Last evening I went to the mall needing to get a couple of things at Radio Shack… Sorry, they’re called “The Source” now. One wonders exactly what this name indicates they are the source of, precisely? Pure ‚philosophical truth? Are they the Source of Control? Of flour? Flamingos? Who knows?

Oh yes, and it’s no longer ‘Tandy” which is their in-house brand-name any more, it’s “nexXtek”. Yes, with two x-es. No, I’ve not a clue why, nor how to pronounce that. Stop asking these difficult questions, would you?

I was already off to a bad start on this errand, as I was seeking two items whose names meant very little to me. Given I was wandering into the store which provided me with a Christmas gift one year of the 200-in-1 Electronic Kit (make a real radio that works; all by yourself!), it would be logical to think that this place would provide just about anything that I could not only imagine needing, but everything inside would be old hat to me and my technology geek-out tendencies.

However, a “Terminal Strip” (needed to make this antenna) and a SATA to SATA Data Supply Cable with 4-pin Molex to 15-pin Power Adapter (the new version of a Parallel ATA cable which connects a Hard-Drive to a mother-board as well as supplying power to the drive), were not only things I had to write down in order to remember their names, I ended-up reading the damned piece of paper to the youth in the store because I couldn’t remember a word of them; they were that much of a mystery to me. The fact I wanted to ask the employee if his mother knew he was out this late in the evening (6:30) probably provides a further image of how much out of my league I was already.

We find the two items I desire. Attempting to recall the third thing I wanted to at least check a price on – and forgetting once more that Jennifer needs a case fan for her computer, because it sounds much like a Morris Minor that’s badly in need of a complete lube-job, muffler repair, and new timing belt, starting up on a February morning – the sale is rung up at the till.

Because this is Radio Shack The Source, the originator of the ‘up-sell’ and ‘impulse buy inducement, I was asked if I wanted to take advantage of a wonderful deal for AAA batteries? No; although I allowed as how it was a good deal, though.

Was I interested in a one-year, full-replacement warranty for my SATA to SATA Data Supply Cable with 4-pin Molex to 15-pin Power Adapter? For the briefest of moments I wondered who in heavens name would bother spending an extra dollar in case a $10.49 cable failed in the next year?, then simply said “No, thanks.”

Would I like an iPhone 4 with that?

At which point my brain came to the same sort of sudden stop as when a man’s neck-tie gets caught in a desk fan, and with rather the same incomprehensible panic: what just happened and what do I do now?

The iPhone4! Impulse buy one TODAY!

I decided the best course of action was to replay the sound in my head, just in case I entirely misunderstood; surely he couldn’t have said that?

Would you like an iPhone 4 with that?

Why, yes! Yes he did! He did just offer to sell me a brand-new, top-of-the-line, slim & sexy, latest fad-crazed mobile telephonic communication device in the same way as if it was entirely possible that one would also want a side of french fries or a larger soft drink to accompany my meal.

I have nothing against the iPhone. I think it’s an amazing piece of design and engineering. That said, would one decide to select one with such a devil-may-care approach to its selection that one would jump on the opportunity whilst purchasing anything so astonishingly minor as a cable and a block of plastic that helps you to connect two bits of wire? Perhaps I have finally reached that state of time when one is considered “old” and “un-hip”! A mobile phone is not something I’d think “sure, why not! I hadn’t been thinking about that until you mentioned it, but… what the hell?! Slap one of those bad-boys on there, son!” Surely one would take more time as a careful consumer when even considering making such a purchase? The number of competing billing plans alone are enough to confuse a fully-trained Quantity Surveyor!

So… let’s see… We have a deal on batteries; check. Extended warranty plan; check. Paper or plastic; check. Debit or Credit; check. Make your meal a ‘biggie size’; check. Would you like to add a high-tech communication device with incredibly complicated billing system which may very well tie you into emptying your bank account every month for the next three years; check, apparently.

Dashing from the store into the mall, I pass a little cart with sign identifying it as something like “The USB Station”. Other than “things”, I’ve not a clue what they were selling. No idea at all. they looked like light-switch plates, or possibly audio cassette tape cases. Or maybe they were plaque-like Christmas ornaments? I couldn’t tell. From the sign, one might have supposed them to be employing USB-technology, but for what purpose I couldn’t discern. they might ahve been flash-drives, or hand warmers, or some sort of internally lit ornaments doubling as Wankel Rotary Engines for all I could tell.

I panic. I’ve just left a store which once filled my technology-craving heart with joy and is now filled with things I cannot understand the use of, and which is attempting to have me purchase things on an impulse which I consider the acquisition of as being as serious as buying a car. I have just passed a cart selling things using a technology I fully comprehend, yet of which cannot identify the end-use. The walls begin closing in; the grey hair begins leaping through my scalp; my spine begins to bend; my breath to make that wheezing sound… I must leave as quickly as possible before I am found sitting on a bench making the “yyyuuuup yup yup.…” sound of the ancient.

I see no exit, but locate a map of the labyrinth. After a good 45 seconds the “You Are Here” circle is located, and the nearest egress is identified. In order to get my bearings, I stand with my back to the sign, glancing over my shoulder at its map, waving my hands in front of me as I visualize the route which leads to freedom. Doing this makes me look like a raving mad-man.

I do not care. The place is filled to the rafters with tiny youths, wandering aimlessly, staring at the ground about seven feet ahead of them, yatting into their iPhones. Clearly they’ve already visited The Source.

According to this piece on author Christopher Fowler’s blog, the collective area in London referred to as Bloomsbury, Holborn, and St. Giles is being “re-branded” in an initiative started by the Business Improvement District; a public/private partnership with Camden Council. Knowing how ‘wonderful’ the PPP arrangement can be from first-hand experience (as well as knowing how nefarious their committee-determined plans can be), one is hardly surprised to hear the new name is “InMidTown”, or simply “MidTown”. Presumably, becuase it’s in the middle of London, right between “The City of London”, where the Financial District is, and the West End where the theatres are. Let’s ignore the fat that they’re cramming words together that ought to have spaces between them but don’t because it’s ‘teh neu sexie’, and press on to more basic questions.

While not in the habit of quoting US Presidents, especially the late Pres. Johnson, one can’t help but recall the grammatically unique statement “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Merely because an area has been referred to using the same name for a century or more doesn’t qualify it immediately for a newly christened label purely to ‘refresh its marketability’. “Rome” seems to do well, as does “Paris” and even “Swansea”. Granted, “New Amsterdam” and “Constantinople” got a new lick of paint at one point, but given that “New York City” was more in keeping with its then-recent influx of English-born settlers, this made sense*. Bloomsbury, Holborn, and St Giles, however, all work perfectly well, and aid in locating where the tube station will deposit one on the street; on some of the A-Z maps it’s actually easier to find a district by seeking the tube station named for it.

Frankly, how anyone can find it difficult to learn the District Names is beyond me. I’ve only visited London (or ‘Londinium’, for those of you born of the Roman occupation era… no names here) two times, and both of about a week’s length with over 18 months betwixt them. In that time I’ve not only learned how to navigate my way through a fair chunk of the central areas, I even learned their names; and in some cases the derivation thereof, which went a fair way to aid in the matter.

I’ve nothing against change; far from it. However if it’s change purely for the sake of, or to assist in selling the same old wine in the same old skin with a brand-new name… well, one wonders just how good the seller thinks the wine is. If it’s all that great, then why was the name change needed? If a dog food company is erroneously thought to be using horse-meat in its product, then they eventually (and quietly) change their name to disassociate themselves from the scandal. In this case, I can’t think of a sexier place to live than Bloomsbury, with its literary heritage and air of artisan-driven business success. Granted, some might consider the fact that all of the Bloomsbury Group was sleeping with just about everyone else in the Bloomsbury Group might be a bit of a down-side to the image, but played right it could be quite the asset in this brave new world of ours. “Romance! Intrigue! Passion! All these can be yours, plus a new Post Code! (10% of purchase as deposit required)”.

It all seems so un-necessary, really. One wonders if the local Councils just need some bucking-up and reassurance that “we love you, really!” and be encouraged to “be proud of who you are!”

BAH! Ridiculous. All those who are opposed to my thoughts are encouraged to bring forth brandy for mne to drink whilst you explain your reasons for doing so.

* Why “Istanbul” was seen as being required for the “Welcome to…” signs is nobody’s business but the Turks’.

Having now left the wondrous city of Brighton to its wet devices – as well as its wet lawns, pavements, and many other dampened objects and people – we arrive back in London! Where, oddly, it’s not raining! But it does the next day, so there we are.

Having checked into the 3^rd hotel of my trip, I do some catching-up on e-mail and business-type stuff, then head around the corner to the Union Tavern for some dinner and find it’s just as good as it was when I was last here a year-and-a-half ago. Hooray! Celebrating that by leaving leave my hat under the chair, I head back to the hotel, getting a bottle of wine at the off-licence on the way, then sink into a bathtub with a book, and later sleep until rather late the next morning.

Upon rising – and slowly getting coffee and things into myself in Clerkenwell Market, as well as collecting my hat from the restaurant – I begin wandering in the direction of the British Museum, with the sole purpose of ‘viewing the Staffordshire Hoard’ which is on display there, having only just secured funding to remain in the hands of the British People rather than be exported to some foreign museum for display thousands of miles from the location of its manufacture and original owners, something which has been fairly well-celebrated in the papers a few days previous. The ironic point that that there’s a great lot of carved marble elsewhere in the very same complex that the descendants of the original owners are asking to come back to them seems to be a non-starter, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

After passing the area outside where they’re building a South African garden as part of a South African exhibit to be opened in a month or so, then wandering about a bit on the third, sorry, second floor and discovering the ‘recently acquired objects’ room (which displayed some commemorative plates for Soviet transport achievements), I finally locate the hoard… which is a bit disappointing, as it’s only a few bits of things in four small, waist-high display cabinets. Certainly, they’re still cataloguing and trying to determine what all the little bits are and/or mean, but one expected… well… a HOARD, you know? Some sort of Aladdin’s Cave of treasure and unguents, all laid bare for the probing eyes of the hoi polloi, with silk-draped maidens offering to tend to one’s tired feet with oils and with fresh juices for drinking…

Okay, perhaps I’m getting a tad out of control now, but no more than forty-or-so little objects the size of your thumb, arranged in four little cases with a combined display area of perhaps 48ft² doesn’t really count as much of a trouser-dropping display of an historical discovery. Surely there are sacks and sacks more to be shown… please?

Finding myself in a mood desirous of more historical stimulation, I head in the direction of the fabled ‘Elgin Marbles’, which were too much for me to appreciate the last time this building was visited.

Passing the massive griffins [image, left], I enter the long, high chamber of the display area for the sculptures which once adorned the Athenian Parthenon and its surrounding areas. Just inside the door was a metal display stand holding pamphlets, one of which I took and perused.

Finders keepers! Losers weepers! Too bad, Greek-boys! You’re not gonna get them back, no matter how hard you try, or even if you go crying to your mama! They’re all ours now! Bwa-ha-ha!

Okay, it didn’t say that. Not really, anyway. Almost though. Here’s a rough interpretation on its text, based on what I recall, because I didn’t take a copy away with me.

The so-called ‘Elgin Marbles’ were removed from Greece many years ago by Lord Elgin, during a time when he and his troops were in the area. He felt it vitally important for the carvings to be preserved for future appreciation and cultural understanding of the Ancient Greek People, and the conditions they were enduring were not conducive to their long-term well-being. As carefully as possible, the objects were packed-up and moved to England, where they were eventually purchased by the British Museum for its collection and were put on display for the British people.

The British Museum and its Board of Directors welcomes the construction of the new display facilities in Athens, built by the Greek and Athenian governments, but the collection which the Elgin Marbles now are a part of, as well as the few carvings which are part of collections in France and [some other European country which might have been Holland or Scandinavia – IAM], permits the appreciation of the ancient Greek culture with an immediately available comparison with other great cultures of the world. If the marbles were to be moved to Greece, not only is the possibility of damage likely, the ability to view and contrast various peoples’ cultural and historical stories would be diminished, and a greater comprehension of the world’s cultural heritage would be far more difficult to convey.

The British Museum values the role they now have with the explanation and presentation of the marbles, as well as the opportunity to continue to offer them as a part of the complete collection it possesses.

Carefully noting the verb “return” is not used once in the entire text, I shake my head at the additional avoidances of admitting that Lord Elgin and his men actually smuggled the things out of the country because they didn’t have the slightest bit of permission to move a single bit of any of it, and His Lordship’s selling of the marbles to the Museum – thereby washing the guilt from the hands of the Museum in the theft of the carvings – was only the final of several bits of chutzpah demonstrated by him. That all understood, I think: well, I’m here, so are the carvings, may as well have a look at them now that we’re both in the same room as each other, and have a wander around.

They’re beautiful. Honestly, even some of them which are only castings of originals astonishingly demonstrate what was possible with a mallet and a sharp bit of metal in the hands of a craftsman. If they had been in Athens, I would say the same thing, and yes I would go there to see them in situ, and appreciate them as part of the local culture’s entirety.

Still, the things are magnificent, and I’m glad I saw them as a part of this trip. I look forward to visiting Greece, seeing the top of the mountain where there once were, and then seeing them in the gallery at the mountain’s foot where they belong, in the areas which are currently empty awaiting the carvings in the London collection.

Leaving the building just before closing, I head roughly south, down a side-street in an attempt to meander somewhat aimlessly and see what happens to be discovered. As this is ‘going home time’ for most of the area, plus the fact that Holborn Station is about three streets away, what’s discovered happens to be people, mostly. Plus it’s starting to get a bit damp. I head for the pasta place in Sicilian Avenue that was the source of garlic for my cold-filled body in the autumn of 2008; where I had a pleasant conversation with a Finnish woman the next table over about how neither of us were in a rush to head outside into the rain.

The next day dawned cloudy, and the destination was The Southbank, with the ultimate goal being the Tate Modern, Bankside. When visited last, again in the autumn of 2008, the only portion of the building visited was the Turbine Hall area, mostly due to the native guide having in mind a late luncheon on the Embankment, so continued movement was a concern. This time, the whole building was to be explored and then… well, I’d see what happened.

Realizing that “exploring the entire building” was the plan of attack which resulted in the British Museum becoming over-whelming in a matter of a few hours in 2008, I get an audio guide to help sort the wheat from the chaff – or someone’s idea of what the wheat and chaff are – and head to Level 5 and its area called States of Flux: “this focuses on Cubism, Futurism, Vorticism, and Pop Art, containing work by artists such as Pablo Picasso, Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, and the photographer Eugèné Atget”. This sounds cool!

It was, and so the other half of the floor is explored, called Energy and Process: “this focuses on Arte Povera, with work by artists such as Alighiero Boetti, Jannis Kounellis, Kasimir Malevich, Ana Mendieta, Mario Merz, and Jenny Holzer”. I’ve not heard of many of these people, and looking at much of the material is interesting and the patterns and themes they employ start speaking back and forth across the galleries on this level. Neat! I’m starting to really get this stuff! Go me!

Flushed with success, I head to Level 3 and its Material Gestures, which “focuses on abstraction, expressionism and abstract expressionism, featuring work by Claude Monet, Anish Kapoor, Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Henri Matisse and Tacita Dean.” Okay, there are some names there in the list I recognize, although the names I recognized two levels up weren’t on little cards next to works that were all that familiar. Still… a massive sculpture of a curved tube whose interior surface is a perfectly glazed black is astounding, as are a number imaginative objects which challenge the concept of what difference there is between ‘art’ and ‘thoughtful provocation’ is; if there is any difference at all.

Beginning to flag, I find myself wandering almost continually, going from one point in the audio tour to another almost without stopping, and investigating the “additional background information” for each piece less and less. Still, I’m here now, and the audio guide is helping me find ‘highlights’ within the collection, so on I go to Level 3’s Poetry and Dream on the far side. Apparently, there is a “sexually explicit section on this level [which] features a drawing by the pseudo-anonymous French artist “Proper Man” entitled le cock et le balls which is his attempt to explore the tension between old and new attitudes to sexuality within an urban environment.” If I saw this, I remember little of it, or it certainly made little impression on me. Given its title and stated content, you’d think it would have some sort of lasting effect on the viewer.

I do remember one exhibit, which was a gallery filled with what appeared to be tools, supplies, and personal items of workmen preparing the space for a new display of works. Then you read the thing on the wall and had revealed that the entire work is a hand-made duplication of what it appears to be, all made with incredible detail out of artificial materials, then fastidiously painted to match the real item. The title revealed what you were looking at was a fake, letting you in on the joke. After looking through the Tate Modern site’s directory I can’t find it now. This was definitely the highlight of the experience for me.

Leaving the building slightly over-filled artistically, I headed along the shore, stopping under Waterloo Bridge at the British Film Institute for some lunch at “The Riverfront”. After the meal, I wandered into the building a bit to see what was on, and noted they were to be screening a brand-new print of A Touch of Evil a few days after I flew home. One of these days I’ll explore the entire complex properly, see a film or two, watch a play at the National Theatre, explore the Hayward Gallery, hear a concert at Royal Festival Hall, and probably get arrested for trying t0 accomplish all of that inside of a day instead of the four or five it ought to take. So much culture is available in so very little space at the end of that bridge (rumour has it that it’s wonderful at sunset… it might even be worthy of inspiring a song about that moment of the day).

Continuing south along the river, I pass the Waterloo Millennium Pier, Jubillee Gardens, and the former County Hall (which now houses the London Aquarium and some… rock & roll… thing). I head across Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, located in the Palace of Westminster, with Big Ben set ever-so-carefully at the top of the Westminster Tower. Oddly, the whole kit-n-kaboodle is located in the City of Westminster. Funny, that.

After taking one’s bearings – having just finished taking the icon-filled image above left – I head north along Parliament Street which then changes name into Whitehall… Street, I think; but it could be “Whitehall Road”, or even just “Whitehall”. Given how rapidly streets change their name around this area, it really doesn’t matter if it’s a road, a street, an avenue, or a lane; by the time you’ve figured out which one it is, the name’s different again.

After passing a protest group, taking some photos of them, and wondering where the great big gates across the street from them led (court room? Ministry of Defence offices? euphemistic “Foreign Office” headquarters?), I continue heading towards Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, first passing the Horse Guards’ massive set of buildings.

Those of you who know London well will, no doubt, have discovered already what those gates cover the entrance of, being the street which intersects with Whitehall north of both King Charles Street and the Cenotaph, and which is directly opposite the end of Richmond Terrace, but it wasn’t until I got home weeks later that I realized where I had been: Downing Street. Yes, that Downing Street. See, once again, it pays to have a Native Guide in order to know what Very Important Things you’ve wandered past.

Continuing up the hill, oblivious of the centre of power just entirely missed, I found myself in the centre of Charing Crescent (or possibly “King Charles’ Island”, it’s tough to tell from the A-Z, frankly), which I considered to merely be a traffic island in the centre of a roundabout. To the west is a big, white, impressive arch-filled thing. I take photographs of it, thinking “Golly, that’s quite important looking!” Continuing in my rôle as a ‘pathetic, ignorant tourist from the Colonies’, I later learn that this impressive blob of stone is the ‘back side’ of Admiralty Arch.

It’s probably now that I should explain why much of this information isn’t as ready to my awareness as it ought to be: I’m getting damned tired, having covered well over 5km on foot, and all of it on hard flagstones (or concrete floors in the Tate Modern); all of it whilst wearing nearly brand-new men’s dress shoes. The rationale was that I had been wearing a pair of runners for a couple of days in a row, so it seemed wise to let them ‘air out’ and wear others instead, the only others being the square-toed, hard-soled, un-cushioned, low-heeled, only worn twice, dress shoes.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, the weather is starting to threaten rain, the air’s getting chilly, and I’m getting rather fatigued spiritually. After taking a few different photographs around Trafalgar Square, I head up Charing Cross Road for the nearest Underground station at Cranbourn Street.

Again, those of you who have London well in the mind will already know what station that will be. Add to this the fact it’s now just prior to 6:00PM. For the rest of you, this is the point you imagine descending into Leicester Square Station in the middle of a busy business district at 6:00PM, add the state of my feet and legs, and then begin shaking your head at how foolish I am at this moment.

Honestly, that’s exactly what happened. I got on the third train that was heading north on the Piccadilly Line, got off at King’s Cross, took the fastest exit to the street (hint: don’t use the King’s Cross Thameslink option; ‘useless’ is the kindest term for it), and directed myself to the hotel.

I think I ate at the Union Tavern that evening. I might not have, to be honest. It’s possible that dinner wasn’t had at all. It’s unlikely, but possible.

The next day I whipped through packing things up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to ‘foreign room #4′ on this trip, in the hotel near Heathrow where EasterCon (Odyssey 2010) was held.

Just after I returned from that event, however, while sitting in St. Pancras Station typing away on my netbook, on the level above me the PM was arriving to take the train off to the West Countries having just declared the start of the General Election that morning. Had I remained at the entrance to the station for another five minutes I probably would have had the opportunity of seeing him. Just another example of history passing me by just around the corner. Or, rather, just above me.

While one doesn’t actually like worrying, or even having some worry to cast aside from one’s awareness (as satisfactory as command of one’s concerns might be), there are a few things which have made themselves know over the past couple of days.

There is, for instance, the possibility of a strike by both the Network Rail and the Rail Maritime and Transport unions in England come Easter Weekend that could result in the UK’s collective inter-city rail system coming to a screaming halt, although they’re discussing ways to avoid this taking place. There’s been some pondering amongst some about whether this will have an effect on the number of people attending Odyssey 2010 (AKA: “EasterCon”), but I’m using the tube to get to Heathrow at that point on the calendar. ‘All good’, then.

British Airways is having labour trouble right now, wherein striking cabin crews have forced BA to cancel 1,100 flights, but I’m flying both to and from England on Air Canada. Fine there as well.

So… when this week’s episode of the Rick Mercer Report shows the following satirical commercial, fear enters my soul at the prospect of the following taking place in the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.

It’s probable that this ‘bit’ was created by Mr. Mercer as a reaction to being bumped from one domestic flight to another while travelling around Canada for the show. There’s been a few times I’ve heard of them cancelling FLIGHT-A and then putting those people onto FLIGHT-B so as to make a full compliment of passengers, which is fine in theory, but then why bother offering the additional flight in the first place? If there’s not sufficient trade for the offering of both flights, then it’s simply false advertising to say “we fly from Winnipeg to Vancouver 17 times a day!” and then cancel over half of them, isn’t it?

This doesn’t necessarily mean a damned thing about my flight from Vancouver to London, however. There’s a considerable difference between, for instance, flying from Toronto to Boston and flying across the entire Polar Region and North Atlantic. Perhaps there’s some sort of requirement for Air Canada to offer a particular number of domestic flights from one particular area to another in order to get their approval to fly to however many international centres they desire to serve. Anyone out there have any ideas about this? Is there an additional aspect to this based entirely on the fact that the people responsible for schedules are as thick as concrete on a hot day?

I’m planning of arriving as soon-ish as possible at the airport; that way they’ve less chance to do me out of a seat, even though the tickets have been paid for and reserved for weeks. The earlier you’re there, the better the possibility that the flight is not already fully assigned, making you SOL. Perhaps I really ought to have arrived there last Friday…?

One thing I will get to experience is the embarrassment of having someone call upstairs to make sure it’s alright to let me on the plane. This has happened both times I’ve flown, and at each end of the voyage: arrive at check-in, provide ticket details and passport, state no real preference about seating (other than ‘as far away from the drunken louts as possible’), wait patiently as we whip through a list of things no-one should ever say ‘yes’ to, even if true (have you left your luggage unattended for any length of time? were you approached by anyone asking you to transport something for them? did you agree? is there anything explosive in your bags? are you secreting heroin in your anal cavity? are you planning on doing any performance art whilst at your destination featuring inflatable donkeys, nudity, or both?), have the baggage weighed, then wait… and wait… while the poor soul behind the desk tries to figure out whether or not to explain that there’s a bloody huge red box flashing on their screen saying THIS PERSON IS ON A LIST OF PEOPLE WHO, WHEN FLYING, SOMEONE IMPORTANT HAS TO BE TOLD ABOUT IT. Typically the ticketing person has explained that they’ve got to call Security because they randomly are asked to do so (although the point of that process has never been stated), ask if I reserved my flight using my full name (I always do that for anything, not just flights), or simply look at me to check there’s not some odd bulge under my jacket that’s vaguely shaped like a side-arm and then run screaming for the door into their office.

Granted, the English author Michael Marshall Smith gets hauled into one of the interview rooms every time he goes to the USA, so I suppose the telephone call is the least of my concerns. Why I’m flagged is beyond me. I have no criminal record, I’ve never served in the Armed Forces, and have only occasionally called for the overthrow of a government (typically advocating for the use of a UN-approved democratic process).

The main worry right now is counting numbers of socks and boxer shorts, then determining how much everything weighs. My main piece of luggage allows for fifty pounds (50 LBS), which ought to be enough for anyone as tiny as myself. Even allowing for the promotional material being taken, I should be fine.

Something new to this trip is that one small piece of luggage goes with you into the cabin, one piece of luggage is checked and stored in the belly of the æroplane, and the third piece of luggage doesn’t go into the belly as usual but instead goes with you into the cabin. This seems… well, odd. If this is safety-based, one would think that it would be ‘safer’ to have as much of one’s stuff go into the belly where people can’t get at it, and just make sure someone scans the crap out of it before loading anything. If scanning is more stringent for carry-on baggage, then why are you letting me put anything in the cargo hold? On the other hand, perhaps the whole thing is based on balance, and putting more weight in the vertical centre of the tube… makes it… easier to fly… the aircraft…?

Please don’t try that bit of logic at home. I am not an æronautical engineer, nor have I even played one on TV.

Jennifer is driving me out to the airport to see me off properly. Nice. Frankly, I’d rather use the Canada Line, if only to be able to say that I went from the house to my hotel in London – door-to-door – without using an automobile, but that can be accomplished on the return.

Now… to check the dryer for more socks so I can stop worrying about finding somewhere to buy some there…

Many of you reading this have suddenly encountered far more information about Vancouver than you’ve previously had available, and have heard all sorts of things that never cropped up here (due to my somewhat ‘unique’ viewpoint and particular passions shaping the contents thereof). The Winter Olympics have opened officially last night, proving once and for all that Canada has more than Mounties and Inuit making up the cultural mosaic.

Yes, we have fiddlers with wild tatto’oing and kids who can fly over fields of grain… but we have no snow, at least not here in Vancouver, which is why the Men’s Alpine Ski Competition has been postponed (they’re shipping snow from 150 miles away to several venues using dump trucks… no, honestly, they literally are doing that very thing).

Anyway, I may feel that building a transit corridor, re-building a highway, and constructing a convention centre collectively costing well over three billion dollars (for those of you in the UK, that’s $3,000 million, not $3 million million; the Canadian dollar hasn’t fallen that badly), yet the government responsible refusing to count the work required for the bid to be accepted as an Olympic Expense – all the while slashing arts, health, education, and community works funding, claiming “there’s no money” when asked for justification – is not only absurd but inhumane. I may resent the current PM, BC Premier, and a host of other politicians using the Olympic Games as photo opportunities for their ‘non-campaign’ for re-election (the party at both levels of power was different when the games were sought and awarded), and the fact that the PM has dissolved parliament at a time when it was politically wise to not be questioned in a public parliamentary forum about his every decision (and he refuses to engage in Q&A through press ‘scrums’). I resent a great deal of this nation’s attention, efforts, and volunteer labour being focused on a bunch of under-paid athletes doing something truly amazing that is held under the auspices of what amounts to a Multi-National Entertainment Corporation which claims to be altruistic about ‘the celebration of the pure sporting achievements’. Given the insane amount of cash that gets shovelled through the IOC from people like IBM, M^CDonalds, VISA, Omega, RBC-Dominion, NBC, Coca-Cola, and the rest, I’ve no idea how the IOC recently acquired an Observers Chair at the United Nations; especially given the UN’s stated policy that they do not engage with, represent the interests of, or liaise between corporations.

Anyway… beyond all that…

The Opening Ceremonies here in town brought tears to my eyes more than once, and it was stunning (pity about only three of the legs for the cauldron working, though).

Meanwhile, outside…

Well, frankly, SmuttySteff covers the whole local protest issue far better than could be even imagined within my capabilities, frankly. For as start, I’d probably be more sweary. Read her take on the matter right here. Honesty do it: you’ll be glad you did.