rome' and all that, although I was a long way from the Italian capital. I was close to Lake Garda apparently, or so I was told as I was driven away in a Fiat 500 from the Polentera Hotel. I'd expected to be staying a second night, but no, I'm in the Cristina Hotel in Pinzolo tonight, a wellness spa hotel designed for the skiing fraternity. Well, not yet. I will be later today and there's a pool, but I haven't brought any trunks, although I'm guessing there won't be time, there never is. This trip has an itinerary, it's a bit like a conference, but right now I'm sitting in a room 'working' as the whole thing doesn't start until lunch time, begging the question: why did they pick me up at 0820hrs? I guess that there's little to do back at the Polentera, but then there's little to do here so I'm spending my time deleting emails, answering emails, sending emails and I might put a news story online, but other than that there's little to do; I'm also sitting here in a suit, which feels a little bit stilted...and hot. I might have to take off my jacket, it's probably the most radical thing I'll do all morning.

Breakfast at the Polentera Hotel in Storo – lots of unhealthy stuff.

When work was over (it's never over when you're on a foreign press trip) there was dinner, which seemed to go on forever. It started around 1900hrs with ham and cheeses on plates outside of the restaurant, the Champagne flowed but I stuck it out with sparkling mineral having explained (as you have to) why you don't drink, it's such a bore. Dinner didn't start until around 2100hrs and it was gone 2300hrs (and many glasses of mineral water) before I returned to room 143 and another broken night, this time I awoke at 0400hrs and managed to get back to sleep before the alarm sounded at 0630hrs. 

View from room 143, Cristina Hotel

Yesterday afternoon I had heard that my Friday evening flight back to London was cancelled by those bastards, British Airways. They'd booked me on a flight home Saturday morning, which meant an afternoon of swanning around in Verona (not a bad call) but in all honesty I'd rather have been going home. Still, I've made the most of it. I found Romeo & Juliet's famous balcony (it's not up to much) and now I'm sitting in Casa Mazzanti, a caffé, drinking a cappuccino. Over here, cappuccinos are not so over-the-top as they are in the UK. Instead they're smaller in size and not so flamboyant. No chocolate on top, just the white milk, they don't stand on ceremony. I'm booked on a flight tomorrow morning at around 11am, which means I need to be at the airport at 0900hrs. I could do without that. In fact I could do without flying. I'd much rather catch the train to Paris and then jump on board the Eurostar to St Pancras, but I'd never get home so I might as well grin and bear it. I think if they cancelled again, I'd be on the train immediately (who's to say they won't cancel again?).

The hotel I'm staying in here in Verona is very pleasant. I'm in room 106 of the Albergo Mazzanti. It was down a side street so my taxi driver was unable to take me to the door and I had to walk the last few yards. It's weird isn't it? You would have thought I'd be happy to be here, swanning around Verona (and I would be had I been getting on a train tomorrow morning (or even tonight) but I'm not. Instead I have to engage with air travel again and I'm not looking forward to it. All that stands before me and the flight is a decent meal and I've yet to work out where I'll be going. I might go back and ask the hotel for their recommendations. Anyway, nothing much more to say so I'll sign off.

Lots of cake for breakfast at the Cristina (a wellness hotel!).

Poor man's Colosseum in Verona...

* I ought to point out that while I flew into Verona I was quite a way from the city for most of the time on this trip. My first stop was Storo, in the mountains, I'm told the Dolomites, and I was in the region known as Trentino, which is basically a lot of snow-topped mountains with towns dotted here and there. They surrounded me wherever I was, be it in the hotel or out on the streets, they were everywhere. It was odd, because today (Friday) we drove away from the mountainous region in a small minibus (well, it was a large cab). As we drove along with mountains on both sides and at the front and back, I marvelled at the dramatic scenery. Eventually, however, I fell asleep (probably because I'd been getting broken nights).

Room 106, Albergo Mazzanti, Verona

When I regained consciousness we were on the AI motorway and then the A4 motorway and the mountains had gone. The land was flat and I could see for miles. It was good to sleep and I enjoyed every luxurious minute of it. When we reached our destination it was time for more work and when it was over we took the same cab and found ourselves in a small café in a place called Vicenza. The weather here was lovely: blue skies and sunshine. I left my raincoat in the suitcase and we ate alfresco, just a snack, before getting back in the cab and heading for the railway station where my colleagues were boarding trains to Verona and Venice. It was time to say goodbye to everybody. I was staying with the cab all the way to Verona, which was 50km away. I had another night to go thanks to, but not courtesy of, British Airways (they're not as good as they're cracked up to be, a bit like the UK). As I said earlier (yes, this post has kind come full circle) I am in Verona now. I'm sitting in the Casa Mazzanti caffé having a cappuccino and writing this blogpost, which I have now finished. 

Well, almost finished. I feel I must say something about the hotel, the Albergo Mazzanti, as it's absolutely the perfect hotel for anybody looking to spend the weekend in Verona. For a start there's only 16 rooms, so it's small and perfected formed, which is what I like. Second, it's bang in the centre of the city, a few paces away from a huge square lined with restaurants and cafés and only a short walk from the aforementioned Romeo & Juliet balcony and what I referred to above as the poor man's colosseum. I'm sure it's got a proper name, but that's what it looks like. Anyway, the hotel is amazing. As I write this, it's Saturday morning and I really must be making tracks for the airport and a flight back to Gatwick. However, just to say the rooms are great (see photo) and the breakfasts are good too. More cake, I hasten to add, but that appears to the Italian way and I'm certainly not complaining.

View from room 106...

Yesterday I wandered about a little, mainly in search of the Romeo & Juliet balcony, but then a little further, up to the "colosseum" and beyond and then back to the hotel for dinner, although not in the hotel but in the nearby Caffé Dante, which has struck a deal with the hotel (you'll get 10% discount off the price of a meal there). And let me say that Caffé Dante was very good indeed. I had two courses and it was around 54 Euros, not bad considering the quality of the food and service.

I better get out of here, got a flight to catch. All I need to buy is a fridge magnet to add to my collection. Last night I discovered that Verona has a Hard Rock Café, but as I didn't fancy dining there I couldn't very well pick up one of their magnets. The problem is that buying one from the many kiosks dotted around the city is only possible if you have cash. I don't, just a credit card, so I'm without one at present. My only hope is that there will be some at the airport as I don't really want to draw cash just to buy a fridge magnet. That said, it would be a shame to leave Verona without one.

En route to Verona...

 I wanted to take the train. Train travel is by far the very best there is, but sadly it's very expensive and, oddly – you would have thought it might be the other way around – air travel is ridiculously cheap. We all know why this is: air travel is heavily subsidized and, as a result, it's not the haven of the glamour puss any more, no longer the place you'll find supermodels and film stars. Or rather it is, but they all fly in First Class and hide away from the plebs in the lounges. That said, I once bumped in to Jimmy Somerville, I spotted a stand-up comedian whose name I can't remember and I think that's about the level of my airport celeb spotting.

The train to Verona is possible, but it would have meant arriving at gone midnight and that simply wouldn't do. Why? Because I was being picked up, by 'Maria' and driven to my hotel, which is located in a place called Storo, which I'm guessing is a fair way from Verona. I won't be seeing the famous Romeo and Juliet balcony on this trip, unless I can fit it in on the return journey, which is not out of the question. From now on, however, if I can take the train, I will. I'm going to Dusseldorf in June and the plan is to train it all the way as it's only around three hours from Brussels.

The Grain Store café and bar, Wednesday 15 March 2023, noon.

So, the airport. I took the train to Gatwick, mainly because I hate cars almost as much as I hate planes and I hate taxis just a little bit more. First, they're a rip-off, second, the driver is invariably racist and won't stop talking in a derogatory manner about the Mayor of London and lastly, I just can't be bothered with cabs when I can walk to the railway station and just jump on a train: no hassle, no chat, no nothing other than looking out of the window, which is what I did until I reached Gatwick and then, of course, the shit begins in earnest. Fortunately, my British Airways flight was leaving from the South Terminal so I didn't need to jump on the monorail and head for the North Terminal, that's a relief. But then I did have to endure the capitalist scumbags, yes British Airways, but hey, any airline can be allocated the same description for the simple reason that they do all they can to make more money for themselves and they don't care if that means inconveniencing the customer – me!

They've now got auto bag drop systems. No longer the human being who checks your passport, hands you your boarding pass and takes your bag. Now it's a queue for a machine, which somehow defeats the purpose. I've always been of the opinion that if a machine is involved it's allieviating something, ie queues, but not any more; these days people queue for a machine, but guess what? The queue for the human beings is even longer. I couldn't stomach it. I was standing there in the zig zag of travellers thinking 'this is going to take ages' and after trying to stick it out twice I eventually relented, walked to the auto check-in kiosk, took my boarding pass from the machine (I took the liberty of booking myself a window seat (28a) and then queued in the smaller queue for the machines. I nearly sent my bag to Tampa, Florida in the process. The guy before me pressed something, I'm not sure, but when I reached the machine it was still thinking everybody was going to Tampa. When my tag was printed it clearly said 'Tampa' so I moved to another machine and it kind of worked, although the conveyor jammed and I had to call an assistant and then it was alright. But my problems weren't over – better make that 'hassles'. It's just a hassle going through security, putting the laptop in a separate tray and so forth, but, I suppose, in all honesty, it wasn't too bad and once I was through with it, all I had left to deal with was the society of the spectacle. I had to run the gauntlet of perfumes and alcohol, watches and God knows what else. I had no intention of buying anything but I did squirt myself with a liberal amount of Davidoff Cool Water, just to make myself smell good. I always smell good when I'm on a plane, thanks to the testers.

I'm now sitting in the Grain Store café bar sipping a cappuccino and nibbling (to my own disappointment) an almond croissant. This, I know, has to stop. Yesterday it was my colleague's birthday and she brought in a caterpillar cake. I would have just had one slice, but I found myself irritated by somebody else in the office who, it seemed, was intent on playing 'the old man'. I hate that. When people play the old man, the pensioner or whatever when they're not that old and should really be just getting on with life without whingeing. There are loads of 'old people' words that I try to avoid: Lumbago, Sciatica, Secateurs and, of course, the Daily Mail. I don't want to hear people moaning about their fucking gout or how their knees are playing up, this is the stuff of old people and I won't have it. I know people get these ailments, of course they do, but whingeing about them in an old person kind of way just makes me annoyed. Why, I ask myself, do they wish to be considered old before their time. My mum IS old, she's 93, she can moan, but not one of my work colleagues. But it's not just him. I've heard celebs (who are not old) moaning (in a jokey manner) about ear hair, nose hair and how things just ain't working they way they used to. Fine! Moan! But moan on your own, in a locked room, a soundproof room in the middle of the desert because I don't want to hear it, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it.

I arrived at Gatwick "well early" so it looks as if I'm going to get the full two-hour slob-out. The last thing I want to do is buy any food or drink in the flight so I'm going to order something else before I vacate my seat at the table of this rather nice little café. But hold the bus! This place ain't cheap. The 'mains & grills' range in price from £14.75 for vegetarian chilli to £21 for grilled salmon, there are desserts (if I'm to make out that my almond croissant was the main course) but do I really want to scoff key lime pie, pecan pie or even a pavlova. There are burgers, salads, pizzas and 'small plates' but the latter are piss poor and I can't very well order another pastry or another cappuccino, that would be a little piggish. Perhaps another coffee? But cappuccino is roughly 135 calories a go, making 270 in total. Do I want that? I could order tea, that's zero calories if served black and not much more with a smidgen of milk. But do I really want more or am I just in need of comfort. The most legitimate would be the Full English breakfast, but really? Imagine when it arrives and I stare at the bacon, sausage, egg and hash browns, not forgetting the baked beans, the mushrooms and the sourdough toast. Do I really want it or am I simply being a huge pig, a rare breed lump of pork who needs to eat no more and just make do with the still mineral water that stands before me? No, I can't eat more, it's wrong on so many levels.

There's over an hour before my flight departs Gatwick and I know that outside of the café is nothing but the society of the spectacle in the shape of rubbish clothes and electronic goods, books I don't need to read right now and stuff nobody really needs. They're capitalizing on people's boredom, that's what it is and there's no way I'm going to play ball. What I could do is go to Starbuck's and order a tea and simply sit there until it's time to make my way to the gate, now that's got to be the plan. I can continue reading Buzzin' by Bez, my latest book. Yes, I finished The Bear Comes Home by Rafi Zabor, which turned out to be reasonably good in the end. So, listen, I'm going to sign off. 

25 August 2022 - Flight BA779 Stockholm Arlanda to London Heathrow

You can tell when it's time to engage with the UK after a few days out of the cuntry. Since Monday there have been no queues and nobody moaning, but today it started again. When I arrived at check-in points 19-21a I was greeted by a queue of people standing in front of empty seats where the BA staff were supposed to be sitting. So typical that there was nobody there, but like everybody else I waited in line. BA staff eventually arrived and started the process of checking in bags. I asked for a window seat and of course there was none available because (for the first time this week) it was a full flight. The hassles, the disappointments, had started, I thought as I was handed my boarding pass which displayed a middle aisle seat and let me make this clear: the plane had two aisles with three seats per row, there was no middle aisle. It's only a short flight, but I could still do with a window. Sadly not, though, as it's a full flight. I'm now a little more miffed that I was when I woke up this morning, but I set about the task of making the most of last few hours in Stockholm.

Last snack before heading to Arlanda airport

I've got to reach page 200 before I leave here!

Breakfast at the hotel was pleasant, consisting of green tea, muesli with seeds and sultanas and a few mini cookies, not forgetting an amazing cinnamon roll. I went to my room afterwards and packed things away, had a shower - having originally considered not bothering - and then I went to the front desk and asked them to look after my bags while I cavorted around the city for the last time. Actually, 'cavorting' was not what I was doing, I was just milling around looking for somewhere to chill and read my book. It was, if you like, a last wander around town. I went to a place called Brod and Salt, two foodstuffs/ingredients I wasn't that happy about when you consider that bread contains a fair amount of salt so why have bread and salt? Why double the dose of bad health? I ordered a cappuccino and a sticky blueberry pastry that I regretted the moment I took possession of it and then I set about reading Philip Roth's American Pastoral which I'll admit I'm struggling with, but I must finish it as I borrowed it from a colleague and it's her favourite book, but I'll be honest and I will tell her I struggled. Listen, the jury is out until I finish it, the whole book might redeem itself before the end, who knows? The aim was to reach page 200 before heading to the airport and I made it.

Room 341 Scandic Malmen

I considered another coffee but didn't bother. I went back to the hotel, retrieved my suitcase from the luggage room in the basement and then headed for the metro and a short trip to the airport on the Arlanda Express. It wasn't long before I found myself at Arlanda airport and, despite saying I wouldn't eat anymore until I arrived in the UK, I consumed with gusto a cheese and ham baguette and a paper mug of tea. I made the mistake of going to the gate, which in this case meant going through passport control and not being able to go back to the shops and restaurants. There was nothing but a small kiosk, but I bought a bar of Marabou milk chocolate (Sweden's equivalent of Finland's Fazer brand, I'm guessing). It's comfort food.

The thought of a middle aisle seat continued to bug me as did the weather in the UK which was supposed to be bad, ie cloud and rain, just what I don't like when I'm flying. In Stockholm the weather was sunshine and blue skies, but I figured that at some point on the flight things would change and I would be looking down at thick cloud knowing that sooner or later I'd be descending through the murk to the UK below. What an awful thought. Heathrow airport. It normally means endless circling until a runway becomes free, although the captain said something about arriving ahead of schedule so we might avoid the crap of going round and round and round in thick cloud wondering if we'll hit another plane circling in the other direction. I tend to think of the worst when I'm flying, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I heard a voice on the Tannoy system making a last call for a flight to Helsinki and I started to wish I was on that plane, which would probably be half empty and I'd definitely get a window seat. Anything for the tranquility of a country with just 5.5 million people. Frankly, I'm amazed at how empty Helsinki airport was when I flew to Stockholm (see previous post). There was nobody around and it was wonderful. Stockholm was busier and I'm expecting the usual shit show at Heathrow immigration... and then the awful and extortionate Heathrow Express to Paddington, which is far preferable to a taxi ride home listening to the rantings of a bigoted Brexiteer going on about Siddique Khan, the Mayor of London. I'm scheduled to board a BA flight which is full-to-bursting and I'll be sitting in the middle seat. Life couldn't get much worse if it tried, I thought to myself, hoping that they might cancel the flight and put me up in a hotel overnight so I can regroup, get a window seat and fly back in the morning. I always have these thoughts and I should be careful what I wish for (avid readers will recall my last trip to Pittsburgh in May, and will know exactly what I'm talking about).

Stairwell at the Scandic Malmen

Two cunts have turned up. Former colleagues who haven't seen each other for some time. One of them now has two kids and is married and living in Battersea. The other says he used to live in Balham. I know the type, fucking awful, so I moved away just in case they say something that makes me want to vomit. The plane arrived at the gate and it's now just a matter of boarding and getting home.

The flight was fine all the way, even sitting in the middle seat was fine. I didn't speak to the person on my right who spent the entire flight - all two hours and 10 minutes - on his laptop, but I briefly had a word with the lady to my left who was knitting a small octopus for a charity that had something to do with premature babies.

Foodwise, a KitKat and an awful cup of coffee: a paper mug of hot water with a coffee bag thrown in. The member of the cabin crew who served me was raving about how good it was, but to me it was like muddy water. She kept saying it gave Costa Coffee a run for its money but let me tell you this, it was nowhere near. I wanted a proper bar of chocolate but the KitKat was all they had and let's not forget the Tyrell's potato chips and the small bottle of mineral water. British Airways love to reinforce the class divide between coach and business class, they even draw a small grey curtain across to block out the plebs in economy so that the posh people in Club Europe or whatever it's called don't have to listen to us salivating over what delicacies they have to eat compared to the crap we're given. I'd love to run amok with a tin of paint but I'm sure I'd be arrested and fined and banned from flying for years, which wouldn't go down too well, and besides, is it even possible to bring a tin of Dulux on to a plane? Probably not.

The plane did arrive ahead of schedule and I had to wait an age for the baggage handlers to load the luggage from the flight on to baggage reclaim conveyor number 11. But once I had my bag I sailed through customs with my kilo of cocaine* and made my way to the Heathrow Express (£25). I took the Bakerloo to Oxford Circus, changed on to the Victoria Line and when I reached Victoria jumped on a train to Sanderstead. Trip over.

* Joke, alright? Not serious. I know how sensitive we all are these days.

Monday 6th June, Flight BA860 from London Heathrow to Prague...

Waiting to take off...

First, let's get all the commercial crap out of the way. I hate it. As soon as I am through security – which this time was relatively painless – I found myself surrounded by booze and perfume and then watches and expensive leather goods, clothes shops and so forth. I was elated to note that shops like Tiffany, Bvlgari and other big brand names I'm having difficulty remembering were all empty, no customers whatsoever, it was so heartening. I've always hated the false notion that air travel is somehow glamorous and that we should all be considering some Beluga caviar before we fly (another shop, incidentally, that had no customers, much to my amusement, all those oysters going to waste, I thought).

Unfortunately for me I'm still on antibiotics, thanks to my last trip abroad. The course finishes tomorrow, but I almost forgot and ordered a chicken burger, which I swiftly cancelled, keeping only the mineral water in order to swallow my pill at the desired time, which just so happened to be at lunch time. I had the prospect of not eating for one hour, which was very depressing especially when I later discovered that the inflight service consisted of a bag of crisps. If I wanted anything else, I was told, I should have ordered something on the BA shopping app prior to flying, except that nobody told me about this. Next time I'll buy food before I fly, I thought. The other option was to use the app to order something from the limited selection they had on board, which was rubbish and consisted only of coffee and a couple of biscuits. And considering that I was now at 30,000 feet and the option of pre-ordering was out of the question, it was all I had left. I made the cabin crew work. I had many questions and I needed them to help me use the app in order to buy an awful cup of black coffee and those biscuits. The coffee came in the shape of a coffee bag which I had to place in a paper mug of hot water they had given me. The coffee was awful, no taste at all despite claiming to offer 'notes of dark chocolate and burnt caramel'. I squeezed the bag as per the instructions on the back but it made no difference, it was still absolutely awful. So much for their 'Signature Blend'. 

Looking down at the M25...

To use the app, the cabin crew told me I had to take the phone off airplane mode (which made me a little apprehensive as I imagined the plane suddenly nose-diving and the captain coming out and saying "whoever's turned their phone off airplane mode, switch it back on" and then the plane levelling out). Nothing of the sort happened, fortunately. 

The biscuit and the coffee set me back a fiver and didn't represent value for money in my world. The annoying thing here, of course, was that once again, I found myself being forced to eat rubbish. I had no dinner on Sunday night because there wasn't any food, no breakfast for the same reason the following morning and then no lunch because I had to take an antibiotic at a specific time and I was really looking forward to the inflight meal, but it wasn't to be thanks to British Airways, the airline that likes to disappoint its customers.

The flight was only 90 minutes and as I looked at  my watch, I realised we had started our descent. As soon as we land I'm going to grab something decent to eat, I thought to myself. I was really glad that I got the cabin crew working on that app. I was like a dog with a bone.

The captain said the weather conditions in Prague were 'cheerful', which was more than could be said for BA's food offering. The muddy water they passed off as coffee was a joke as, indeed was the whole experience. I think the crew thought that nobody would be bothered to use the app, but I proved them wrong. They're probably still cursing me as I write this; at least I hope they are!

BA's idea of lunch!

Outside the window and far below me, there were green fields and sunshine and scattered cloud. When I looked at my watch, there was around 15 minutes until we landed. I could see little villages below and the usual patchwork quilt of corn fields and grass fields dissected by narrow country lanes and peppered here and there with forests, the occasional river and even a few wind farms. Ten minutes to landing.

Once down, getting through security was a doddle, so was baggage reclaim and then I spotted a cafeteria, a spacious place with hardly any customers. There was a servery counter so I ordered a pasta and chicken dish and a decent dessert and chilled for a few minutes before finding a taxi and heading for the Grandior Hotel.

Postscript: Just going back to British Airways again, one thing I always used to enjoy was reading John Simpson's column in the High Life magazine, but now it's not available as a print publication – or so it seems. Now it's an app that you can read (I'd imagine with huge difficulty) on a mobile phone. I didn't bother. Fucking apps!

The ordeal was almost over...

During the week, somewhere along the line, I managed to injure myself. I don't know how I managed it, there was no trauma to any bones or joints, but at some stage I damaged my right foot. It's funny because whenever I say something like, "You know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" Or whatever, but if I say something like that I'll get a bad foot or I'll be stuck somewhere and inconvenienced in a big way.  Last week, that's just what I said, "Do you know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" And it was true, I hadn't. Occasionally, let's say once, possibly twice a year, I did something to one of my feet, God knows what, but it left me limping for a few days, my foot swelled up, I took a few Nurofen and that was it, but for a long time now, absolutely nothing wrong with my foot, until I mentioned it a week ago. I don't remember exactly when it happened, probably Wednesday, and I checked it out on the internet. "Lateral foot pain – caused by excessive walking wearing the wrong shoes." It might have said 'inappropriate footwear'. Walking in inappropriate footwear. Well, that's roughly what I was indulging in last week, excessive walking. In Doctor Martens shoes that have worn down a little on one side of the heel. In a nutshell, I can't walk and I'm in pain when I do. I hobble, that's the best way of describing it. One minute I was fine, the next I'm hobbling like a tramp and getting nowhere fast. Fortunately, my work was done (or most of it) so it had no detrimental effect on anything other than on myself. But I'm hobbling, right? Making slow progress. And its when I'm in this kind of state that things start to go wrong. 

I have shared most flights on this trip with my colleague Catherine, but not this last one, she was on an earlier flight that was severely delayed. As I write this I am sitting alone in Terminal 7 of JFK and I have two hours to go before I take off. Earlier, I had to queue for well over an hour to speak to one of two people who were dealing with passenger enquiries in a very slow and infuriating manner; it was painful to watch let alone be a part of, but there was nothing I could do about it. After a long while, however, I was given my flight documents, told to go from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7 and that it was advisable not to leave the airport. I stayed in Terminal 8 with a bunch of people who found themselves in the same boat. Some even slept under blankets provided, others, like me, sat chatting with other stranded people and there was, of course, an element of the Dunkirk Spirit about the situation. I found myself with Lisa Schiller, an American lawyer from Fort Lauderdale who had given up being a solicitor to run her own business. She was travelling to Oman for a holiday, but her flight from Miami had messed up in some way, leaving her temporarily stranded and wondering whether to call the whole thing off. She spoke of her dogs and how she gets a lot of iguanas in her back garden and how her dog chases them. I helped her book her seat and check in online and we chatted about this and that until I had to change terminals and she made her way to the Admiral's Lounge (the first class lounge for American Airlines). She was happy for me to be her guest, but I had to be in Terminal Seven, which was decidedly different from Terminal Eight, let's say a little more basic.

Air Train to Terminal 7.

I hobbled to the Air Train, which took me from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7, and nobody (I mean nobody) was going to come to my aid, offer help in the shape of a wheelchair, which was what I needed. Not that I was going to accept any assistance. Jumping into a wheelchair equals defeat in my book and I wasn't in any mood to surrender. I hobbled from the Air Train to Terminal 7 and started to queue for a boarding pass, but then decided I'd be better off using the terminals provided and, unusually, they worked and I was issued with a boarding pass. It was time for my favourite part of the game: security. I was told to put everything in one tray, I didn't have to take the laptop out of its case, which was odd, but I had to take my jumper off, revealing the legend of my tee-shirt: "I bring NOTHING to the table!" The slogan was absolutely right, I brought nothing to the table. I had to take my shoes off too, which was most annoying, thanks to Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber - I'm so glad he's in prison - and soon I noticed that, unlike in Terminal 8 and on every plane I'd flown in, everybody was wearing a face mask and the police were advising people to wear them. Plenty were, but a few broke the rule (including me). That was all I needed, to be arrested, so I stuck close to the gate was told that would start in 20 minutes.

The flight home was as boring as hell and there was plenty of turbulence to keep me on my toes, except that my foot was in a bad way so the likelihood of me being 'on my toes' was low. Like on the outward flight last Saturday, I couldn't really concentrate, I simply wasn't in the mood. Unlike previous trips abroad I wasn't particularly fired up about anything; normally I might read the papers from back to front, dip into a book, read the inflight magazine, enjoy the airline food and so on, watch a movie, listen to music. Not this time. It was my first trip since lockdown, perhaps that was it, but basically I simply endured it. You could say I 'did my time'. I sat there, talked to nobody (not that I ever talk to my fellow passengers), I didn't even look at the map of the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic, I wasn't interested. I started doing the 'time' thing: 'in one hour there will be two hours and 45 minutes to go' and so on and I tried not to look at my watch, and when I did look at it only five minutes had elapsed despite the fact that I thought otherwise. I ate what they gave me: a full English breakfast, which was quite enjoyable, and then a turkey and ham roll that I eventually discarded. There was a mini Milky Way chocolate bar (in the US they're more like Mars bars) I endured the flight and the turbulence and the severely cramped conditions and, as always, I built up a tremendous hatred towards class divisions, which are more than evident on a plane, which is sectionalised based on how much you're prepared to pay. If you're sitting at the front you get more space and better food and service, they call you 'sir' for heaven's sake. If you're at the back, 'sir' doesn't come into it, your conditions are squeezed and the food is basic and poor. Curtains divide the sections and you don't encroach on the space of those who pay more than you, they don't want to mix with plebs like you. But I always think that if the plane goes down we will all die, even if those at the front die clasping a glass of Champagne. Bully for them! 

Now boarding flight BA178 

The plane touched down around 10 minutes earlier than scheduled (big deal!) and then I discovered that British Airways had lost my luggage. After faffing around filling in forms I met my taxi driver and was driven home along the M25 and M23. I reached the house around 2200hrs and sat watching before I willingly hit the sack, waking late in the day. It was Sunday and sunny and the garden looked good. I checked out my swollen foot with the guys at 111 and a doc advised a visit to A&E to check out the swelling. I'm not in too much pain, I'm better than I was, but I'm still limping and the foot is red and swollen.

My lost luggage was delivered to the house later in the day.

The photograph on the left was of the interior of flight BA178 from JFK to London Heathrow. I'd just sat down. It was a full flight (always is) but there was no way that British Airways was going to give me a more comfortable seat to ease the hassle with my foot. They never help and I was stuck in the cramped conditions for just over seven hours. I found two vacant seats at the back of the plane and was told they were for the crew, but the crew never used them and later I found two men there when previously nobody occupyed them. British Airways is always like this and if you ever need to contact them, ALL the numbers listed are useless, even if it says 24-hour assistance and you call out of hours, there's always a recorded voice asking you to call between 0800hrs and whenever, but they're never available when you want them to be. In so many ways a sham of an airline. 

At Heathrow Airport...and then Amsterdam

I'm flying British Airways to Amsterdam and it's only a short flight, something like 40 minutes, but the flight is full and I had to go to the desk close to Gate A10 to secure a seat. I asked for a window, but I've been given seat 8D, which is an aisle seat, and I'm happy with that because it's not a long flight so it doesn't really matter. Had it been a little longer, I would have been happy with an aisle seat, so all is well.

There's not enough time to chill out with a cup of tea and a Millionaire's Shortbread - or something of that ilk - so I thought I'd start blogging early. Normally I can't do this because my old Macbook was, well, old, and it wouldn't have the battery power, but my new Chromebook is a different kettle of fish. The battery's been going since yesterday morning and there's still loads of power left, so I can sit here, at the gate, blogging until the flight is called. I'm now at Gate A2 and the crowds are gathering, not to watch me blogging, I hasten to add, but to get on the plane.

It's currently 1532hrs and outside it's bright and clear skies, a complete contrast to yesterday's drizzly, cold day. And now that I'm sitting here writing, I realise the reason (apart from the poor battery on my Mac) why I don't normally blog prior to arriving at my destination: there's not much to say. The journey here was pretty uneventful and, look, I'd better go as they're boarding the flight, we can continue this conversation later.

Later...
The flight was packed. So packed that there was no room for my suitcase. I stood in the aisle next to seat 8D as I knew there were people destined to sit in seats 8E and 8F. They eventually arrived, but I remained standing, my suitcase on my seat. When the steady stream of passengers filing in to the plane slowed to a trickle, I went in search of a member of the cabin crew to tell him or her there was no room for my suitcase. A male steward moved a few bags around, placing them in other overhead lockers and then invited me to place my case in the vacated space. At last I could take my seat.

The plane trundled out of the gate and made its way to the runway. The pilot said it was excellent flying weather and he was right. I ordered a peppermint tea and a KitKat and shortly after I finished my tea and had read John Simpson's column in High Life (the only piece of writing in the entire magazine worth reading in my opinion) the pilot announced there was 10 minutes until landing. We hit the tarmac with a thud and made our way to the terminal building and then I went in search of the hotel shuttle buses.

Having listened (watched) Will Self giving a lecture at Google HQ on the subject of 'psychogeography' I looked at the taxi rank with suspicion. Taxi drivers, says Will Self, are the arch enemies of the psycho-geographer and I knew what he meant. I was reminded of a quote that appears in Fahrenheit 451, something like "if they give you lined paper, write the other way'. So I waited for the hotel shuttle bus, which rolled up after about 15 minutes of hanging around. I was the only passenger. It didn't take long to reach the hotel, but I was a little concerned that it was closer to the airport than Amsterdam's downtown, where I'm guessing my conference hotel is located.

It's a good hotel - so far. The check-in was quick and friendly, the room is very good: twin bed, flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a desk looking out on the city (I'm on the fifth floor of 18) and there's even a sofa, a safe, a telephone, tea and coffee making facilities and a few magazines, everything you might expect, including a bottle of mineral water. But no minibar. Not that I want one. And no wardrobe either!

Time was moving on and I needed some dinner. The restaurant is on the 17th floor and it offers panoramic views of Amsterdam and an interesting menu. I opted for brocolli soup, an FL17 burger (basically a beefburger with bacon, lettuce, cheese) and an apple pie with ice cream - or rather a kind of 'tart', certainly not a pie. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (sparkling) and a Solero 'mocktail', which was more ice cubes than cocktail. I had a side order of chips and a mayo dip and just sat there, alone, people watching and listening to the loud music that played throughout my time there. Not my kind of music if I'm honest.

I headed back to the room to get my credit card (I wasn't allowed to put the meal 'on the room') and then returned to the 17th floor to pay the bill. Now I'm back in my room, the Brexit documentary is on the television (I can get BBC1 and BBC2 here) and I'm feeling tired. And there's nothing worse than feeling tired and not being able to switch off the television. Yes, there's a big red button and I know it's the power-off button, but it doesn't work so I spent an inordinate amount of time faffing about pressing different buttons and getting nowhere. Eventually I resorted to calling reception. "Press the big red button at the top of the remote," said the guy on the other end of the phone. "Thanks," I said, and hung up. I then spent a good 15 seconds, maybe longer, possibly 20 or even 25 seconds with my finger pressing down the red button before, suddenly, the screen went blank. Now, I can get some sleep. And yes, you're right, I re-logged in just to write five sentences.

In New Delhi...mad driving and monkeys

The last time I visited India was Christmas 1987. I had flown Turkish Airlines to what was then Bombay (now Mumbai) and I spent around three to four weeks in Bangalore, Mysore and the surrounding area. It was great. There are two types of person: those who can't deal with the poverty and those who can. I fell into the latter group, which was just as well as the journey by taxi from the airport to the centre of the city crammed in plenty of poverty.

Poor air quality – the view from room 522...

It's 32 years later, I'm back, but this time in New Delhi, in the north of the country, and it all comes flooding back to me – except that I've yet to see any poverty. As I write this it is 1407 here in India, five and a half hours ahead of the UK where it is just 0835hrs in the morning. Yesterday evening (Saturday 2nd February) I flew out of the Heathrow Terminal Five on BA 257. Eight hours and very smooth all the way. I watched John Boorman's Deliverance with Burt Reynolds and John Voight, but that was when there were three hours and 58 minutes of the flight left. The film was roughly 107 minutes long so I'll leave you to do the maths on that one. Did you know that Charlie Boorman was in Deliverance? Prior to watching the movie I had eaten a kind of airline version of a roast chicken dinner and then spent a considerable time reading the free newspapers I had picked up prior to boarding the aircraft. I stretched out in seat 26C and discovered things I never knew: like Amber Rudd being married to AA Gill and having two children with him before he upped and left her for another woman; and how the Iranians are getting around – or planning to get around – US sanctions by using BitCoin. I found the latter story intriguing.

Things got a little clearer a few hours later...

Once Deliverance was over I watched Alan Partridge and Fawlty Towers and then found that breakfast was being served and it was soon time to disembark. Rather worryingly, thick fog and smog over New Delhi meant that the plane had to use automatic pilot to land and all electronic gadgetry had to be switched off. The smog was so thick that I never saw the ground until we had physically touched down. The plane made its way to the terminal building of Indira Ghandi Airport and after some minor faffing with immigration I was being met by a pleasant chap who was holding up my name, written in felt pen, on a sheet of A4 paper. He presented me with a garland of flowers and I remembered that Indians were very nice people. I felt mildly annoyed with myself for not having any money to give as a tip. We chatted about India and it's 29 states and he pointed out a few buildings as we travelled by taxi to the hotel. This guy was some kind of chaperone for me, which was nice and much needed. I was tired having lost a night's sleep virtually and probably would have found it difficult to cope with the chaotic driving that I had all but forgotten about. I've always thought that Indians lead some kind of charmed life, overtaking on bends and surviving as well as other misdemeanours, like nearly running over pedestrians who appear to think nothing of being killed by a taxi driver who is seemingly driving in a trance-like state. Although that wasn't the case with my driver, he was fine, it was other road users I had to worry about. In addition to mad drivers there were monkeys. Alright, I saw one, but you wouldn't see any in London. The Indians like the monkeys, they find them amusing and I know what they mean.

Room 522, Park Hotel, New Delhi, India...

When I arrived at the hotel the front desk was busy checking people in. There were lots of people around and fortunately, once all the necessary paperwork had been done, I took the lift to my hotel room and after working out how to use the safe (and depositing my valuables in it) I hit the sack for a three-hour sleep and a dream so strange that I simply can't think of words to describe it. Needless to say it was fretful and I woke up with a racing heart. And now here I am, sitting at the computer writing this my first blogpost from New Delhi.

The hotel is fine, although there are a few rough edges. Well, one so far: the button that flushes the toilet is stiff, but it works. There's a huge flatscreen television and when I first arrived I watched around 30 minutes of The Spy Next Door with Jackie Chan before hitting the sack. I had roughly three hours' sleep and feel a little better than I felt three hours earlier. I've just eaten a bar of Cadbury's Fruit & Nut "Everyone's a fruit and nut case, crazy for those Cadbury nuts and raisins," I remember Frank Muir singing back in the day.

What I find slightly amazing is that I've been paranoid about going down with so-called Delhi Belly, but somehow managed to get 'the shits' while still on the plane and eating English food. How did that happen? Perhaps my arse is preparing me for worst to come, giving me a little taster of what it might be like later in the week when I'm firing on all cylinders. Somebody in the office told me to wash my hands every time somebody shakes my hand. That seems to me to be a little over-paranoid. The last time I was in India I was never ill as I chose to eat a naan bread alone if I felt the food to be a little suspect. Well, so far I haven't eaten anything in India apart from the aforementioned bar of Fruit & Nut, so we'll see what takes place. I will have a shower in a second (it's one of those rain shower affairs so it should be good) but I'll remember to keep my mouth firmly shut. I'll probably clean my teeth using mineral water too, although I didn't do that back in 1987 when I was last here and I seemed to survive. Back in those days I was told that it was best to drink beer and eat a naan bread than risk an upset stomach. That ploy worked, but this time I'm not drinking alcohol, so it looks as it bottled water will be the order of the day.

Phone calls using the mobile cost £2 per minute to receive and to make, it's 50p to send a text and it costs nothing to receive them, so I'm going to be communicating by What'sApp (when I've got WiFi) and by email on other occasions. Right now I'm feeling a little more 'chipper' than earlier and might venture out of the room to check the hotel. There is a pool, but somehow I don't think I'll be using it. The key is to be ultra-hygienic. I bought some Immodium at Heathrow. I hope I don't have to use it.

One thing worth remembering about India is that the power sockets are the same as the UK AND they drive on the left, just like us Brits!

Bearing in mind the cold and snowy conditions I've left behind in the UK, I find it hard to believe that I can walk outside with jeans and a tee-shirt on. I wonder if there's a bike share scheme?

In Tokyo...

After losing an entire night's sleep, I seem to have found a new lease of life – but I know it's a false economy and a very temporary situation. My original plan was to reach the hotel, having flown from Heathrow Terminal Five with British Airways to Tokyo's Narita airport, and immediately hit the sack. But it seemed like such a waste, arriving in a city like Tokyo, for the first time, and simply going to bed. So I took a wander, as I'm prone to do, in search of somewhere to eat lunch, albeit a late lunch at around 3pm. Not that I was that hungry. I'd touched down around 11am (Tokyo time) and then had the faff of making my way to the hotel – without using a cab (which I am told is very expensive).

Ueno station on the Hibiya line heading for Roppongi station

Getting around was easier than I thought. To reach my hotel, which is in the Roppongi district of the city, I took the Skyliner train to Uedo, changed on to the Hibiya line and rode all the way to Roppongi station. In the carriage people came and went, nobody said a word, but there was a general politeness about everything and it gave me a tremendous sense of calm. There was nothing threatening about the situation and everybody was relatively well turned out, no scruff pots, not like in the UK. When the train arrived at Roppongi, I jumped out, walked about 100 yards, turned right and then right again and there it was, my hotel, my conveniently located hotel, no more than a few steps from leaving the subway; it's great when things work out so smoothly.

A train arrives at Narita Airport – not for me, mine's next...

I don't want to make too big a fuss about it, but the room is, well, let's say tiny, compact and bijou – alright, you'd be hard pushed to swing a hamster, let alone a cat. But everything works, it's clean enough and what else could I possibly wish for in a hotel?

Mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie...

I was in the room for all of 15 minutes, feeling fidgety, restless and, no doubt, in need of a long sleep, but that urge to do a little exploring, albeit miniscule, proved too much so out I went in search of a restaurant I'd both understand and enjoy. To be honest, I didn't fancy anything too 'Japanese' – not at the moment at any rate, just something straightforward and westen – so I skipped the noodle bars and a rather odd-looking pizzeria – and ended up in, of all places, a Starbucks, and only for a mint tea and a chocolate chip cookie, and then I went back to the hotel to try and get some shut-eye, but as you can tell, I'm up, out of bed and typing these very words you're reading.

One of many things I don't understand is this: why do some Japanese people walk around with surgical masks on? What do they know that the rest of us don't? It'll bug me until I ask somebody. I'm going to crawl back into bed now and see if I can get some sleep. Needless to say I'll be back soon.

I say I'll be back soon, it's now 1010hrs and I'm awake. The sound of voices outside in the corridor clearly disturbed a light sleep. My daughter has texted me a photograph of Karl Pilkington because she thinks (quite rightly) that I'm an idiot abroad. I am. This room, room 302, really is very small, although in all honesty, it's no smaller than the smallest bedroom in my house and they've managed to cram a lot in. The bathroom squeezes everything one might need: a shower, a toilet, a washbasin and outside of that there's a bed, a flatscreen television, a desk space and a small, square window of frosted glass, affording no 'view' whatsoever, it barely opens more than a couple inches. There's a mirror in front of me and I can see my naked self, illuminated by the halogen glow of the computer screen from the waist up. I don't like what I see, I never have, but does anybody really look at themselves and think 'oooh, very nice!' I don't think so. There's a full-length mirror by the door, but I'm not going to get up and stand there, although I'm sure I will as soon as I walk to the bathroom (in that sense it's unavoidable).

Dimly-lit hotel corridor...

It's ironic that such a small room has a minibar and that it's empty. There's also a coffee machine but no coffee. In essence, this hotel must be familiar with the phrase 'the bare minimum'.

I have just opened and taken a swig from a plastic bottle of still mineral water left on the desk by the hotel. There's nothing to suggest it's going to cost me any money, but I won't find out until I check out  in a week's time, as I assume there will be a fresh bottle tomorrow once the cleaner has been in. My guess is they will charge me, but I might be wrong.

Outside of the room, the corridor is dark and dimly lit and despite the voices earlier on, it's one of those places where you don't really see anybody, apart from at breakfast time. In fact, I'm really wondering about breakfast time and what it will bring. I can't imagine a full Japanese breakfast will consist of sausages, egg, bacon and tomato with a literal sprinkling of fried mushrooms and a few slices of toast. I hope it is like this, but I seriously doubt it. Not having a hearty breakfast is going to be very disheartening as it will mean I'll have to seek out some kind of restaurant outside. Earlier, I passed a Wendy's burger kiosk, but whether it was the actual American chain, I don't know and besides, I'm not a burger sort of guy and who wants to eat breakfast walking along the street.

There are more voices in the corridor, Japanese voices. At least I'm making that assumption; they might be Korean or Taiwanese or Vietnamese, who can tell the difference? Well, they can, I guess, but I'm no expert of the region.

It's quite strange being in Japan. It's a long way away and the plane travelled across the desolate Siberia and then across the ocean. I feel odd being so far away on the other side of the planet and again amazed at how it's only a 12-hour flight away. Not that a 12-hour flight is in any way a short flight. I found it fairly taxing and passed the time watching movies: Leave No Trace was good and so was a British movie, Ghost Story. As always, more for comfort than anything else, I watched Toy Story 1 and after that little lot there was about three hours to go. Two meals were served on the flight: chicken with rice and then breakfast, the full English, which was very enjoyable. During the flight I also skimmed through a copy of the Daily Telegraph that I picked up in a WH Smith at Heathrow.

From where I emerged on to Tokyo streets...

If there's one thing I can't stand it's those situations, like yesterday, when I get to the airport and find I have to go straight to the gate, no time to chill with a cup of tea and a cookie or, better still, a proper meal. I had to make do with a chicken salad sandwich, which put me in a bad mood, knowing that I had a good 12 hours on the plane. As always, the plane was packed, but I was fortunate enough to have an exit row seat, which meant I could stretch out my legs in front of me.

Long flights are bad enough, but they're even worse if there's nobody you know on the flight enduring the same ordeal. I was flying alone so I only had myself and my thoughts and they were fretful. I'm glad I had the movies to distract me and in that respect, they were all worth watching.

I should really be getting some sleep, but I feel awake. Back home it's a quarter past three in the afternoon on a Sunday and oh how I'd like to be there, probably going for a drive to Chartwell or some sleepy Kent village for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or perhaps even further afield, like Felpham, to the Lobster Pot followed by a walk along the beach. But no, I'm here and don't get me wrong, I'm not ungrateful (not everybody gets to be in Japan on a Sunday afternoon, apart from the Japanese, of course). In many ways, the fretful, unrelaxing state of mind I found myself in on the plane continues in this tiny hotel room, which instead of flying through the air is flying through time. A long night ahead awaits me, it's an ordeal and it won't end until the morning. In a sense it's not sleep, it's another flight and I still have eight hours to go. All I can do is get through it. I might give mum a call.

There's an eight-hour time difference between Tokyo and London. In London it's now around 3.27pm on a lazy Sunday afternoon.