Plugger's Odyssey

Many of you know that Homer is my idol. Unfortunately on Wednesday 22 August, the wrong Homer was my inspiration for a long and rather trying journey.

Normally, I'm the master of forward planning for holidays. I know exactly how I'm getting from one place to another, timetables and the like. For some reason, before leaving London, when considering how to get from Sighisoara, deep in Transylvania, to Varna on the black sea coast, which is about 450km as the crow flies. All I did was set a day aside for the trip.

My "detailed" planning began the day before when, as I was waiting for a train in Brasov to take me to Sighisoara, I causally enquired how I'd get to Varna by train. It was about 6:45pm. They said I had two options. The first was to get straight to Bucharest now and get the overnight train (its about 3 hours by train from Brasov to Bucharest). Not an option as I had to get my pack from Sighisoara, two hours further away from Bucharest. The other option was to get a train tomorrow morning leaving Bucharest at 9:30am and spend the day getting there by train, changing at Russe on the Bulgarian border. That meant getting the 6:10am train from Brasov, which meant getting a train leaving from Sighisoara no later than 4am (no such train existed).

It was then I thought this might get a bit awkward.

By option was to take the first train to Bucharest from Sighisoara. That was just before 9am, and being a fast service it got to Bucharest about 1:30pm. Added to this, I had enough money on me for the hostel or the train ticket but not both. One of them had to let me pay by card because by the time I got back to the hostel it was dark as I wasn't overly keen to wander the streets with a wad of crisp notes.

So I headed to bed, and awoke about 7:30 to grab some breakfast, settle my bill and make for the train station. Plenty of time. After getting ready and packing, I grabbed some toast and the only other bloke that was up told me there had been an incident the previous night. A bloke had been beaten up and robbed by Gypsies. The idiot had got into a car full of men that had stopped to give him a lift. Still, I was happy that I decided against walking through town with heaps of cash the previous night.

I saw the owner of the hostel and paid her - in cash unfortunately which meant I needed to pay for the train ticket by card. I wasn't confident that would be possible, given the ticket office was in an old shipping container. And my fears were confirmed about 20 minutes before the train arrived. Luckily there was a taxi waiting outside the station so I raced into town to get money out and raced back, with about five minutes to spare to buy a ticket and board. Once on board all I could do was relax and watch the countryside go by (not quickly enough for me).

Upon arrival at Gara du Nord station in Bucharest, more or less on time at 1330, I set out to find a way to get to Varna. This was where the real fun began. My first priority was to see if there was any way of getting to Varna by rail, so at the train station I headed to the crowded window for international bookings desk. It seemed the line took ages to move and it seemed like there was literally no one attending the window answering queries. While I was waiting, with my pack over my shoulder, a tubby bloke in a yellow t-shirt walked up to the line.

"Varna? Varna? Anyone go to Varna?"

I asked him about it. "Thirty-five. It cost thirty-five [about £9]. We find one more person and we go. I drop you in Mangalia [a resort town on the Black Sea coast in Romania, about 6km from the Bulgarian border], you go to Varna from there."

My trusty Lonely Planet told me that Varna was about 25km from the border. I was initially very interested. But he looked a little shifty. He was hanging around, looking for a second person while I asked at the window about trains. I had a bad feeling about him.

The only train they offered to Varna was the overnight which I already knew about and wasn't all that keen on. You hear bad stories about overnight trains in this part of the world, and besides, I'd already paid for my accommodation. As I was finishing up I decided to bolt in the opposite direction. He called after me but didn't chase me, and I didn't look back.

It was almost 2pm. Famished, I got something to eat out the front of the station for lunch. Whatever it was, it was awful. There was a bus station around the corner. I looked for it, but couldn't see it anywhere. I asked over the road at an Ibis hotel. I got a dirty look on entry (must be coz Ibis Hotels are so classy they didn't want my type). They said there was no bus station in Bucharest. Turns out the bus station is actually just a bus stop over the road. I had to think about trains again.

Consulting my guidebook, I saw trains to Mangalia and nearby Constantia left from another station, Gara Obor. I decided to see what trains were on offer there, and got in a cab. The meter seemed to be rising awfully quickly, and I noticed the tariff was RON7.90/km (normal is RON1.40 - about 30p - per km).

I asked how much it would be. He said about RON40, which I could deal with.

I asked why it was RON7.90. He said "I am independent, not part of company" as if that answered it. Infact that made me a bit more scared - he could've been kidnapping me.

"That's way more than usual."

"It will be about forty," he reassured me. "You want me to stop cab?" I said no, but made sure he knew I was not happy in my usual loud way.

He proceeded to take the main roads in town which all had road works. The meter kept climbing. It got to thirty and he weren't moving. I silently decided there was no way I was paying more than forty no matter what the meter came to.

We were less than half way there when it hit forty. Its at this stage that I should mention what my chauffeur looked like. He was middle-aged and sported the mandatory Romanian moustache. He was big too. A little fleshy but definitely solid, and looked able to handle a rough customer. The meter kept climbing. In my mounting panic I convinced myself I could take him.

After a couple of surprising and scary sharp turns (see comments about kidnapping above), we arrived there. The meter read RON78. About twenty quid. I was careful to get out and get my pack from the boot before the question of money came up. He stood there and I handed him a RON50 note. His hand stayed out for more.

I looked at him with cynicism and said loudly "you're kidding - you ARE kidding - there's no way I'm paying any more." I was petrified though.

He just shot me a dirty look and got in the cab. But as he turned away from me I swore I saw a smirk escape.

He'd obviously ripped me off enough not to worry about the extra thirty or so.

It was 2:45pm. I headed into the station and it was much smaller. The information booth didn't offer too much in the way of English speaking. It was all pointing and writing times down. Turns out the next train to Constantia got me there about midnight. No good. They suggested I try the bus station next door.

No dice.

There was a bus station in Bucharest after all, and there were buses there, but noone who I could ask about buses to the coast and no destinations I recognised.

I had to get back to the main station again. With more than a little trepidation I got a cab.

It cost RON12, including tip.

It was 3:15pm now. I looked again for some sort of bus depot. That dodgy bloke in the yellow t-shirt must have some from somewhere. After about half an hour looking (lugging my backpack still), I finally found one. And there was about to Constantia. And it would go on to Mangalia. And it was leaving now. And it was a nice bus!

I asked how much. They said RON40. I smiled - less than the cab ride. It took about four hours all told. There were two stops. Constantia of course, but before that we pulled in to a truck stop in Calarasi, on the Danube.

Now my penchant for truck stop bains-marie is well known. And I've seen some very good ones in my time (road trips to the Kalgoorlie Cup top the list). But this one is right up there. Not just the usual deep fried gear (there was plenty of that), there was some classier stuff too: shishkebabs and the like. And there was also a load of traditional gear too. Fantastic! And not a bit healthy.

We were soon on our way again. After a stop in Constantia we got to Mangalia about 8pm. This place is a strange sort of seaside resort. Kinda like a Romanian version of Mandurah, pre-Dawesville-cut. But with more booze.

I was dropped there, basically without a word. I had no idea how to get to Varna. No confuse matters, there were buses going to a smaller town down the coast, Vama Veche. I kept waiting for one to Varna. After about and hour I started to get worried. After another half-hour I was looking for alternatives. Some locals suggested I head to the bus station. I hopped in a minibus and asked them to drop me there. It was another bus stop with delusions of grandure. And it was also outside a sh!tty hotel.

I stuck my head in. Buses to Varna?

An attractive girl said it was unlikely, but they'd be here if they were anywhere. The alternative was to get a bus to Vama Veche and get to the border from there. I waited. All the buses were doing a local circle route. A large Romanian family (is there any other type) got to the bus stop. They waited too. We were all waiting for the same bus, and I had no doubt that they'd let jump on to the bus infront of me.

It finally arrived at 10:30pm. They clambered on as expected. And I was about to shove on, backpack and all, when one of the guys indicated I should get on in the back. I hopped on, put my pack down and realised I would be standing with a few others in the back of this minibus. As I drove off I was thinking one thing.

This is exactly how illegal immigrants are taken to pick strawberries in slave conditions.

Luckily my fears were allayed as I was dropped off in Vama Veche. I walked down the main drag (which was crushed limestone, not sealed) towards the beach. The place was pretty cool. Nice small bars and eateries, and small hotels. I walked in to one.

"I need to get to Varna tonight."

"There are no taxis here. You'll have to stay I think."

Smelling a conflict of interest, I asked how far the border was. I knew it was close.

"About two kilometres. You can walk it in twenty minutes."

"Will I get a cab from there?"

"Maybe, but you won't get one here, that's for sure."

"OK, thanks. I might see you in half an hour, but I hope not."

I trudged off. I was happy to walk it until I realised it was pitch black with fields on either side. Noone was around. Another opportunity for kidnapping (I make that three). But I made it to the border OK.

I approached very very nervously. I donned a massive smile and said slowly and carefully, "do you speak English?"

"Yes."

"I need to get to Varna tonight. Is there a cab you can call?"

"Yes. Wait here please. On the Romanian side." They took my passport.

Fifteen minutes later the cab arrived. It was 11:30pm. I asked how much. He said 140lev (about 40 quid, A$100). I was aghast.

"Its 25km away! That's all!"

"25km?? No its 110km."

A couple of minutes down the road we passed a sign that showed he was right. Bloody Lonely Planet lied to me!

Anyway we made small talk as much as you can given the language barrier. He was an amiable chap. We drove in silence mostly. By the time we got to Varna it was 12:45am and I was utterly famished.

I saw a McDonalds.

By 12:47am I was full and in a taxi on my way to Gregory's hostel. The guy didn't know where he was going. We stopped in the "centre" of Zvezdesta where some juvenile delinquents were loitering. He asked one of them (the only girl, naturally) how to get to Gregory's.. It was hard to explain so she got in. A couple of minutes later we were there. Finally. It was 1:05am, and my Odyssey was over.

No cyclops. No sirens. And no sacred cattle (expect the Big Mac). But I got there safely. Eventually.

Now let us never speak of it again.

Dracula and the Black Sea: Romania and Bulgaria

G'day there all

At first I had planned a massive three week extravaganza for my summer travels - it was to involve Spain, Portugal, Italy, Switzerland, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Romania and Bulgaria. Then I realised that was too much. Even for me. Also there was no way I could afford it. So I streamlined it into nine days of Romania (the capital, Bucharest, and Transylvania) and Varna, a seaside resort town in Bulgaria.

Bish's Precis
- I went to Romania and Bulgaria
- I washed my neck specially for Transylvania but didn't get any action
- Bucharest is NOT Budapest. Its dusty and still has bullet holes from the 1989 revolution
- If you ever go to Varna, go to Gregory's Backpackers. It rocked. So did the whole town, beaches, food and nightlife

- There's another email/blog entry following about one massive day of travel

- My parents arrive here on Saturday!!

- I'm off to India next with Chop, and I'm reading Shantaram thanks to Guy and Sarah's recommendations
- This and previous travel emails are on my blog:
http://plugger-home-and-away.blogspot.com/
- See all of my pics here: http://picasaweb.google.com/ross.duckham/BulgariaAndRomania

Romania

There's three things you need to know about Romania. First, their history is dominated by two tyrannical despots, Vlad Tepes in medieval times (the real life basis for Dracula, who life had the handy moniker of Vlad the Impaler), and Nicolae Ceausescu, who was a terrible Communist dictator during the Cold War (he made his dog a general in the Romanian army - it was illegal not to salute it). Secondly, Chad plagiarised their flag. I forget the third thing.

Bucharest: Its NOT Budapest

The night before I left, a buddy of mine was opining that his favourite city in Europe was Budapest. It has ornate buildings, but is still quite gritty, cheap booze, a wonderful setting, great people, a lively music and arts scene: overall it's quite a package.

Bucharest is NOT Budapest.

If the road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions, then it is surely lined with buildings from Bucharest.

Some of the buildings there are extremely ornamental and quite detailed (or at least they were when they were built). These same buildings are now very shoddy, with noticeable slants in the buildings and structural faults. I wonder how many fall down each day. So, despite their aspirational decorative design, it seems too many buildings in Bucharest have been designed to make lovely facades but fail to retain their structural integrity. Priorities eh?

Anyway, I arrived late on Saturday and found my hotel. It was in a fairly grubby area. Powerlines everywhere . I asked where I could eat and they suggested a place around the corner which did some decent stuffed vine leaves and pork. Romanian food is fairly typical eastern European fare - stews, lots of meat, cucumbers, tomatoes and dumplings - except it contained maize meal where you might expect to find mashed potatoes. I remembered that my Lonely Planet pointedly avoided calling Romanian food "cuisine." Still, I scoffed it down.

I headed back to the hostel and eventually got to sleep. It took a while because of the time difference which was a shame as I wanted to get up early for a full day of sightseeing.

Turned out I didn't need it.

I woke up early of my own accord and headed to the Palace of the Parliament first thing. It was a major reason why I wanted to go to Bucharest. This monstrosity, the second biggest building in the world behind the Pentagon, was begun by Ceausescu in the early 1980s (after he'd knocked over 15% of the Old Town of Bucharest) and by the time he was toppled and executed in 1989 was still only half finished.

Astonishingly, despite the brutality of the regime it represents, they finished it (only fully in 2005). The reason they kept going was that all the materials needed to finish it had been brought to the site and it was more efficient to build it than take it all back.

The place is an amazing folly, and incredible in its scale, still mostly unused despite the parliament being based there now. Look at the photos and consider this: it's 86 metres high. It gives you an idea of the size of the place. Something like 35 hectares of floorspace.

Strange then that the tour only lasted an hour. Entry (and compulsory tour) cost about £3, and if you wanted to take photos it was another £6. Not bad, but considering the time you get and that you can get in to the Tower of London (easily a whole day) for £16 it's a bit steep. Inside, it is incredibly ornate: marble , wood, about 1500 tonnes of crystal, and no air conditioning - Ceausescu had a fear of being poisoned by it. He should've worried more about the bullets.

The highlight was the balcony - where Ceausescu never stood - looking out over the gardens and down the magnificent avenue reserved for Ceaucescu's use only. It is also the balcony where a touring Michael Jackson famously looked out over his fans and says "Hello Budapest!"

Bucharest is NOT Budapest.

I left the Palace of the Parliament at about an hour and half in total. Walking out, I had a close look at the gardens and saw they were very poorly maintained (especially for a place as significant to Romania as this). It made me wonder what the palace itself will be like in a few years' time.

Leaving the palace, next stop had to be Piata Revolutiei, where the uprising and overthrow over the Ceausescu regime began in December 1989. There's a monument there which could unkindly be likened to a massive turd on a stick. But that would be insensitive given the number of people who died, so I won't make that comparison.

A couple of other buildings overlook the square, including the one from which Ceausescu fled as the security forces opened fire on the unarmed protesters. One building which is not standing is that of the security forces, which was torn down by the mob out of hatred ( only the shell remains).

One thing I noticed a lot of in Bucharest was bullet holes still in buildings, almost 20 years on. Even important buildings like the National Gallery still have them.

The last significant stop I made was at the Arc de Triumf, built after WWI as a symbol of friendship with France. Nearby is Piata Charles de Gaulle.

There are a lot of links to France actually. Both languages are Romance languages and had a lot of similar words (paine is bread in Romanian). I found it a pretty easy language to read actually.

By then it was 5pm, and my lack of sleep was getting to me. I headed to he hotel for a siesta, which in fact lasted the whole night.

While reading up I found that Ceausescu reserved special hatred for Hungarians when in charge of the country, regularly torturing them (eg making them ingest radioactive material, condemning them to painful cancerous death).

Good thing that Bucharest is NOT Budapest.

Transylvania: A Bite? Not Even a Stinking Hickey

My alarm went off and I was up early to get a five hour train to Sighisoara, deep in Transylvania. I made sure I washed my neck for the occasion.

On the train I was buried in my book when someone asked me something in Romanian. I said I only speak English. His old face lit up and he engaged me in conversation in English. He was shocked that someone would come to Romania without knowing anyone here (on reflection he had a point).

The old bloke was a pastor. He asked whether I was christian. I said yes (hey, I am baptised). He asked what type. After a slightly-too-long pause I recalled I was Anglican. He smiled knowingly and spoke to me about the different denominations in the country for a while, asked me about Australia, etc. Then we both settled in to our reading. As I was leaving the train he gave me a business card with some phrases in Romanian on it. Bless the old bloke!

In Bucharest I'd been surprised by the lack of Gypsies. In the country about 10% of the population are Gypsy or "Roma" (they're not native Romanian either despite the name - they apparently descend from the Persia area). There was no lack of Gypsies in Sighisoara. It was a bit intimidating actually.

After arriving at the hostel in the late afternoon (Nathan's, like the famous one in Krakow) and quickly headed to the old walled citadel where markets were set up and a festival was on, with traditional dancing and the like. The walled city itself is interesting - some of the towers have been rebuilt and its a real mishmash of styles.

The reason I headed there was because it was the birthplace of Vlad Tepes. The house he was born in is now a steakhouse (what else would it be). I ate at a very good traditional restaurant called Rustic - cheap and better than the one in Bucharest - and marvelled at the non-smoking section which consisted of a perspex booth with a table of four set there. It reminded me a little too much of the smoking rooms you see in bowling alleys etc. The tables had been turned!

I had a couple of beers and headed back to the hostel. Not along the dark, dangerous waterfront mind you, along the streets where I could see where I was going. Disappointed in the lack of social life at the hostel ("oh, we have a bar - you just need to go out and buy your own beer"), I turned in for the night.

The following day was one of vigorous travel: alarm set for 6:30am train to Brasov and then bus to Bran castle , a fairy-tale-type castle famous for Dracula even though he never set foot in there. The castle is quite funny really: inside it's all about some queen or princess who actually lived there in the 19th century and has faithfully reconstructed rooms. Unfortunately the trip in the castle was a one-way affair, where you are directed fairly quickly through the rooms (there's no space to stop and ponder and let others wander past you).

But outside in the markets is a real cacophony of rampant tackiness as I suspect only Romania can do. Among the fake fangs and awful books ("Dracula: Myth or Reality?" - you can't write that stuff. No. Seriously. You CAN'T write that stuff), were even tackier things like fake Spiderman 3 outfits (why would you counterfeit that cr@p movie?) The food was awful too, and the place was crawling with tourists of course. I couldn't wait to leave.

So I got a bus back to Brasov for the afternoon, and the town was a real highlight actually. The old town and in particular the town square are said to be the best in Romania. I wandered through there very quickly to get to the cablecar for a view of the city from the Hollywood-style letters overlooking it. The view was wonderful, although the bar at the top for some reason faced the wrong way, down the other side! They had the right beers on tap though.

It was a stunning day, and nice and hot. I headed back to the square in beautiful weather and wandered around the old town for a while. For some reason, the women there were gorgeous! So much so that I have to add Brasov to my list of "Tidy Towns," which includes Tartu, Ghent, Eger, Bergen, and London. I later found out that there wasn't much night life there though. Shame.

Anyway I got the train back and after a long day that included about 6 hours travelling, I crashed out. I figured the next day was going to be a big one - getting from Sighisoara, two thirds of the way across Romania, to the resort town of Varna on the Bulgarian coast. My alarm was set for 7:30am.

I was right. It was big. So big that it gets its own email, all by itself!

Varna: A Beach! A Beach! My Kingdom for a Beach!

I really, really needed to relax once I hit Varna, and to make the most of the beach.

I was staying just out of town in a village called Zvezdetsa, at a hostel called Gregory's. Run by a British couple, and with a couple of West Aussie guys helping them out for summer for free board and food, this is the best hostel I have stayed at in my travels. The people - guests and staff - are wonderful there, and the setup is superb.

We were all English speaking (except the yanks), and it's a small place so we all tended to do things together, like heading to the beach. And after getting back we'd just sit in the bar and get on the squirt (500ml bottles of beer 50p, shots of lethal Bulgarian spirit 55p: before, after). The relative isolation really worked - it made for a nice atmosphere.

The main beach in Varna was a bit disappointing and dirty, so I was glad to head up the road a bit on the second day. We had lunch on the beach (I followed up my steak on the first day with a whole fish on the second for about 5 quid: before, after). Another night on the lash, including heading to a beachside bar (5 vodka and cokes on the beach - 4 quid) and it was time to head back to Bucharest for my flight back to the UK.

Back in Bucharest I headed out to eat that night, totally famished. I wandered around the streets a bit to, but not too much as it was still very hot. This photo was taken at 9:15pm. I stayed a night in Friends Hostel, which was fine but I didn't think it was in a very nice area (right near the main train station).

Then it occurred to me - maybe there were no nice areas in Bucharest.

But I guess that was part of the reason I was in a rush to see Romania. Having just joined the EU, its still a bit of frontier-land tourism-wise. No bucks parties really, no yobbos (present company excluded), and not really all that prepared for visitors. I keep thinking back to the surprise expressed by the pastor on the train.

Bulgaria was fantastic, and I would go back to Gregory's in a flash. Varna was about unwinding rather than sightseeing, and you could've stayed there for a week doing different stuff each day - in fact I think I should have done that. Ah well, next year!

In Bulgaria I also liked the Cyrillic alphabet. Perversely, it made me try to learn a bit of the language, probably more than I would have otherwise bothered with. Doesn't matter though as it's all forgotten now.

It's easy to say that Bulgaria is better than Romania in a lot of ways, but I doubt that's fair. I saw the very best of Bulgaria - the sun-drenched beach full of local and international holidaymakers relaxing. While Romania included a hot dusty capital and a touristy area still full of some dangerous elements. I'm glad I went, but I doubt I'll go back to Bucharest.

What's next?

First of all, my parents arrive here on Saturday! I haven't seen them since I left, so it's gonna be a fun weekend! They're here for the Rugby World Cup (and me!) I'll be heading to Montpellier for the Australia vs Fiji match in a couple of weekends. They're back in the UK in October.

But the next big trip on the horizon is India! Two weeks at the start of November which should be ... well, I don't really know what to expect. I'll be heading there with my good mate Chop. I can't wait! On a couple of mates' advice I've started reading Shantaram in preparation and I'm really enjoying it (thanks Guy and Sarah!)

Except for my "Plugger's Odyssey" email which follows (probably tomorrow), that's about it for now though. I hope you're all well!

Cheers all!

Rosco

A day in the life

Knowing that I'm away next week and not wanting to get further in arrears with my blogging, I've described below a day in my life. When you're busy or unimaginative (or, in my case, both), it's a perfect page-filler. It's what lazy bloggers do.

Today started unconscionably early. At about 3am it started raining (well, it *is* summer in London). Due to some work that's been going on in our sleepy little terraced house, there is scaffolding in the garden outside my door. Some fool has placed a length of open guttering on the scaffolding which collects rain and splats it on the ground outside, about two feet from the head of my bed. While more than half awake, I was determined not to open my eyes and find out the actual time as it would mean minutes of worrying about sleep rather than getting any (sleep that is). I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. I guess I succeeded. I must move that gutter tonight. I'll put a reminder in my phone.

My alarm went off at 6:30, waking me to the news on BBC's Radio FiveLive. Talk radio is a safer bet than music for waking up, and I'm petrified of oversleeping. So much so that there have been occasions where I have woken up out of habit at about 6:35 on a Saturday or Sunday - and in some cases rocketed out of my bed to get ready - only to remember that it is infact the weekend. Notwithstanding the sleepus interruptus, it's pretty sweet to hit the sack again, realising you don't have to get up for another five hours.

After listening to the radio spout sh!t for a few minutes, I get up and hit the shower, shaving and brushing my teeth while I'm in there. You might think this efficient but its almost a necessity: there is no room to shave and brush teeth elsewhere in my "bathroom" (it's in the space under the stairs). As I leave the bathroom I notice water gathering under the toilet bowl again. I honestly don't know how water drains from the bathroom, and I've been using it for over a year. It sometimes gathers there, but when I clean it, which includes pouring copious amounts of water on the floor, it all goes. Weird.

If I'm lucky I'm back in my room getting dressed at 6:55. Today I'm going to the gym after work and I packed my bag last night - I wouldn't have time in the morning. I catch the 7:10 Thameslink train, which means I have to be out of the house by 7:00. So I head off down the alleyway (known to us as Dog Sh!t Alley, for obvious reasons) to the train and jump on after buying The Guardian. The train usually gets in to Luton about 7:35, during which time I've usually read the news section, sometimes the sport and some of the G2 section, while listening to my iPod. The trip isn't all that bad really - you got through the green belt, so there are some lovely rolling hills and fields. In London, it's nice to see that every day.

I think about what I need to do today. I want to do one application and knock off as much correspondence as I can - I am waaay behind with correspondence (which is informal letters sent to council seeking advice before putting in an application). As there is no statutory time limit for it we just can't make it a priority. Applications have a time limit and meeting these deadlines has a direct impact on funding received from the central government.

I hop off and immediately realise I haven't bought my new weekly ticket , so I can't get out of the station. So I head up to the office and buy one. £62. That's not a penalty fare either - its the same every week.

I take the leaky overpass towards the town centre - honestly, I don't know why they bothered covering it. I should have my brolly open. It's at this stage I decide I'll do a "day in the life" entry on my blog, and today will be that day. On the way to work I pop in to Tesco and grab some breakfast. Today I go for a pear (sometimes its bananas). Next door I grab a coffee at Costa. The two girls in there know me well enough to give me a discount (only £1.80 for a medium - bonus). Although I don't even engage in small talk with them. They must want me. One of them is Lithuanian (she has a flag on her name badge). I meant to mention it to her when I went there in Feb/March, but the moment's lost now.

And then I trudge off to work (in a lovely town hall built between the wars - although it has inflexible working spaces), getting to my desk by 7:55. My desk is a mess. Awash with paper and notes, just as you'd expect in a council which has a paperless office policy. I log on to my computer and open up my systems, and also have a peek at news websites: BBC, The Age, SMH, The Australian, The West, Fox Sports, Cricinfo. I look for articles and usually collate them into a word document and read them if/when I get a chance/need a break during the day. I've always been a news junkie.

Wednesdays are good because the Backpacker blog on the Fairfax websites is updated. It sometimes gives me some good ideas but mostly it's a bit outdated, as if the author travelled to Europe in the early 90s. It seems to me to be for vicarious travellers rather than a genuine tool or source of advice - it seems to present stereotypes and idealised accounts rather than what happens on the ground. But the comments from punters usually mention that, and their comments are actually where the blog gets its value.

Anyways, once I've scanned the websites I start looking at my work. Its not a matter of what's due today - most of what I do is well past expiry - but what is the most urgent. There are always hold-ups: missed consultations, objections, technical reasons why it has to go to committee rather than be done under delegation which delays it by about three weeks.

Come 9am those of us who are drink tea get another hit of caffeine. I never make the tea but always wash the cups, so I do my bit. I also open a blank email. As I think of stuff I need to do at home that night, I add it to that email and send it at the end of the day. Sometimes it includes draft emails to send out of my gmail account that night. I'm writing the blog into this email also. I never use my work email for personal stuff otherwise - no one has my email address at work (and I can check my gmail on my phone anyway).

My manager sees me about an application I did yesterday. There are a couple of corrections needed and the applicant needs to send something else in before it can be determined. The Environment Agency (which is like the EPA back home) require site investigations to be done here prior to determination, and recommend refusal if it's not done. Applicants often don't know one is required until we get EA's feedback. I don't see why it can't be a condition of approval. Infact I think legally if something was refused on these grounds it would be absolutely demolished on appeal. But we've tried to approach them about it and they are steadfast - no, actually they're stubborn. The bloody bureaucracy in this country. I swear, if I wasn't part of it, it would drive me nutty.

For the planners out there, the conditions we impose, incidentally, are virtually identical to those used for Acid Sulphate Soils back in WA: the "triple barrel" conditions seeking desktop study, then if something is likely a soil assessment, and then if something is found complete remediation.

Contacting the applicant and agent (i.e. the planner or architect that acts on their behalf) is not a major issue, except yesterday I said there was no problems with the application and they'd get a decision within a week. Frick. I call him and he's OK with it - he always will be if I couch it as "determine it now and refuse or determine it later and approve." But I hate doing that when its not the applicant's fault for the delay, especially when its overdue already.

I move on, make the other changes needed so this will sail through ASAP once the assessment is dealt with by EA. And I finally get down to the work I set out to do today. It's 11:15.

I potter through a report for a site I vaguely remember visiting (I took photos though), but otherwise have not really looked at or formed an opinion about. This is not unusual - if an applicant calls I might have a look at it before it's time to determine it, and advise them of changes, but otherwise there just isn't time. I remember the site - I thought this was a refusal, and got into an awkward conversation with some of the neighbours about the application. They want it approved as the land isn't being used at the moment. I remember they were fixing a car or something - about three of them, may have been shift workers but could also have been unemployed. Either way, they were big blokes and I was a touch intimidated by them. I remember being glad the conversation was over.

Turns out this one will probably be refused, but for different reasons than I imagined. There is a history to this site, but what they propose hasn't been tried before (and, having a history, the owner should know how far they can push the envelope). This council treats flat conversions very cautiously - very worried about the impact on the character of the area because the house will be used differently. That's fair enough, but it's a tougher line than I've seen elsewhere in the UK. Without a nearby precedent to establish acceptability, this application is gonna be difficult to get through, and as it relates to the principle of the proposal, there's no real way to amend design etc to make it acceptable.

But I won't get this finished before lunch.

At lunch I have to run some errands: visit a couple of banks thanks to Barclay's pathological inability to set up internet banking for me. I was gonna get a haircut too but as I'm going to the gym tonight I don't fancy dealing with clippings and stubble while sweating profusely so it can wait until tomorrow. The sun has mercifully shown its face and there is some respite from the rain. I run the errands, avoid the kids on school holidays and the guy bellowing to all and sundry that we must let the Lord into our life, and look around for my favourite food stall. While lunch is normally a straight-laced chicken-and-salad-roll affair, I treat myself to a Caribbean feed every Friday. My normal guy hasn't been around for a few weeks, so I've been going to another bloke. There is a massive Caribbean community in Luton (and also a large Pakistani population) so I'm spoilt for choice. But my bloke does a curried goat which is fantastic. Anyway he's not there. I'll keep looking tomorrow. I head back to work and scoff eat my roll al-desko.

After lunch I find a couple more tidbids about the application I'm looking at. It might be approved after all as there are flats nearby, although not on the same road. I go for approval, draw up some conditions (there are no real guides for this, which is a bit disconcerting) and send it through to my line manager. She will check it and send it on for determination under delegation. Hopefully I can move on to the corro now, and crank a heap of them out, sausage-factory style.

In the last few minutes the bloke I work with has said he's able to go out on site tomorrow arvo - which means I can too. Without a car here it's the only way I get to see sites, and neither of us think it's ideal, but it'll do for now. And as a bonus, that means I effectively get Thursday arvo off. I won't be sitting in front of a computer at least. And it means I can organise meetings for the rest of the week around this also - I have a couple ahead of next week's committee meeting, including one regarding an application that is likely to be spectacularly refused.

I check the weather for next week's trip to Bulgaria and Romania. It'll be 34 in Bucharest when I get there on Saturday. Brilliant. Not really all that relevant to the day's events, but I had to slip it in somewhere.

I manage to get two letters belted out before 5pm. Both of them should have been responded to in May. Like I say, not really a priority!

I leave work at 5pm and get the 5:14 train back to West Hampstead, which gets in about 5:48. It's pouring rain again. On the train I do the Sudoku and Kakuro from the Guardian. I walk straight to my gym at Swiss Cottage. The walk takes about half an hour, but unless I'm really rushed it seems pointless to catch a train two stops in order to do physical exercise. I don't usually go on Wednesdays - usually its Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I want to put a load of washing on tonight and I don't want sweaty clothes in my room for two weeks while I'm away.

My gym routine is well known to those of you I have complained to: two and a half hours total divided into an hour of cardio, an hour of weights and half an hour of core strength work. I go twice a week (in theory - I haven't been twice in a week for about 6 weeks now for various reasons - including a fire - but today is the second time I'll be there this week), and while I complain it does feel good to come away totally knackered and satisfied that you've exerted yourself a bit. It also releases a heap of stress and gives you time to yourself.

My main challenges in my routine are the rowing (4 sets of 500m on full strength, with a one minute break - I do each set in about 1:43), shoulder press (3 sets of 15 at 20kg, it never seems to get easier), and lateral raises (3 sets of 15 with 4kg weights in each hand). The rowing machine is particularly difficult - I'm usually totally fingered at the end of it and need to sit there for a minute or two doubled over to recover a little. Today I had to sit down on a couch for five minites afterwards, pouring sweat. Once I've done all three, about a third of the way through my routine, its all downhill and fairly easy from there. I weigh myself at the end of it, deducting a couple of kilos for the sweat soaked clothes hanging off me (and that's a conservative estimate - I'm a sweaty boy, and today it was worse than normal).

I shower, get dressed, and yet I'm still sweating - its pouring off me onto my backpack as I lean over it. I head over the road to M&S Simply Food and grab a small side salad, and that's dinner: usually a three bean salad or couscous or something like that - low carbs, high protein and only a couple of quid. I walk back home and get back at around 9:45pm, put on a load of washing, catch up with my lovely housemates and check my home email. I also get on Facebook (I'm not addicted - I can quit any time I like) and check the day's Dilbert comic (Dilbert rocks), and chase up things I have to do for the upcoming holiday, e.g. check if there are any guided walking tours of Bucharest. Once the load of waqshing is done and hung up - and when I'm done on the computer in front of the TV - I retire to bed, reading a bit of Le Carre's The Honourable Schoolboy before dozing off to sleep at about midnight.

So that's my day. It probably reads every bit as boring as it actually is.

Birthday Shenanigans

Thursday was my actual birthday. The highlight of the day itself was obviously chatting to the folks back home (awww). But it was also good to head in to work and make jokes about it "turning 29 again" and so forth - jokes which most of you are already more than sick of. That said, I might turn 29 again next year: I haven't decided yet.

I left work slightly early and headed to town to drink with whoever rocked up. We went to The Cock in Oxford Circus (I love the Cock). A few too many cheap beers and the odd bicycle-rickshaw ride, followed inexplicably by a late night feed of Chinese, saw me "safely" in to bed at about 1.30 or so.

So I was pretty sprightly on the Friday. Following a slightly more difficult day at work I headed local to meet up with some more buddies and await the imminent arrival of Eammon from Ireland, a former housemate and not a small drinker. Molly, his lovely girlfriend was making the trip too (on her birthday no less), and they were crashing at mine for the weekend. He said he'd be "touching down at Stansted at 9:30pm so should be at my place by about 10:30." Not much chance of that - it was midnight by the time I met them at the tube, but before that Heather and I had shared a nice meal of pizza with authentic ( i.e. non-English-speaking) waiting staff.

Luckily, it was too late for us to be tempted into a beer, so I got my much needed sleep finally that night.

Saturday they'd planned to do a bit of sightseeing before getting on the lash with me at my birthday. We headed out for brekky locally which included some kick-ass milkshakes, and I sent them on their way, while quietly home to read and rest up for the massive night that was to follow.

And a massive night is exactly what I got. After getting there a little late, I caught up quickly (I don't know with whom - I seemed to be setting the pace actually, whether I liked it or not). It was great of everyone to come, but I hardly got to speak with anyone for any period of time - especially before my eyes glazed over after Roly, Eammon, Liam et al bought me my present...

Uh, thanks guys. It pretty much ended my night. I should blame them all for it though - from what I remember I was pretty reluctant to share. I also remember being offered a drink afterwards from a mate, whatever I wanted. I asked for Absinth for some reason.

Still, I was bundled into a cab and got home at about 2am.

After a slowish start the next morning, we headed to my local Nando's for Molly's first experience there, and Eammon's first since leaving Australia more than three and a half years ago. It was orgiastic for me.

The day itself was billed as the hottest day of the summer, all of 30 degrees (Celsius!). So we headed to a pub recommended by Liam, the Grand Union - on the canal of the same name in Maida Vale. We got there at 2pm (an hour late - sorry Greg), and were kicked out at 11pm. Not much happened in-between except a lot of drinking and talking sh!t. Brilliant.

After nine hours drinking, we weren't content, so we headed to an arts club nearby and drank for another hour, including ladyboys. Brilliant. We got home about 1:30am. I said goodbye to Eammon and Molly then and headed straight for bed, with my alarm going off at 7:30am that morning (a one hour sleep-in).

I felt rough that day at work - and for most of the week - but what a fantastic weekend! A big thanks to all those that made it along, especially those who travelled from afar - I wish I could have spent more time with you! And Sunday was spectacular!

Can't wait to do it all again (including turning 29) next year.

All Fired Up

Tuesday is fire alarm day at work. At 2pm the alarm goes off, just to test it. Today it went off and I was on the phone. Fantastic for the bloke on the other end.

Then I realised i was hungry. I hadnt eaten yet because it wasnt lunchtime - it was only about 11:30. It was an actual alarm. So we evacuated the building and had a lovely half hour chatting and standing in the sun, waiting for the all clear. It's a rare luxury to have the sun in England, but to be able to bask in it during a work day - well, that was special.

I'd been tired all day because I went to the gym last night, and I knew I'd be at the gym tonight too, so some of the fatigue was premeditated. The day seemed to drag on.

I got to the gym at about seven, ready to hit my usual circuit. About an hour into it the alarm goes off. I've got a decent sweat going but we have to evacuate. Another fire.

This time it was the polar opposite. It wasn't cold outside, but as soon as the I cooled down and my sweat cooled with me, I was standing in cold wet clothes waiting to be let in. Not quite as goood as the daytime. It was a genuine fire too - quite a big one in the basement apparently, and we saw heaps of smoke coming from the roof. But after an hour we got our stuff and had to leave - we couldn't go back into the gym.

Pretty freaky though: two real fire alarms in one day.

The moral of the story: if you're gonna start a fire where I work, do it at about 2pm on a Tuesday as we'll all think it's a test. But if you do intend to do that, make sure it's a sunny day.

Thanks.