A slightly weird and twisted account of a return.

Been to the 2002 h2g2 winter meet-up, done the Photo Scavenger Hunt and won an h2g2 T-shirt for my name-
badge. Made it back to the hotel (Hotel Europa) together with Bossel, Shazz, Towelmaster (who nearly got himself killed
in the exercise), Kheldar, Eric, Deakie, Sgt. Mushroom and Uncle Heavy (who wasn't there at all in case someone
asks); Lucinda left halfway deciding that he might actually prefer the Europa he had booked into. Caught some strange
glances from the Tufnell Park station security staff even though being less drunk than after Friday's pre-meet at the
Moon under Water. While we walked straight home from the station Shazz and Towelmaster hopped and hobbled to
the taxi stand only to walk home finding none.

Back on subject; getting back home. I need to catch that flight. Having missed the train from Paris to Germany after
New Year's was enough bother. No need to repeat that with a flight. A quick trip to Camden first. Shopping. Just wait
for the taxi which was to take Shazz and Towelmaster to the hospital; left foot none the better. It takes the taxi only two
minutes to make it to the hotel... or so the taxi people claimed for three quarters of an hour.

Ran around Camden dragging my luggage along. Certain Diskworld characters wouldn't have that problem... I
figured why people go to London for their shopping. Grabbed the flyers I came here to pick up. Bossel and I retreated
to the Oxford Arms to meet Kheldar and Eric for a pint or two before heading off to the shops again. Soccer on TV,
whatever. Chatted away until Bossel had to leave. Went for a quick flip through the stock of one or two record shops.
Resurrection Records proved to be a treasure box. A quick calculation followed by a glimpse of common sense told me
that I'd need a treasure box if I'd like to buy the CDs I wanted and still be able to afford food during the next three
months. I decided not to go berserk in the shop and left quickly before damning myself to a hunger-strike against greedy
entertainment companies and second hand audio dealers. Back to the pub.

Lucinda and Shazz there. Towelmaster now with an ankle sprained and x-rayed. Pint. Must forget that shop.
Cyberdog? Yeah, why not? Back into the Camden markets and stalls. Scents, pictures, people, jewellery, fabric, food,
music turn the walk into a stream-of-consciousness avant-garde movie clip. 3 p.m., back at the pub, gulping down the
beer... Cheers everybody! Gotta be off!

Gatwick train station. Off the train saying goodbye to the Dutch couple sitting at the other side of the table. Picked
their accent correctly. Good one!

Gatwick. Looking around. Trains: no. Flights: yes. Queue at escalators, walking up the stairs instead, de-escalating the
situation. Check-in counters in section F. Security people with MPs. Thanks, I feel safer now. Not. Check in... hang on!
I already did that, didn't I?! Ok, what next? Signs? None. Confusion? Yes, please. Security people looking at me
spinning around my axis. Departure Lounge... ah, better! No, I'm not carrying guns, sorry, mate; just business as usual.
Didn't have to take off my shoes. Should I worry?

Departure Lounge. What do I need? A notebook. Paper-based preferably, to keep writing this. Alice from the airport
shares her secret with me: She always feels thirsty and a little peckish when she's at the airport. Thanks Alice! I resist
the urge to inquire about how one gets to be in the wonderland Airport-Alice obviously lives in.

WH Smith provides a notebook for 75p. Sit down, write the last couple of lines. Scotch fingers, shortbread, need
that plus some cheap scotch. Ever-demanding flatmates. Great Value. Special Offer (Everybody can buy). A glimpse of
consumer terror.

'Due to improvement there are reduced toilet facilities available at this level.' Yeah, right. I make a mental note not to
visit this place when it disimproves. Whiskey is definitely more expensive than the 10 quid I've got left. Cheapest
shortbread goes at 3.50. I need to take a stroll. I buy P. Cornwell's 'The Last Precinct'. Cheaper than at home. Slightly
relaxed I think about the shortbread again.

Back in Camden. Where did I leave off? Camden Town tube station is closed. One can only arrive but not leave
from there. What is that supposed to mean? Hotel California on wheels?! So what Shazz said was true. Wonder how
she knew of the Eagles-attack of London's public transport. Map. Street. Station. Mornington Crescent, that way.
People, lampposts, shops. I manage not to get myself killed by a rouge bus speeding down the wrong side of the road.

Sunglass Hut drowns me in pop-rap. Time to buy that shortbread, now, I decide.

Mission accomplished. Still got all my arms and legs. Music. I need music. Out goes Anne Clark singing R. M. Rilke
poems. In goes Black Sabbath 'Tyr'. Where was I? Mornington Crescent. Northern Line, Embankment, City Line,
Victoria. 15:35. Quick calculations. Gatwick express running every 30 minutes only. Check in at least 90 minutes prior
to take off. 30 Minutes for the train ride. That's getting tight when one allows for the generous security margin which I
prefer and need. Victoria Station. Down the platform, up the stairs, down the hall, up the stairs, down the hall. BA
check-in for Gatwick. Up the escalator. Check-in. Aisle or window? Hard to come to a conclusion, as so little depends
on that for such a short flight. What was the Liff-word for that? Must look it up.¹
Huh? Err. Aisle, please. A brief moment of panic as I contemplate the consequences of losing that bag. My h2g2 T-shirt
is in there. Not good. 'Your latest train to Gatwick is at 17:00, they are leaving every full hour and half past the hour.'
Thanks for that, Luv. You mean to tell me that I could have stayed at the Oxford Arms for another two pints?!

Anyway. I'm glad to have bought a roll of TREBOR mints at Victoria Station. At first I thought they were called
TERROR mints. The side effects of too much news coverage. Food. I think I would appreciate some. Urghs! Thanks
for stepping on my foot, mate! 'This door must be kept closed when not in use.' - What are they trying to tell me? A
door is a moveable part of a wall. As such it is in operation when it's open. The use of a door is to let you through. One
would not say: 'This door is in use' when it's closed. When I say: 'This door hasn't been used to two years' would
you think that it was open for that time?! Imagine a subway train. When the door bears a sign saying: 'Door
inoperative' you'd know that it is closed and not going to open. No-one would consider the idea that it's open and not
going to close. Thus a door in use is an open door. Consequently, the sentence 'This door must be kept closed when
not in use' translates to 'This door must be kept closed when not open' a.k.a. 'This door must be kept closed when
closed'. So much for my pedantry.

18:30 we have lifted off in theory. In praxi we are still on the ground and at the moment going through 'final
preparations' ... can't be that final when the engines are not running. Maybe they are re-checking the correct number
of wings. Air traffic delay. Another 40 minutes on the ground. I try not to think about the number of pints I have missed
out on already, apart from the chance to do a bit more of RL chatting with researchers and new Italics. Gawd I'm happy
to have that CD player and some spare batteries.

Finally: Take off. A mere 45 minutes too late. That's an extra pint. Maybe I should have had something to eat
between breakfast and take off. For the regulars at the 'What music are you listening to at the precise moment'-thread:
Joy Division - 'Transmission'.

Would I like something to drink? No, can't have the pints I've missed out on. I settle for a G'n'T instead, with
thinking of the HHGTTG reference rather than the long forgiven relationship by those initials. In perfect timing Joy
Division supplies 'Love will tear us apart again'. Oh well, Cutting Crew's 'Died in your arms' would have been worse.
The Pretzel Splits are to be used before 02.08.08 07:53. Precision. I always admire precision which is absolutely
useless. The guy next to me admires me staring at the Pretzel pack and then scribbling away furiously. I'm happy that
practically no-one can decipher my handwriting. Let's keep him in the dark. Prior experience confirmed: Serving coffee
on an aircraft causes air turbulence. Or is that the gin? I briefly wonder whether these ramblings will make it into the
Post. If not I'll go and run for the title of longest journal entry ever.

BA-employees avoid being questioned at pen-point about a G'n'T refill by huddling up in the far corner of the aisle.
Touch-down. Only five minutes too late! What happened to the 45 minutes of delay? C'mon, get out of here... customs,
my bag, sigh of relief, tram, exit.

Tube

07.02.02. Front Page

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