Victor Mike Hotel

The Eighth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

I've spent the last few days in beautiful city of edinburgh and I've had a lovely time. There's just one little thing that worries me.

I remember when I visited last year I had the nagging feeling that I was being watched - not so much from other people but somehow from 'outside' the way a goldfish might vaguely be aware of an observer beyond its bowl. This seemed to be coupled with regular occurrences of my initials turning up about the city. The first photo at the top is from a sign in Leith I saw last November.

I had dismissed this as simple paranoia until tonight during my current visit when I came across the vehicle numberplate shown in the second photo. That these letters should only appear while I'm in Edinburgh puzzles me. All I can say is that the sense of being regarded by something outside of the ordinary world has returned.

Only it seems much stronger this time.

Thank goodness I leave for home in the morning. I don't know if I'd be brave enough to return. Not if it's worse again.

More soonliest.

Becoming a Writer

The Seventh of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

Hello. You are reading this. I have written this. This is because I am a writer.

Today I have been talking about writing. This is even better than actual writing, purer perhaps. This is why I talk more than I write. It's not that I'm skiving, it simply is the best way of going about it. No, really.

Quite often, sometimes as much as once every three years, I'm asked for tips on writing. Understandably. And although no-one asked me today here for you now are my top 5 tips if you want to do some writing. Like what I do.

5) Write in green ink. I used to have a special green pen, but now I have one of those four-colour pens and I just use the green button on that.

1) Steal other people's ideas. It's really hard thinking of stuff to write. Fortunately today the internet gives you access to literally dozens of other people's writings. Your new friends are the buttons ctrl+c and ctrl+v. For example, this particular entry has been copied from the blog for Jan 30th 2007 of someone called Hilary Brown.

2) If you're going to swear, swear. Don't use made up words it looks lumping stupid.

3) Always write the ending first. Once you've got that out of the way it is very easy to wrap things up if you get bored with what you are writing. Which you will do, believe me. You can just put in something like 'six months later...' and your readers will do all the work of filling in all the bits that lead up to the last part. But don't forget to put the end back where it belongs. It'll look daft if you leave it as the first bit.

4) There is no story that can't be made better by the addition of robots. Or women kissing. Shakespeare knew this, Coronation Street knew this, heck, James Joyce's Ulysses has both in. It's not a cheap gimmick, it's a literary device. Like adverbs. Go ahead. It'll be fine. Car and/or helicopter chases are pretty cool too.

So there you go. There's no 'write' or wrong way to write (although I don't see the point of poetry if I'm honest. It really ticks me off the way you have pay the same - and quite often more! - as a proper book for something with - what? - less than a tenth as much writing. That's just a rip-off) but if you take into account these simple pointers you'll be well on the way to emulating my style and success.

More soonliest.

Tea Making Facilities

The Sixth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

Another day, another Travelodge. When did I become a slave to pre-booked, reasonably-priced accommodation? This is my third one in a week.

Listen. It's true that on the odd occasion that I've stayed at a more expensive hotel it the last couple of years the difference in quality has been tangible. But for the most part my basic requirements are somewhere to get my head down, a telly and tea making facilities. Hopefully I'd be spending little enough time in the room itself for it to be an issue. I mean, I only have a shower at home. The bath I had tonight was a real luxury.

They are a bit like the Borg the way they assimilate other hotels into their collective, then file down the edges so that they all look a bit similar. The one I'm staying in at present, Edinburgh Haymarket, is set in one of the capital's big terraces in the west end of the city. Inside it's tall-ceilinged rooms, a wood-panelled car and Yale keys instead of cards for the locks. But the ubiquitous signage and unmanned reception (press 'find' on the cordless phone cradle to summon someone) pervade.

But it is cheap. One of the nights me and the boys spent in Colwyn Bay last week was just £10 in a sale. I used to use Youth Hostels on my travels, but they were more expensive, you didn't have the privacy and there was no tea or telly.

Actually, I make out like gangbusters on the tea and coffee front cos I don't have milk in my coffee so if I can get several cups of both without using up all the little UHT carton things. I know you can ask for more, but this way you don't even have to do that! Brilliant, eh?

So to finish, here is a brief list of some of the Travelodges I've stayed in, working backward from my present location: Edinburgh Haymarket
London Ilford Gants Hill
Colwyn Bay
Croydon
Reading Central
Torquay
Cardiff Central
Edinburgh West End
Glasgow Central
Aberdeen
Southend Central
Saltash
Worksop
London King's Cross
London Farringdon
London Docklands
London City Airport
London Covent Garden

Er, I think that's it. Blimey, that's a bit sad, isn't it? Let me put on my kettle and ponder what it all means...

More soonliest.

The View From the Top Bunk

The Fifth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Monday.

Every now and then I go to sleep on the train. I did that on Saturday morning, almost dozing through my connection at York. I sprang into wakefulness as some sixth sense alerted me that we'd arrived (either that or the blaring automated announcement) and still dazed leapt from the train. Then leapt back again a second later when I realised I'd left my jacket behind.

Anyhoo, that's not the point. What I'm trying to say is sometimes I deliberately go to sleep on the train. I've been on the Caledonian Sleeper between England and Scotland (and vice versa) a few times, once from Inverness, once from Fort William and a couple of times from London to Edinburgh. That's where I am at the mo, just out of Euston, wending our way to Waverley station.

The first time I went on a sleeper, however, was simultaneously less and more glamorous. The journey was very romantic, between Paris and Venice no less. Unfortunately I had opted for the cheapest possible option (despite it being only a few more quid for extra space and comfort) and so we were on triple- tiered vinyl covered bunks akin to the back seat of an Austin Maxi. Add to this the soaring temperature of a July night (we had spent the day almost getting sunstroke at Disneyland Paris) and you have of of the most uncomfortable journeys I've ever been on. The only one who was ok was the Winnie- the-Pooh helium balloon we'd got from Disneyland was snug under a blanket to stop it floating off. It went on to spend a day in left luggage in Venice before being set free in the skies above nearby Treviso the next day. A young no1 son was a little upset, but we couldn't take Pooh on the plane so it had to be done.

Tonight's journey seems a tad less fraught. Ideal in fact so I think I'll turn over and go to sleep.

Good night, see you in Edinburgh.

More soonliest.

Bagels

The Second of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Friday.

Oh, man it's nearly 3 in the morning. I can't even come up with a clever title for this entry. I was just eating a couple of bagels, plain with just butter, and I couldn't think of anything else.

Yes, eating bagels at 0245. That's the kind of lifestyle I lead.

I do like a bagel, though. Butter on its own works quite well but there's nothing wrong with the popular 'cream cheese' (usually in a Philadelphia stylee) variety. A touch of Marmite is welcome to, but cross contamination as the yeast extract mixes in with the spread calls for the use of two knives.

Or spoons. A friend of mine applies the cheese with a spoon. This allows you to scoop up a a goodly portion and then use the superior surface area of the back of the spoon to spread the cheese more evenly. While I admire the elegance of this both in concept and execution I find myself unable to break out of the knife paradigm.

It was also a very cheap breakfast on my first visit to New York City back in 2002. To save money, Shu Shu, my erstwhile spouse, and I kept pretty much to UK time and went to bed and got up early. This meant there was next to nowhere open to get breakfast with the exception of the odd coffee stand. Even then we had to queue for a coffee and an untoasted bagel. On one occasion the old bloke with a walking stick in the queue ahead of us was buzzed by a pigeon during its take-off. 'Whoa!' exclaimed the old timer. 'Kinda low there, buddy!' he said to the bird. The bird did not reply.

In Scarborough let's not forget the bagels on offer at Mojo's Music Cafe. That link is to an older menu but the Veggie Breakfast Bagel and the famous Bob Marley Bagel are still very much available.

I'm off to London tomorrow. On a previous visit I had visitied a baker in Finsbury Park that did olive bagels - ok, but I wouldn't necessarily pick one out again. On this journey I am once again staying in the glamorous locale of the cheapest Travelodge I could find for the weekend. This time round it's at Gants Hill in Ilford. A quick google of what was around there revealed that the Shalom Bakery just up the road has a very good reputation for its bagels (and cheesecake - double plus good). But during this little shufti around all the sites tonight apparently the place to go is the Beigel Bake on Brick Lane.

Open 24 hours. Blimey!

I however, am not. Closing for the weekend.

More soonliest.

The Three Things of Life

The First of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Thursday.

Short and sweet tonight.

Last night, no1 son and I were lay out in the hotel room like Wayne and Garth beneath the stars, gazing up into the dark and talking guff. We covered a multitude of subjects and eventually landed on the trials and tribs of adult life. Well, to the 11 year old mind these are overcooked to say the least. Indeed, he put me right by stating that there are in fact Three Things of Life. These are as follows:

1) Staying Alive. According to him this is a 9 or a 10

2) Fun. This is an 8 or 9.

3) Other Stuff. This is a 2.

So there you go.

More soonliest.

A Good Walk Spoiled

The Thirty-First of August Two Thousand and Eleven. Wednesday.

I have never enjoyed golf. Oh, I can appreciate the skill involved and I can't deny the appeal of all the different numbered clubs (5 iron. 3 wood. Collect the set...) but my complete lack of aptitude for the sport puts me off. Didn't stop me losing several Dungeons & Dragons Adventure Modules in a game of golf in my youth. But perhaps the bitter memory of that day is what finalised my hatred of it.

Today, no1 son asked if we could play a round of crazy golf.

We were in Porthmadog, having had a ride on the Ffestiniog Railway, the fab narrow gauge steam railway that features on the 'Great Little Trains of Wales' tea towels that do the rounds in this part of the world.

It was an hour or so regular train journey along the Conwy valley to reach the Ffestiniog and on the way I saw the darnedest thing on a path next to the river. It looked like and old woman, a crone, whose black garments rustled in the wind. The figure looked unreal, all hunched over like the witch in disguise in Snow White, that I wasn't sure if it was a scarecrow or some other effigy. She/it wasn't there on the way back so I still don't know who or what it was.

Anyway, we got to Porthmadog by narrow gauge, which was all very quaint but I kept bumping my head leaving the carriage. On the third occasion I almost started crying I was so fed up, much to No1 son's amusement until he realised I wasn't kidding. Didn't stop him talking about it at full volume on the train back to Colwyn Bay though. The whole train knew what a soft lad I was - and what a terrible parent too, as he declaimed to the world the fact that I had put his younger brother's shoes on the wrong feet and only realised at the end of the trip.

That's the sort of day it had been. There's always a point on holiday, not necessarily by the end, where your energy and concentration are at a low and you can be a bit grumpy and off. We've had a lovely day, but after the highs of yesterday it's been a bit of a disappointment to me.

Not to no2 son, who played up a bit but that was probably due to his feet hurting. And not to no1 son, who was made up at the chance to play crazy golf.

With my loathing of the game a given, I wasn't really in the mood for this. I reminded him of the lousy time we'd had the last time we'd had a go at crazy golf in Filey. This didn't deter him and we persevered.

I hated every minute of it.

Didn't stop me winning, though.

More soonliest.