Friday...will my bag make it?

From my modern desk, Prestige Hotel (“Prestige” equates to expensive because it’s near the airport), Roissy, (Paris), France, between Staplehurst, Kent and Gordon, Australia. (Staplehurst-Charing Cross-Paddington-Bristol Temple Meads- Bristol Airport- Charles de Gaulle Airport- Prestige Hotel)





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As we flew into Paris last night, I could see the Eiffel tower all the way down and even after we’d landed. I knew it was the Eiffel Tower from that distance because it looked exactly like those tiny keyrings everybody tries to sell you here. That thing sure is big. Funny, I thought I glimpsed it in London ( it has a tendency to move about when you’re trying to get to it ), but must have been mistaken.

If you’re leaving a friend’s house in Kent to return to Australia
it’s a scary moment when you lock the door behind you and drop the keys back through the letterbox. Always pretend to do it first, walk away a few paces, and if you don’t suddenly remember something vital, repeat in earnest then proceed to Bristol.

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I was looking out my side of the train at all the railway tracks as we came into London, then glanced out the other side and there was the London Eye (a giant ferris wheel) the Thames and Big Ben (although I know that’s really the name of the biggest bell). I got some good shots of this side of bits of the bridge we were on.




Don’t believe the friendly helpful information guy at Charing Cross. Proceed directly to Paddington as the internet suggested, down miles of steps with the handle on your bag getting wobblier, rather than taking two trains as he suggested but which may have been on the level and you’ll never know.




And don’t tell Bobbies they look cute in their helmets. It’s tempting. There are lots of them on the railway; presumably they’ve discovered it’s quicker covering their beat this way than on foot or bicycle.




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As you fly out of Bristol after dark on a Friday night, and over the last shreds of England, you’ll see hundreds and hundreds of pale milky green rectangles below, lit up like so many windows in a jack-o-lantern. Each small cluster of street/house lights has one, larger clusters many. You realise they’re playing fields. Each represents a tiny patch of intense feelings, victories, hopes, anxiety, excitement, flirtations, disappointments, futures in the balance, each self-absorbed and unconscious of the others, many that you can see probably don’t even know that others you can see exist. Kind of like us.



On to Singapore...