Delhi

With stomachs full from a gluttonous Christmas the day before, and with heads sore from a little too much wine and good cheer, on 26th Dec we boarded a plane to Delhi.

I'm pleased to report that we have finally arrived in Delhi, safe and sound. There was a moment or two on the plane, where I thought pilot may make an emergency landing in order to eject the two very drunk gentlemen seated next to me, but happily we continued on and safely landed.

I would tell you my first impressions of Delhi, but I'm still trying to recover from the spectacle of the two men next to me, who each managed in the space of about two hours to down 10 mini bottles of whiskey and secrete another 10 in the pockets of their jackets. I'm not sure what Delhi Customs made of them when they arrived.

The two men spoke limited English, but nonetheless made quite a go of chatting up the airline hostesses. In fact, I think the language barrier helped - the one hostess who spoke Hindi and so understood what the men were saying gave them very short shrift. The others were much more polite. The more the men drank, the more determined they became about securing every freebie available. They started collecting airplane headsets, blankets and pillows and stuffing them into their bags. Best of all, they got into a heated discussion with the airline staff about the children's backpacks and colouring books. I gather they were insisting that, notwithstanding they fact they were grown men who had no children with them, they too ought to be given the children's play activities. Eventually the staff gave in to the latter request, perhaps in the hope that some activities would shut the men up.

But undoubtedly bizarre thing about these men was that one of them had the largest thumb I have ever seen. You know those over sized foam hands people sometimes wear to sporting games? Well, imagine a thumb that size on an ordinary hand. It was, perhaps, 5 times the size of a normal thumb. I couldn't stop staring at it. Every other digit on both hands was perfectly well proportioned and normal. This was a monster of a thumb. It was almost as large as the rest of his entire hand.

So that was our first taste of India. Over sized fingers. No doubt the trip will only get better from here...

The weather

The old joke has always been that the English love nothing more than to talk about the weather. Until I came to England, I thought that really was a joke, much like Australians saying "throw another shrimp on the barbie". How wrong I was! During my three-and-something years of being in England, I've had more conversations about the weather than I ever thought possible. And, to be frank, England has some of the dullest weather in all of the world. Regardless of the season, you can almost be sure it will be cloudy, damp and miserable. Accordingly, most of the conversations about the weather tend to go as follows:

"hmmm, really is awful out there"
-- "yes, it is"
"could be worse, I guess"
-- "true, it's not raining too heavily"

Weather seems to be the default conversation in the work lift. The unfortunate thing is that even though we don't have a set starting time, by force of habit, people at my office tend to arrive at work at the same time every morning. That means they use the same lift at the same time every morning. So I'm almost always at the lift at 9.34am, along with the other 9.34am people. This means, of course, that I end up having the same conversation about the weather with the same people on a daily basis. And since the weather doesn't tend to change from day-to-day, this becomes rather repetitive. Sometimes someone will try and spice it up a bit, and it will go:

"hmmm, really is awful out there"
-- "yes, it is"
"could be worse, I guess"
-- "true. Just as well it's not because I forgot my umbrella!"

But that is usually as exciting as it gets.

This week, however, the weather really has been something to talk about, as it has bucketed down on a daily basis with snow. This time, the weather has even made front page news. However (and I never thought I'd say this), after several days of snow, ice and cold, I'm starting to get a bit sick of it. Shaking ice of shoes loses its novelty value pretty quickly. Already I'm longing to go back to my lift conversations about the drizzle.

A week of theatre (and paparazzi)

Knowing that the festive season was almost upon us, and that the only culture in London would soon consist solely of pantos, badly sung Christmas carols and drunken city workers dancing in the street, I tried to indulge in a bit of high culture last week. First, G and I went off to see the excellent play Red, at the Donmar. Then C and I went to see Keira Knightly in her West End debut in Misanthrope. G had other plans that night and sadly couldn't join us, although he did very kindly offer to give me 50 quid if during the play I shouted out to Ms Knightly that she looks like she needs to eat a burger. Strangely, I declined that offer, although I was fascinated upon seeing Ms Knightly in the flesh to discover that it's possible to be so devoid of fat that your ribs and collarbones create shadows on your chest.

After the show, C and I wandered past the stage door around which a small crowd was gathering. We quickly worked out they were there to see Ms Knightly take the four steps necessary to get into the large black vehicle waiting outside. C insisted we join them, in the hope we might get our programme signed to sell it and make enough money for another trip to Seville. It was at that point that our cultured evening degenerated and I found myself living the life of an OK! paparazzo.

We waited outside in the cold along with the rest of the small crowd for Ms Knightly to appear. It soon dawned on us that we were the only celebrity stalking novices in the crowd. Our first clue was when the fellow next to me pulled out a stack of identical head shots of Ms Knightly from his backpack. He seemed to be running a small business, trading in signed photos of celebrities. It was also evident when the woman to my right, in her very fine ugg boots and miniskirt, complained to her friend they were having to wait a lot longer this time than when they saw "Judes" at the stage door. She might have been referring to Judy Dench, although I rather suspect it was a Mr Law for whom she'd previously waited in the cold to see.

To our left a paparazzo was holding court, with a group of young admirers quizzing him about his "celebrity lifestyle". We had the pleasure of overhearing snippets of his speeches, told in a thick cockney accent with a cigarette permanently hanging from his lip.

"I've just come from doin' Posh, y'know. Yep, just saw Posh. Typical day."

"y'know, Keira, she wears the same clothes every day she comes out that stage door. Only thing that might change is 'er scarf. You watch. It'll be blue jeans and a tan coat. She does it so we won't take photos, or won't sell 'em. But I'm still 'ere! Got 'er every night, I 'ave."

"yep, I've got Kylie. Y'know, who do you think was more famous in Oz then, Kylie or Dannie? ... Nah, was Dannie. She was on some show, Young Talent Time, y'see. We all think Kylie was the famous one, and Dannie got famous through 'er, but it was Dannie first."

And then Ms Knightly appeared. The paparazzo, without dropping the cigarette from his lips, picked up his camera and snapped furiously at Ms Knightly who was, it turned out, wearing blue jeans and a tan coat. The crowd went wild. All 15 of them. At that point, I realised I was no match for the die-hard fans, and took a few steps back to watch the mayhem. Unfortunately, C was also no match, and was quickly pushed out of the pack by the surge of the small but dedicated crowd. Up close, Ms Knightly was no larger in life than she was on the stage. In any event, she was only there for a surly moment, enough to sign only one or two programmes. During that moment, I briefly contemplated taking G up on his bet, and shouting to her to eat a burger. After realising she was surrounded with burly bodyguards, however, I changed my mind and simply stood along with the die-hard fans, paparazzo and small-time businessmen and watched as she disappeared from view behind the black tinted windows of her car. Then, in silence, as though we had just been witness to a moment for which great solemnity and respect was required, the paparazzo, businessmen, fans and C and I quietly packed up and dispersed into the London night.

Trains. Again.

These days, I seem to spend most of my time in trains. Unfortunately, most of these trains are not going anywhere exotic but are destined for somewhere in the Midlands. And I'm not going there for pleasure, but am usually carrying an over sized suitcase full of documents, trying hard to look vaguely professional and not trip over my heels as I make my way to a court room.

Train travel in England, as you will have gathered from previous posts, isn't great at the best of times. At the worst, it's positively horrid. Usually, the reason it is so horrid is because of the other people on the train. This is why I now travel first class whenever possible. The service, food and seats are no better than standard class; the real benefit of first class and the reason I now make my employer spend the money on it is simply because the chavs cannot afford to do so. The extra money is spent to ensure a chav-free zone.

Unfortunately, not all trains have a first class carriage. My train home to London from a work trip in Lincoln this week ought to have had a first class carriage. In fact, I believe it did, because I had a ticket for it. Unfortunately, that wasn't the train I got on. The train I instead (accidentally) got on was the express to Nottingham. That train did not have a first class carriage. However, that was the least of my worries, as I found myself having to do a detour through middle England, from Lincoln to Nottingham to Grantham, in order finally to get to London. If you want to see the path I followed, click here.

I only realised I was on the express to Nottingham when the conductor on the train came to collect my ticket. Admittedly, by that point, several announcements had been made over the load-speaker, presumably informing all passengers where the train was going. But, while I was conscious of announcements in a general sense, the content of them had not sunk in. The conductor, therefore, understandably gave me a look of bemusement when he took my ticket and asked if I was, in fact, trying to get to London, as I appeared to be on the wrong train. Upon hearing that I was trying to get to London the conductor, quite rightly, assumed I was a fool, and wrote the details of how to get to London from Nottingham in large print on the back of my ticket. He also gave me a short, but very loud, lecture in geography, to the amusement of several other passengers.

It was a very long trip home. This was made even worse by the fact that sitting opposite me was a woman who seemed to think it appropriate to wear baggy boxer shorts underneath a skirt and to sit with her legs up, at waist level, on the chair next to her. I spent the trip home trying to avert my eyes and erase the picture of the woman's pubic hair from my memory. It is a picture that even now, several days later, I still haven't succeeded in erasing. I'm hopeful that the upcoming xmas festivities (involving, as they do, copious amounts of booze) will assist in this regard. I will keep you posted.

Katie Price (aka Jordan)

It always puzzles me when the English tell me that Australia is a sexist country. It's puzzling in part because most of the English who say this have never been to Australia, and are basing their opinions on what they read in the Mail or the Sun. It is puzzling also because next to the article in the Sun they have just read will most likely be a picture of a woman with her boobs out. And it is puzzling because in England, unlike (so far as I'm aware) in Australia, 63% of girls say they would rather be a glamour (i.e. boob) model than a doctor or teacher. But perhaps it is most puzzling because of the popularity of the ubiquitous Katie Price.

Many Australians have never heard of Katie Price, but over here she's regarded as mum of the year, business woman of the year and all-round role model. All this from a soft (and not so soft) porn career as "Jordan". In fact, Katie Price is widely regarded as a feminist hero. I could rant about this for hours, but have found someone who can do it more eloquently here.

My sorry tale

This weekend gone by was miserable. My repeated viewing of X-Factor and other such reality TV shows has taught me that without public catharsis, or "closure", one can never move on from traumatic events. So, here is my sorry tale.

G and I were invited to lunch by a work colleague of G's, who lives in Essex. This should have been a happy event but, sadly, the trains were largely not running this weekend ("engineering work"). Our journey to Essex for lunch therefore began at 10.15 and lasted until 1 pm. It consisted of:

- a walk;
- tube ride;
- exchange at information desk with rude train information lady;
- further tube ride;
- wait in the cold for a "replacement train service" (ie, a bus);
- long journey on bus;
- short journey on train; and
- walk.

I should add that the weather this weekend was unbelievably crappy, and so our waits involved standing in the rain and wind, trying vainly to stop our umbrellas from turning inside out.

The ensuing lunch was lovely but somewhat marred by the knowledge we were going to have to repeat our journey to get home. And I also went through lunch rather traumatised by something that happened on the train leg of the journey.

I'm going to have to ask for indulgence here, as my story can't be understood unless you have some understanding of English train toilets. Thankfully, on this (as every) topic, there are numerous pictures available on the Internet and I have attached a couple.

The above shows the basic train toilet module. It's a unisex toilet. As you will see, the toilet faces the door. The sink is to the left of the toilet, although you can't see it in these photos. The door to the toilet cubicle is quite wide. The door opens and shuts by way of an electronic mechanism and you can't open or shut it manually. To go into the toilet you press the "open" button to the left of the door. The door then very slowly moves on its casings to the open position. Once inside, you press the "close" button on the inside of the door. You then press the "lock" button. This means that no one else can open the door from the outside (a trite fact, but one that it seems not everyone appreciates).

I avoid using train toilets at all costs. They are fraught with problems. My experience of communal male/female toilets has taught me that many men can't aim. That, even on a stationary toilet, some men have difficulties. Those difficulties are magnified on a toilet inside a moving train. And some men and women are just grotty. However, on this occasion, after a three hour journey and two coffees to keep me awake, I had no choice.

The train was packed, and outside the toilet cubicle, in the cabin, were lots of men and women standing as they couldn't get a seat in the train.

I went to the toilet cubicle and pressed the "open" button next to the door. The door then slowly opened to reveal a man peeing. Evidently, this man did not grasp the necessity of pressing the "lock" button. Worse still, he wasn't peeing in the toilet. Instead, he had chosen to pee in the handbasin. If he'd been peeing in the toilet, like a normal male, he would have been able to see the door open. As it was, peeing in the basin meant his back was to the door as it very slowly opened in full view of the numerous commuters standing outside it.

I have previously blogged about the complete lack of emotion shown on trains in England. This was an exception to that rule. There were gasps of shock as the man pissing in the sink was put on display. Worst of all, the noise of the gasps of shock, horror and then laughter drew commuters from the adjoining carriage to the area outside the toilet, to see what the fuss was about. All this while the door slowly opened and the man inside was completely oblivious. I think he may have had an IPod in his ears or something, as it was apparent he didn't hear the commotion. Meanwhile, I was standing by the toilet door frantically hitting the "close" button. Unfortunately, I discovered that the train toilet door won't begin to close until after it is fully open.

While I stood there panicking, hitting the close button, the commuters turned on me. Questions must have been asked as to how this had happened, and I heard a few very loud "she opened the door on him" and saw fingers jabbing the air in front of my face.

I think the man in the cubicle then realised what was going on, and I heard a shout from inside. So I panicked and I ran. Unfortunately, I mean this literally. I went from a standing still position to sprinting out of the carriage, which is quite a difficult thing to do, and causes some commotion in and of itself. Particularly when you have my lack of coordination. The unintended consequence of this, of course, was that anyone who hadn't already been drawn to look at the toilet area by all the noise now did so, and the laughter stopped being about the man peeing in the sink and I'm sure it was directed at the crazy running girl who opened the door on him.

I still hadn't recovered from the shock of the incident when we arrived in Essex. Worst of all, I couldn't even debrief by telling the group about the incident, thinking it perhaps not appropriate to relay a toilet story over lunch when first meeting a senior work colleague of G's.

I have another train journey to Shropshire this Thursday. I'm travelling for work, so first class. Nonetheless, I am going to avoid using the toilet.

Seville, the Midlands and Barristers

Seemingly only moments after landing in Heathrow last week, I was off again.

Last weekend was spent with C having a girls' weekend in Seville. Seville is the capital of flamenco dancing and tapas. C and I enjoyed the latter far too much, and the weekend was spent largely moving from tapas bar to tapas bar, drinking and eating. We also tried to enjoy the flamenco dancing but, I must confess, it wasn't really my thing. I found it hard to take seriously the flamboyant costumes and jerky movements combined with the overly stern expressions of the dancers.

Monday I was back in London and then that afternoon was off to Oxford University, to conduct a recruiting talk for a bunch of eager students. Or that was the plan. In fact, only 12 students turned up and most of those were from Oxford Brookes (the former polytech up the road from Oxford University), rather than Oxford University. Monday night I was then off to the midlands to attend a trial.

There is a misconception that all barristers in England are wine quaffing, Telegraph reading toffs. My barrister (let's call him Joe) is the antithesis of this. In my defense, he came recommended to me. I was not warned that his personality is as big as his shiny bald head and 6ft 5 frame and as subtle as his navy pinstriped suit, waistcoat and clashing blue tie.

Joe is very proud to have been educated in the school of hard knocks. This being, he made clear, the infinitely superior school to any of the universities in which I and many other lawyers have been schooled. He calls all women "darlin'" and refers to himself in the third person. Within five minutes of meeting the man, I knew his life story. I knew that he hadn't gone to uni until his late 20s, and before his career in the law was a union rep. I had also seen photos of his wife, two children and even his dead dog (the photo, thankfully, was taken before poor fido died). I knew of the threats he made to his 16-year-old daugher's boyfriend to break his legs should he be so foolish as to expect the daughter to show an inch of flesh let alone remove her chastity belt. In short, I knew far more about the man than I know about many of my closest friends. Thankfully Joe didn't expect the same level of disclosure from me. He was too busy talking to ask me any questions. The only exception to that was when he asked me if I had or would have children. My response was the usual "no, and I have no immediate plans either" to which he responded "just as well, because I'm rather busy today."

It was an entire day that we had to spend together. Perhaps the worst part was lunch. Or at least it was my lunch - it turned out Joe is trying to lose some weight from his large frame. While I ate my cheesy tuna melt, wiping the excess oil from my chin, he happily told me about his diet, which consists of eating nothing whatsoever during the day and then eating whatever he fancies at night. It soon emerged that his evening meal contains more calories than most of us eat in a week, as he complained to me that the night before he had to send his burger and chips back to the restaurant, as he discovered his burger missing the requested bacon, egg and cheese and his chip portion to be rather small in size. I'm therefore not entirely sure how this diet works but had, by this point, realised that Joe was not fond of questions that might hint at criticism of his methods or madness.

It may not surprise you to hear that the trial did not go brilliantly. Our judge liked Joe as much as I did, and made that quite plain during the course of the trial. The rest of the week has therefore consisted of me, back in London, frantically trying to organise new counsel and an appeal.

Thankfully my feet are now again on London soil for some time. Admittedly the soil is rather damp and cold at this time of year, but nonetheless it is nice to have my feet firmly planted on it for a week or two. It is also rather nice to know that Joe and I are no longer in the same borough and that I have left him safely in the midlands.