On August 19, the Fragrant Missus and I flew to the U.K. to visit my sister and celebrate her 40th birthday. This was a sooper sekrit plan and had been months in the making, as her husband, Stoo, had started planning it shortly after the New Year. It was agony, keeping it to ourselves for five whole months, but we did it, and what follows over the next little while is a chronicle of our 17 days in Britain and Paris. Some of the writing here has appeared already on my Facebook page, but bear with me--there will be additional info and some photos here that didn't appear during my very sporadic updates during the trip.
We flew out on Iceland Air. It was a six-and-a-half hour flight over Canada's tundra into Keflavik, Iceland. It was a bizarre experience being on a flight on which English was not the primary language. It was like travelling with Vikings. In fact, when the Fragrant Missus asked me for a translation, I said, "We come from the land of the ice and snow where the midnight sun and the hot springs flow." Then I added, "Duh."
Anyway, the flight was excellent. There were lots of movies to watch and a trio of tall, slender, angular flight attendants. The only challenge was the security line up in Keflavik, which took so long that our connecting flight to London Heathrow was in its final boarding call by the time we made it upstairs. I was tired and cranky and prepared to go all Erik the Viking on someone, but it was all good in the end.
Two and a half hours later, we touched down in London at precisely noon. Our flight was required to circle over north London for about ten minutes prior to landing. My sister lives in Kelvedon Hatch, a borough of Brentwood, which is also north of London. By this time, I was quite anxious to get off the plane. We hadn't slept a wink, and were sore, cramped, exhausted and starving. I just wanted Inga (or Helga or Olga) to give us a pair of fucking parachutes. But apparently that meant we' d bypass British Security, so that wasn't on.
I will say this about the British Security services--they were well-dressed, efficient and pleasant. This, in direct contrast to the lazy, rude, slovenly and obviously bored Canadian security personnel. British Security were dressed in uniforms with ties and crisply ironed shirts - the Canadian security services were wearing bulletproof vests. Seriously. Britain has actually been subject to international terrorist attacks - Canada not so much. Any excuse to be dramatic, I guess.
Anyway, we were collected by Stoo, who drove us to the home of his friends and neighbours, Wendy and Stuart Brooks.We were to wait there for a few hours before the unveiling of the big surprize! Driving out of London along the M25 took a bit of getting used to. This driving-on-the-left thing. is fucked up. Also, the British cheerfully blast two vehicles headlong down a lane that is properly only meant for one. It is initially very poop-in-the-pants inducing.
We made it to Kelvedon Hatch with no incident and dozed for a while until Wendy and Stuart took us over to The Shepherd. Anticipation and spirits were high as Stoo and Terri approached! This was the culmination of five months of planning!!! Almost a half a year of waiting! She had no clue! How would she react???
There's a video on Facebook that I lack the technical skill to post here, but it was fucking brilliant, as they say.
This may come as no particular surprize to any of you, but I got absolutely faced that night. I had two beers at the Brookses before heading over to The Shepherd, where we had two more. After that, we stumbled across the road to The Bongow for a sumptuous curry. Seriously, this was fantastic food, and the serving staff actually addressed Stoo as "guvnor". Of course, there was more beer and champagne, and combined with being up for about 24 hours, I got really, really shitty. I mean, when we finally got to bed, I hit those sheets harder than Dale Earnhardt.
And there's no telling how long I might have slept, but around 6:00 a.m., the pigeons outside the window started. At first, I thought it was rather charming, but after 20 minutes, I was fantasizing about powerful hand cannons and a lot of dead fucking pigeons. Have you ever noticed that pigeons sound an awful lot like the backing vocals to the Stones' "Sympathy For the Devil"? It's impossible to sleep through this incessant "whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo".
And they have ruined this song for me utterly. So if there are douchebags in this story, it is the pigeons. Fuckers.
Next Post: The Most Epic. Party. Evar.
We flew out on Iceland Air. It was a six-and-a-half hour flight over Canada's tundra into Keflavik, Iceland. It was a bizarre experience being on a flight on which English was not the primary language. It was like travelling with Vikings. In fact, when the Fragrant Missus asked me for a translation, I said, "We come from the land of the ice and snow where the midnight sun and the hot springs flow." Then I added, "Duh."
Anyway, the flight was excellent. There were lots of movies to watch and a trio of tall, slender, angular flight attendants. The only challenge was the security line up in Keflavik, which took so long that our connecting flight to London Heathrow was in its final boarding call by the time we made it upstairs. I was tired and cranky and prepared to go all Erik the Viking on someone, but it was all good in the end.
Two and a half hours later, we touched down in London at precisely noon. Our flight was required to circle over north London for about ten minutes prior to landing. My sister lives in Kelvedon Hatch, a borough of Brentwood, which is also north of London. By this time, I was quite anxious to get off the plane. We hadn't slept a wink, and were sore, cramped, exhausted and starving. I just wanted Inga (or Helga or Olga) to give us a pair of fucking parachutes. But apparently that meant we' d bypass British Security, so that wasn't on.
I will say this about the British Security services--they were well-dressed, efficient and pleasant. This, in direct contrast to the lazy, rude, slovenly and obviously bored Canadian security personnel. British Security were dressed in uniforms with ties and crisply ironed shirts - the Canadian security services were wearing bulletproof vests. Seriously. Britain has actually been subject to international terrorist attacks - Canada not so much. Any excuse to be dramatic, I guess.
Anyway, we were collected by Stoo, who drove us to the home of his friends and neighbours, Wendy and Stuart Brooks.We were to wait there for a few hours before the unveiling of the big surprize! Driving out of London along the M25 took a bit of getting used to. This driving-on-the-left thing. is fucked up. Also, the British cheerfully blast two vehicles headlong down a lane that is properly only meant for one. It is initially very poop-in-the-pants inducing.
We made it to Kelvedon Hatch with no incident and dozed for a while until Wendy and Stuart took us over to The Shepherd. Anticipation and spirits were high as Stoo and Terri approached! This was the culmination of five months of planning!!! Almost a half a year of waiting! She had no clue! How would she react???
There's a video on Facebook that I lack the technical skill to post here, but it was fucking brilliant, as they say.
This may come as no particular surprize to any of you, but I got absolutely faced that night. I had two beers at the Brookses before heading over to The Shepherd, where we had two more. After that, we stumbled across the road to The Bongow for a sumptuous curry. Seriously, this was fantastic food, and the serving staff actually addressed Stoo as "guvnor". Of course, there was more beer and champagne, and combined with being up for about 24 hours, I got really, really shitty. I mean, when we finally got to bed, I hit those sheets harder than Dale Earnhardt.
And there's no telling how long I might have slept, but around 6:00 a.m., the pigeons outside the window started. At first, I thought it was rather charming, but after 20 minutes, I was fantasizing about powerful hand cannons and a lot of dead fucking pigeons. Have you ever noticed that pigeons sound an awful lot like the backing vocals to the Stones' "Sympathy For the Devil"? It's impossible to sleep through this incessant "whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo".
And they have ruined this song for me utterly. So if there are douchebags in this story, it is the pigeons. Fuckers.
Next Post: The Most Epic. Party. Evar.
1 comment:
Pigeons = feathered rats. Glad you're having a good time.
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