To Tokyo via London

There's always something that doesn't go quite according to plan and I was fully expecting it to involve me...and sure enough, I arrived at check-in only to be told that only 1 piece of checked-in luggage up to 23kg was permitted to be checked in. I had 2 pieces, one of 15kg and one of around 10kg (although by the time I got to KL this had magically become 28kg despite the deliberate loss of a pair of boots and my no-longer-required and well-worn-out winter jacket.

At least the kind BA lady suggested that I carry my 10kg rucksack as hand luggage, and through I went. For those interested, we flew over East Anglia before crossing the North Sea to the north of Denmark, flying directly over Stockholm and Helsinki before skirting the top of Russia and sitting over Siberia until we dropped down almost along the length of Japan to Tokyo. The flight was 12 hours but would have been much more if we hadn't used the curvature of the earth to significantly shorten our route. This was shown to me later when it took 7.5 hours to get from Tokyo to Kuala Lumpur which seems a lot closer but with no shortcut help from the earth's circumference.

Tokyo is very mild - clear skies and brilliantly sunny and is not really what I expected. I think I had 'franticness' associated with Tokyo (images of train staff pushing people on to trains in rush-hour) but it is actually a disciplined, exceedingly polite society


We are staying in an area called Shibuya - home of the painfully fashion-conscious and er, plus me, for the time being. Marching around with all my luggage and heavy walking shoes is the antithesis of all these beautiful people in their beautiful clothes and that's even - or rather, especially, the men. These guys carry clutch Louis Vuitton bags and little designer handbags to go with their uber-coiffed hair, big bug-eye glasses and very tight jeans and boots.



People watching takes on a whole new meaning here...

Merry Christmas!

Christmas in the Lakes

Eating, sleeping, watching TV, walking, talking, shopping, swimming, sauna-ing, laughing, playing, reading, stroking cats, drinking, and taking some nice photos.

Goodbye Paris...hello Lakes...

Goodbye Paris...

Hello Lakes...

Things I am looking forward to:

In no particular order:

1. Trying the tropics

2. Being closer to my family

3. Good TV

4. Service

5. A change of work pace

6. Being called 'doc' ;-)

7. Putting into practice what I've learnt

8. Seeing friends from Paris

9. Perspective on Paris

10. Researching something I love

11. Meeting new people

12. Scotland

13. A new laptop (thanks everyone for my fabulous gift!)

Things I will miss about Paris

In no particular order:

1. my friends

2. the late meals, late nights and late mornings

3. the museums of art, museums of fashion, museums of culture, museums of architecture, car museums, modern museums, interactive museums. You name it, Paris has got it, and I went to it.

4. The vistas: anywhere, anytime, look around. It's always amazing.

5. Using the line "I live in Paris"

6. My scooter life

7. The fisheries division of the OECD + its resident fish tank

8. Calling it home

9. My Church family

10. Good food, good wine, good wine, good food

11. Paris

Things I won't miss about Paris

In no particular order:

1. the French 'non'

2. getting pushed/shoved/elbowed/stepped on in the metro

3. the perpetrator refusing to apologise for the above behaviour

4. the bureaucracy

5. the paperwork attached to the bureaucracy

6. services such as phone and insurance companies continuing to take my money even though we both agree I am no longer a client

7. listening to everyone else have a 5 minute chat with the baker while the queue lengthens

8. My scooter life in winter

9. The rigidity of the French 'process'

The final Countdown....

So, I've entered my final weekend in Paris. It's something that was looming on the horizon for a while, as a date and a significant event. I suppose the last of anything is. My attitude approaching this weekend has been that each day is just another day in Paris, which has worked well so far and meant I have neither been trying to live in the past nor been paralysed by a fear of the future. However, the later goodbyes are with increasingly important people and it's becoming hard to ignore the fact that I am going to lose a daily life with people who are very important to me...people whom I had no idea existed 3 years ago, but whom are as part of my daily life as oui, non, wine and baguettes.

So this weekend was all about that, and if it had just been about that, I probably would have been alright, but as it turned out, I lost the key to my appartment. I realised this on Friday morning at work in the 16th when Emily (whose appartment it is) reminded me to not forget to return the duplicate key the following morning with the others. I honestly had no idea where it was. On Friday, I returned to the appartment in the 5th and hunted high and low while cleaning. No sign of it. Weighed down with the left-over baggage from the appartment, I dropped by a Christmas party in the 6th to 'say hello' (in France this involves half a bottle of wine) before arriving at dinner in the 20th over an hour late...but this is France so it made no difference.

On Saturday morning I travelled 12 km by metro from the 17th to the 5th, arriving at 9.30 in the morning in the freezing cold to give Emily the unhapy news that I didn't have her spare key. She was convinced I had put it on the keyring belonging to Blvd Voltaire and was confident it was now in the old flat. I had just enough time to re-cross Paris and grab a hot choc to warm up before our 2 hour choir rehearsal in the 8th. Then it was on to the 19th through the pouring icy rain for a Christmas apero before I retraced my steps back to the 17th, where the metro broke down. By this time I'd had enough and did what any sensible girl in Paris would do on her last weekend: had a manicure.

Me and my sparkling nails then went out for dinner with my homegroup girls and their partners in the 17th...unfortunately that metro made it a ride through the 8th to get there. For a bunch of Christians, a lot of alcohol was put away, but thankfully not enough to hamper my efforts to cross Paris to the 2nd arrondisement to join another Christmas party organised by work colleagues.

Sunday would have been a welcome lie-in, except that the only time I could get to my old flat in the 11th was during lie-in alloted time. I used the gap before lunch to go from there down to the 1st to do some final Christmas shopping before it was on to the 6th for a fabulous lunch. The rehearsal started at 1600 in the 8th but Sophie's kind company provided the taxi on her way to the airport. And there I stayed until after the Carol Concert...which saw me finally heading to my current home in the 17th.

This is (approximately) my weekend routing:

"well, I never!"

When I realised I would be selling my scooter, I contacted M. Babin of AXA Assurances with whom I have my contract to ask him how to go about cancelling my insurance. He informed me that it can only be done through a horribly long and very French procedure that would require multiple signed forms from me and an almost equal number from both the new owner, the police, and the new insurance company. I obliged, if not happily, and in the meantime they took an entire year's insurance anyway. This being no small sum, I have wanted to make sure that I get my 11-month reimbursement as soon as possible.

Having sold the scooter on 8 Nov, and submitted all requirements to M. Babin on 25 November, and having still not heard anything by 3 December, I asked a French friend of call dear M. Babin. My friend was told that everything was in order and the documents had been sent to the insurance company and it was now up to them. A week later, I asked my friend to re-contact M. Babin and ask what was happening, mainly because my account is closing and I want the dosh. He told me friend that a cheque is surely in the post by now. At this I completely flipped because I have already given my change of address to La Poste and all mail will now be sent to Scotland for the next 3 months. A euro cheque is the last thing I want over there...imagine the bureaucracy involved in sorting that out.... So I called M. Babin and began with 'Bonjour M. Babin. C'est Mademoiselle Kelling. Je vous appelle..." when M. Babin interrupted me with a big roar saying 'I know who you are! I know all about you and your dossier! I've been harrassed by your friend for the past week! He calls every 2 days! It's not normal that! I've done everything I can! I've told you everything I know!" and I said er - excuuuuuse me, but can you listen to me a moment, I have a question! He fell silent and I explained the situation (I recount this calmly but I was not calm at the time) and why I wanted a bank transfer to my account and not a cheque which would be sent automatically to Scotland. Well! That is outside any p-r-o-c-e-s-s that exists in France and therefore there is an immediate 'non', to which I asked for Axa's phone number so that I could contact them myself. He said fine and said 01blahblahblahblahblah so fast that I had no idea what he was saying. In exasperation I asked him to repeat it. Same again. This time I said I have the 01 and the last number but nothing in between, at which point he said 0...........1.................4...............5...................2..................4...........etc etc....

So I called Axa and they said they'd never seen any documents and had no demand for an end of contract. They called me back - as promised - 10 minutes later and told me what to do: RE-contact M. Babin and ask him to fax the documents and then they would send HIM the reimbursement and then I could get it directly from him. Of course I wanted to avoid any more contact with him but there really was no alternative so that's the course of action we took.

This morning, I contacted M. Babin, got another earful of which I could make out a couple of words, but did manage to verify he HAD faxed the documents. Will now follow up with Axa that they can send the reimbursement to M. Babin today and I am personally going to go down there, get my money, and give him a piece of my mind!

'pot de départ

I find speech making generally rather fearsome. I tend to be nervous for the whole day beforehand, even when I've throughly rehearsed what I want to say. Nevertheless, being forced to do it for Committee and for conferences such as IIFET has been undoubtedly good for me, and I think the constructive criticism I've sought afterwards has helped to shape my presenting abilities.

So it was that last night, for my 'pot de départ', I gave a thank you speech with a difference. I really wanted it to be funny as well as say a couple of important things - to particularly thank Anthony and Carl for the investment they've put into me professionally and personally as well as their support and friendship, and to thank Emily for organising my fabulous leaving gift (a new computer for my PhD) and all the other little things surrounding a leaving drink (bless her, she went around the whole building getting signatures and contributions to the computer as well as sending cards off to other buildings - she got postcards of Paris and people signed these. Original and brilliant idea).

As well as remembering my thank yous, I threw in a few anecdotes including the 'pringles' joke from below. But the part on which it all hinged was a little thing I wrote as an addendum to the recently published 'Multilingual Dictionary of Fish and Fish Products'. This book provides the names of those fish and fish products that are in commerical use internationally, and supplies a little information on each one. This was my addendum:

Schmidtus Danus: Schmidtus Danus is a species of fish originating in colder European climates, although for the past 25 years this fish has frequently been served in Paris. Generally picky eaters, they tend to favour other seafood, particularly raw... Naturally located near fish tanks, this species leads a small but growing school of fish – although mainly to restaurants…Also known to migrate to calmer waters near Mondonville St Jean every 5 days or so. Often found in the presence of much bigger fish.

Australianis Runneris: This fish could normally be found in the tropical waters off the Australian coast – sometimes racing against like-minded triathlon-fish. However, a particular species has recently been discovered in northern cooler waters, while frequently returning to Australian shores along ancient migratory routes…business class of course. Spawning appears to take place in either location.

South Korean Golfus Fishus: The South Korean Golfus Fishus is a recent adjonee to the OECD fisheries school. Often found in the Gulf of Mexico, Gulf of Alaska, Gulf of Aden, in fact, anywhere where there’s Gulf.

Emily Emeritus: A big fish in a small pond, this species is regularly found near the fish tank. She has observed savage attacks, brutal betrayls, feeding frenzies and the odd liaison or two..and that’s not even before I get started on what happens IN the tank.

Maybe you have to know the people to appreciate the 'in' jokes, but I think most of you know enough to see the resemblances... Anyway, I had a brilliant party and it seems to have been well received. That's why I'm sad to be leaving - because of the people I'm leaving behind. I'll miss them.

And Tessa walketh...

2 weeks ago when i was at home in Scotland, Tessa was clearly feeling quite comfortable on her feet. She could take 10 steps across a room but tended to not stop and preferred to land in someone's arms or find a wall upon arrival...just to touch lightly before she was on her way again.

Maybe it's her new Parisian shoes, but since then she's taken off and just last weekend was found running across Tescos.

So that's her walking! Just in time for her mother to need to be able to sit down more!

At coffee this morning....

Thick French accent, Thick German accent and Ingrid are all having coffee:

Thick French accent: So Ingrid, your party is on saturday?

Ingrid (directed to Thick French accent and Thick German accent): Yes, are you coming?

Thick French accent (directed to Thick German accent): Yes, are you?

Thick German accent (directed to Ingrid): Yes. Should I bring anything?

Thick French accent (directed to Thick German accent): Pringles?

Thick German accent (quizzically): Bring girls??

And where the scooter and piano go, the cat....

Poor Jack left with the movers on Saturday evening and began his long walk to freedom/long drive to Scotland. We went to the vet on Saturday morning for a final check up, claw cutting, and his tic treatment which is mandatory for entering the UK. The vet had to shave his neck and a apply an extremely strong smelling coconut-oil lotion, which stank the house out for the rest of the day. Apparently it's to prevent children from going near the cat for 24 hours. It worked for us certainly.

On Saturday afternoon, 8 hands loaded the van while 2 remained in the house to seal the final boxes and make sure everything was taken (I still missed a few things) while hobbling around. My hip has been a bit sore lately and I blame the packing and lifting. At 6pm, Jack made a final attempt to stay close to me by attaching his claws to my wool top, but as little of them remained, it was easy but sad to push him into the box, and there he forlornly remained for the next 20 hours.

The Eurostar was delayed by 90 minutes and Matt made a quick stop off at Catherine's before going on to Luton, and the next day up to Scotland. Jack was first off and when released in the house immediately hid, despite not having eaten or drunk during the journey. Later that evening he was again moved (this time he resigned himself to the box and walked calmly in) to some friends who will have him for the next 3 weeks before he is reunited with his mummy in the Lake District.

The photo is of him when he was ill over the summer. He seems to be fully recovered - from the op and the journey.

A Farewell to our Director

Soon it will be my farewell, but first it was our Director's. His leaving party was on Friday night and doubled as our Christmas party. His final words to me were: 'Ingrid, there is life after the OECD'. I'll make sure of that, but here below was our parting tribute to him, ably delivered by Emily as both Anthony and Carl are in Chile:

I am representing the Fisheries Policies Division this evening to say a few words about our Director, Stefan Tangermann.

As many of you know, Fisheries had a “near death” experience a few years ago. Some bright spark in the SG’s office decided to do away with us as a core activity. Stefan was instrumental in helping to rally support amongst Ambassadors and Delegations. To this day, we are very grateful that Stefan showed such firm support to the Division and to our mission to save the world’s fish. So much so, that we named one of the fish in our fish tank ”STEFAN”. It is gratifying to see that that ”Stefan the fish” has survived the longest (while many others have gone to meet their maker). The fact that “Stefan the fish” is a bottom-dwelling scum-sucker probably is a lesson for us all in how to survive in the great OECD bureaucratic aquarium....

We are also grateful that you had a strong stance during the in-depth evaluation of the CRP. Never have we witnessed a director exploding like you did on that occasion in front of several gobsmacked ambassadors. Your punch line “you cannot measure distance with a thermometer” is truly a valuable scientific contribution to the OECD that many of us should hold in high regard when working with economic models.

Professionaly and personally we will miss you, Stefan!

And because a picture tells a thousand words, here are Carl and I at the party. Bow-ties were compulsory in honour of Stefan who is never seen without one.

Yesterday's TAD/FISH Christmas Party

And where the scooter goes, the piano follows...

After 20 years as a Kelling instrument of torture (joking) and with many more years beyond that under it's ivory keys, I said goodbye to my beautiful piano last night. It's brought many years of hard slog and the occasional nice sounding piece. It's seen us through music exams, 2 house moves and finally a gentle resting place in Paris where it was periodically played (but not late at night as the walls are paper thin) but not abused by writing the note names on the keys or using nail polish remover to get them off. It's gone to a good home - to a gentleman who restores pianos, so he will probably sell it on for a mint. He said they don't make pianos like that anymore - with such intricate and decorative woodwork. The bedroom is quite empty without it, but also very big. More space for the 20-something boxes I've already got.

The scooter is sold!

This is the last photo I have of me on the scooter.

I absolutely loved my two years of driving my scooter around Paris and have absolutely no regrets. Thankfully, I also had absolutely no accidents. Aside from providing fodder for multiple blog entries, the scooter was a fast and efficient way of getting around Paris (although slightly more expensive than the metro, it halved transport times easily), it allowed me to get to know Paris in a way I wouldn't have otherwise and it was just seriously damn cool.

Bye bye scooter!

November 3

The Bordeaux weekend:

My flatmate Sabrina left Paris in July this year and has set up home in Bordeaux - a much smaller city much closer to nature and only an hour away from her home town.

This weekend I went down to visit her and to see how she's getting along and pay a visit to Bordeaux where I've never been to before. Actually, Saturday wasn't spent in Bordeaux at all but at the nearby Dunes de Pylau on the edge of the Bassin d'Arcachon. The dunes are the tallest in Europe and stretch for 3km and are 100m tall. They continuously shift due to changing weather conditions, but I wasn't actually able to fathom how they came to be there. What I do know is that it's a lovely part of the world with some pretty incredible summer houses nearby!



After that it was on to St-Emilion and the obligatory wine tasting. It's a lovely little village with UNESCO World Heritage Site classification of both the village and surrounding vineyards. It was absolutely freezing but, well, we adopted the tried and tested 'newcastle' method of staying warm ;-)


St Emilion by day to the left. St Emilion by night to the right from the bell tower. We got in just as night was descending and were given this great big iron comedy-key to unlock the door to the bell tower. We then had to use our mobile phones to light our way up the stairs (note: perfect show-off opportunity for Sabrina's new iphone).




And then it was back to Bordeaux for a Sunday stroll.

11/11

I have always felt quite nostalgic about Remembrance Day. I'm not sure why really. It might be because when I was younger and in the Girls' Brigade we had to go down to the Cenotaph every Remembrance Sunday and stand in the freezing cold to the Last Post. Or maybe because I spent a large time growing up near a military school where the sound of the boys playing the pipes would blow on the wind from rehearsals every day after school at 4pm. Either way, I decided to spend my last Nov 11th in Paris at the Franco-British Remembrance Service at Notre Dame. The Chaplain of St Michaels is also Chaplain to the British Legion in France and so organises and takes the service.

I found it very emotive - particularly those well known poems that are often read at such events and hymns, plus seeing the representatives of so many of the countries that fought in the First World War - so many wearing kilts! To have the service in Notre Dame with the pipes and flags and poppies was very moving, particularly to hear the Last Post again followed by a minute's silence. Even the visitors who are allowed to circulate around the outside of the service stood still and remembered.

I came out of Notre Dame into the glorious sunshine and was soon swept along by the crowd and I continued on to complete my To Do list. Coming out of one of the shops where I'd just waited in a queue to buy bubblewrap for moving, I realised that to a lot of people the 11th is just a free day off. The last veteran of WW1 in France died this year and I think there are only 3 remaining in the UK. It made me wonder if the 11th will remain a public holiday in France as time goes by. But as I struggled through the crowds and tried to equate that to the peace, quiet and respectful remembrance of Notre Dame, I thought to myself that we are right to remember. We are right to remember that loss and the cost that allows me to go about my daily life as I do....and the loss and the cost that war still wages on our world.

November 2

The 11th of November is a public holiday in France, so I took the 'pont' on the Monday plus an extra day on the Friday and went off to explore Brittany:

Nantes, the Loire Valley, Chateau Chennonceau, Brest, Saint Malo, Mont St Michel, home.

November 1

November began with the visit of Sonia and Tessa and bump for almost a whole week. Catherine was in Argentina so Tessa got her own room.

We spent Saturday at the Aquarium at a specially-built mall near Disneyland. After Tessa knackered herself out following the fish around and walking through the jungle and the deep blue sea, her mum and favourite auntie tired themselves out in the designer shops. I came away with a long-wanted Samsonite suitcase, which shows the practical nature of my spending spree but also indicates a lack of forward thinking in how to get a buggy, 13 month old and suitcase home on the RER (I carried Tessa in the buggy up and down the stairs. Sonia carried the extras).

On Sunday we went to Cité Université in the south of Paris for a look around the student accommodation there (each building is named after a country and built in the style of that country's architecture) and a walk in Parc Montsouris where the above photo was taken.

Tessa also got to the Eiffel Tower again, some new Parisian baby clothes AND a swim near my work. That was quite an experience as French pools don't seem to be set up for babies. We had to leave the buggy at the door, Sonia had to strip to her underwear and sit on the side of the pool wrapped in a towel to be a spectator, and Tessa had to be held under the hairdryer to warm up after there was no hot water left in the showers.

For the couple of days I was at work and they were at home, I did feel a bit like the 'daddy'...seing Tessa for just a few minutes in the morning and again at night to put her to bed. I think I prefer the 'mummy' role after all ;-)

The midweek entertainment

Monday light was a lovely meal and catch-up with an old (read long-time, not old), Tuesday night was the opera Rigoletto (excellent production) and last night was the BNP Paribas Masters Tennis Championships in Bercy Arena (where I saw Madonna, Queen etc).

As luck would have it, we had tickets for the evening slot (8-11pm) and up first were Roger Federer against Sonderling the Swede - a really excellent, precise, fast and advanced playing match. Up next were Andy Murray and Sam Querry from the US. That was a very different match - they are both 21 and can play powerful shots but rely a lot on pure force rather than technical precision and were fairly evenly matched. Andy Murray played very well and what was most exciting was that there was only one court and we were up close, so very different to a Wimbledon atmosphere.

During the changeovers and breaks the camera would scan round to great cheers from the crowd when it found people dressed up in national costumes (lots of cowbells and some kilts), picking their nose (big eugh), pretty girls (whistles and claps) and whenever hawk eye came out to play (to determine whether the ball was in or out).

The only downside was that I have now sent my scooter to be detaxed which meant removing the green plates and so we had to wait with the plebes for the metro. ;-)

The Ring is Dead! Long Live the Ring!

So, no more belly button ring for me....

Vietnam Mark 2 occurred on Tuesday as I was changing for my pilates class. My (getting ever) tight(er) trousers had undone the little ball of my tummy stud and it had fallen off somewhere, so when I got changed, the whole stud fell out. I put it in my wallet to keep it safe and forgot to put it back in.

At home, I couldn't find the replacement stud I'd bought so I left it again and the next morning, the hole had closed.

So that was 9 years of a little sparkly stone covering my belly button and I feel a bit naked without it. Then again, it was fun while it lasted but I think nowadays people are more shocked than anything else when they see it...there's still an aura of 'wild child' about piercings and tattoos and I think they all think I have a hugely colourful past that resulted in this piercing. But no, I just thought it looked cool and I still think it did. But time to move on.

The Committee Day 3

--

The Committee Day 2

Today was even worse, if that could have been possible, but I did start the day on a positive note, basking in the glory of last night's drinks reception (and duck restaurant in the 15th - but that's another story): our Director will be retiring at the start of December and so the Fisheries Committee hosted a farewell drink for him - and for me. Carl said some very kind things about me and my work (with only a few untruths generally reserved for both leaving drinks and funerals) and I was heavily toasted (alas, no champagne), leaving me with a warm and cuddly feeling.

In the Committee today though it was more of the same, which makes for a boring blog. But I did note (Committee-speak I'm afraid) that there are 4 new delegates in this session (UK, Japan, France and Australia), which is partly the cause of tension (issues are being raised that have been previously quietly left to fall by those who have followed the work programme for the past 3 years). Despite the lack of experience at the OECD Fisheries Committee level of all of the 4 new delegates, only the UK delegate has not yet participated publicly. Only the UK delegate is a woman. And only the UK delegate is young. I should think age i.e. (in)experience is playing the largest role and I shall assume her gender makes little difference...but sometimes I wonder. Presumably these DEFRA-types are highly intelligent people who have been taught to analyse and know their brief. And it doesn't take much to contribute and say 'I think Paper A is heading in the right direction and Paper B is not and this is why', but she has told me quite clearly that she won't contribute in the first meeting until she sees how the Committee functions. Although this may seem wise at first glance, the problem is that it's her job to contribute and as I said, I don't think it's outside her capabilities. To be fair, if it were MY first meeting, I think I would be very, very scared too, especially with all these high flyers around and especially when people flinging mud might well aim it in your direction too if you stick your head above the parapet, but again, it seems to me to be within her competencies and requirements to contribute at least SOMETHING. I suppose she's about my age or maybe a bit older but I also think that now - after the confidence I've gained over the past 3 years - if I were her, I think I would at least give it a go. Sometimes it seems it's a bit like what I've discovered about learning languages - you've really just got to do it. And you tend to not be as bad as you think you are. Still, I'm sure I''ll be singing from a different hymnsheet once I find myself way out of my depth in a couple of months' time!!

The Committee Day 1

Committee meetings can be difficult affairs, particularly when you are at the receiving end of some highly undiplomatic language, combined with a lack of sleep, stress and overindulgence in vices of the eating and drinking kind.

However, we are just coming to the end of a 3-year programme of work and this meeting is set to finalise the documents to allow for publication. That means it's all about the drafting, and that means we are trying to remember comments from 6 meetings ago, arguing over the correct placing of commas, trying to define 'marine', 'ocean' and 'aquatic' and how that changes the meaning to various countries and their entrenched positions, and a misplaced 's'. Today saw us get through some early formalities and start on the substantive work, which quickly ground to a halt. Backwards and forward it went with us the secretariat generally just trying to stay out of harm's way. Anthony is taking the full frontal this time and is doing an admirable job, but it's tough for everyone involved. I have even resorted to coffee. That's how bad it is.

Nevertheless, I chalked up 1 achievement and that was getting the Polish delegate to actually speak. When passing his chair he piped up with 'nice haircut'. This caused such confusion as he has never spoken to any of the Secretariat before I think, that I stopped mid-step, finally identified where the voice had come from, got over my surprise, and had a pleasant (but short) chat with him. This was followed later by a comment from the US (none of these were made on the floor. We'll call them bilaterals) on my 'Julie andrews/twiggy' cut, great encouragement from the lovely New Zealand delegation on my 'cute as a button' hair, closely followed by Norway who apparently 'couldn't keep their eyes off me' (we love the Norwegians). Looks like consensus CAN be achieved ;-)

The Bureau meeting

Every Sunday before Committee starts on the Monday, we have our Bureau meeting. This is when we go over our agenda for the coming session and (theoretically) iron out any potential problems, swiftly followed by champagne...to give our livers a head start mostly.

This was quite a long and difficult Bureau meeting, mainly because it's going to be a long and difficult Committee. However, there was a moment of lightness when the Chair pointed out that the difficult to pronounce 'Rognvaldur Arnasson' - quoted in the paper and therefore registered in the Bibliography - had been changed by our spellchecker to 'Roger'. This had caused 'Roger' to approach the Chair at our IIFET meeting this summer in Vietnam saying 'just call me Roger'. This caused Canada to add that anytime they tried to write NAFO ( the acronym for the North Atlantic Fisheries Organisation) their spellchecker changed it to NATO, which then caused the New Zealand delegate to quip that their spellchecker suggests that instead of wanting to write 'New Zealand', the real intention is 'Nazi'.

The Thinker

The Hair

The Haircut

It happens quite regularly to me that days before a planned haircut, I suddenly really like what my hair is doing and um and ah about whether to go ahead with the cut. As Committee is coming up and after that my final week in Paris and all things new thereafter, I thought I may as well go ahead and have a good chop to see me through.

So I booked an appointment at a place I had been to a year before (although normally I just get a haircut when back in Scotland at a place I've been to since i was 15..same hairdresser still there), but it was only when I was sat in the chair with wet hair and his poised scissors, that I rememberd why I hadn't really liked him the first time: he's quite rough and kind of hacks away at the hair, and practically slaps your head to the side to move it in to position. He had noticed before we started that I had 'helmet head' - a red mark along my forehead from the pressue at the front of my skull of the helmet. I get it frequently and it tends to show up as my skin is pale and thin and sensitive. So after a couple of minutes of this hacking and what felt like he was stabbing my head with his scissors, he said 'oh yes, your skin really is very senstive'. Later I discovered the scabs of all those scissor points. So the actual cut wasn't a joyful experience, but then we hit the fringe. He made it start from the crown of my head and come forward as one big wave which he then drew to the side. Bearing in mind that I had shorter back and sides, this looked a bit odd. He hacked away a bit more at it but basically left it as a huge chunk of hair tucked behind the ear while the other side he brought forward and feathered, so then I looked really odd. He wanted me to leave like that but I was having none of it and asked him to give me 'the option to have it forward or backward on both sides', so then he feathered the chunk a bit more and then literally went 3 times around my head with his scissors in a clockwork motion just snipping and went ta da, whipped off my salon-gown, which was still knotted at the front and promptly choked me. He at least managed to be embarassed by this but then showed me the back of the hair with his mirror, and it did actually look ok. He then decided to spray it in that position with his special 'spray-wax', which landed in little white globules on my now un-protected brand new fashionably purple H&M top. As I tried to wipe it off, the sticky gunk just smeared everywhere and i gave up in exasperation, paid and left.

When I got home I decided that I had better work out how to style myself and anyway, I couldn't sleep with all that rubbish on it, so I washed it. And then I dried it. And then I realised that I had a very, very bad haircut. There was no way I could style it the way he had done and without that, I now looked very much like a boy AND it looked like an earlier attempt I had made at cutting my brother's hair: cutting round a bowl. It was awful. So I got the kitchen scissors and had a go and reducing the feathering on my right hand side so it didn't come right across my cheek, and thinning out that big chunk of hair on my left side. Well, no need to guess what happened next. The whole thing was getting worse and worse and I was looking more and more masculine and feeling less and less happy but there was little I could do at that stage.

So next morning, I came into work, pretended I hadn't had a haircut and tried to lay low until lunchtime, when I dashed up the road to a salon that had been recommended to me but wasn't known by a lot of OECD people, so would be less likely to run into them.

I explained the situation and my new hairdresser took one look at it and said 'what was he trying to do?' and I wailed 'I don't knooooow', but help me he did. He chop chop chopped all that big section at the side and tapered it into the rest of the hair, and then he shortened the back so it was more a slope and less a bowl, and then fixed my the other side ('wow', he said, 'looks like someone had a go at this with the kitchen scissors', 'ahem' I said). My new coiffeur said that he thought the other guy was trying to be a bit 'style' (imagine French accent for that one) and had basically created a cut that you would want to photograph within the hour before it melted, but was totally impractical for rain/wind/normal people etc. He also said the other guy had obviously just had 'a bit of playtime' with my hair and had 'tried too hard'. What it meant though was that it was now even shorter as the new guy tried to cut the old guy out. Honestly, if I hadn't liked my new cut there would have been no option for a 3rd as I simply have no hair left.

It's a bit of a shock and very, very short (think Sharon Stone at her shortest) and it isn't what I'd had in my head when I first started this whole haircut palava. I had expected a look a bit more feminine and sweet and with decidedly more hair up there and I don't think this style is really 'me' in the sense that I look in the mirror and hardly recognise myself...I now have this medium-thick forward coming fringe thingy and short at the back. The image below is about the closest I can get until I get a photo, except I'm all blonde and no boobs. I think in 2-3 months it will look great.

Jo gave it a thumbs up though and that helped enormously to calm the shock...plus the wine of course.

The Weekend

Well, it all started Friday night with the theatre: "Scènes de la vie conjugale" (scenes from the married life, or so)...a Bergman play. I can't fault the actors for did a sterling job through 2 hours of almost non-stop dialogue, but I didn't much like the play. It was all a bit..well...realistic. The marriage break-down is loud and aggressive and a bit violent at times, and afterwards, well, it's a rather weak woman who gives the man everything he wants and doesn't let him see what leaving her really means...no more 'her'. As I said, it was quite realistic as I think it probably reflects a lot of woman looking for love...they'd rather have even a fragile feeling of love/security than be alone. Anyway, felt better after the cream-covered hot chocolate afterwards.

It was freezing in Paris this past weekend - a really strong ice cold wind. Which affected us mostly on Saturday when we spent our afternoon at the (horse) races. Not just any old race, but Longchamp. Actually, the place was stuffed full of Brits and the Irish, with all the laydees dolled up to the nines, yanking their mega-heels out of the mud with every stuff whilst trying to not spill champagne or get caught in the feathers from their fascinators. It was absolutely great fun though. We didn't bet, but the atmosphere was thrill enough. A race occurs about every half hour as it takes that long to set the whole thing up...and the bit you see on TV is really on the tip of the iceberg. First you watch the horses being led around the paddy with their suited and booted trainers (suits look like the most impractical and uncomfortable attire to be wearing beside a great big sweating, yanking, uncontrollable beast like these race horses). Then you see the jockeys come down and give their interviews before they run alongside their horses and at the last minute they jump and the trainer catches one boot and pushes and up and over they go. They then have to march down the corridor leading to the track and these horses are snorting and neighing and itching to go...the poor trainers were being dragged along and kept them on such a tight leash the horses were practically walking sideways dressage style as their back feet sped up and came round whilst their noses were still attached to the shoulder of the trainer. But they see that big green space and nothing can stop them. The trainer snaps off the lead and those horses are off like a shot. I've never seen anything like it. That's all they know how to do: run. And then the few thousand people who were watching the horses parade now themselves stampede to the enclosure (seats upstairs) or stand at hoof height at the floor. We tried both positions and it brought a complete sense to what was going on - up high you can see the whole course but low down you can feel it. As they strain for the finish line you can practically see them accelerate and they are fully stretched out - ears back in the wind and everything totally, totally stretched. And they thunder. Crikey, they pound down and then zip past. Totally exhilierating. Almost as much as getting my cut-price champagne. We decided to round off the day with a drink so I asked for a champagne and the guy said it was 13 euros for a glass. I shrieked and exclaimed that it's only 8 or 9 euros in the CITY! He said alright then and gave it to me for 10. Bingo.

Saturday night then involved an acupuncture session, kindly provided by a friend of a friend (one of those long stories). It's much more holistic than I imagined with lots of questions about all sorts of things and some general health advice arising from all this information, before I finally got the pins stuck in me. And not in my hip where I was expecting, but my hand, wrist, ankle and knee. They hurt, and although initially in the location of the needle, it quickly dissipated and arrived instead in my back, neck and head. Very odd sensations but not wholly comfortable ie I felt a bit naseaus but apparently that's normal the first time. Can't say I feel any better afterwards, but it was interesting to give it a go and to find out what all these different meridian lines mean and to feel the effects. I have a lot more pain around my pelvic than just my injury but he said that's normal...everything is working hard to help my hip and with past stresses, not in the distant past, my body is still recovering from all that so it's basically just a long slow process apparently. I might see him one more time but it was a bit too sore to do regularly. (Although no pain no gain right?).

This takes us to Saturday night and Paris' famous Nuit Blanche. It literally means 'white night' but what it actually indicates is a night with no sleep, and what that means in practise is that lots of things stay open late (like Centre Pompidou) and other things (like Churches) have fun art installations (the chairs attached to the ceiling) and wierd stuff (like a girl climbing up a rope). Tons of people everywhere and it was good fun.

Sunday was relaxation time, with 3 hours in a luxurious hammam in the 16th. I was practically blown off my scooter getting there and frozen to the bike but there could be no better conditions under which to...go to a hammam. I had a lovely time with 2 other lovely girlfriends, although I saw a bit more of them than I had been expecting (this is France so shouldn't have been surprised). We pruned in the steam room for yonks before getting a rub down with sugar, unbelievably, which even more unbelievably, left me feeling as soft as driven snow, a rose petal, the wind in summer etc etc. Actually, in cheaper places I've left the exfolitation red-raw and itchy, but this was posh and it was good. About 5 cups of hot sweet mint tea and a loo stop later, I got my Thai massage. The little paper thong (of course, it's France) they gave us was pretty much worthless in light of the pushing, pulling, stretching and pummelling he gave me, but I felt a lot better afterwards, and so did my back after it popped a couple of times when he put his whole weight on it. At least his thai massage was westernised and didn't result in tears because he used oil.

And from there it was on to afternoon tea (yes, more of) and a sit down and a chat and a cat curled up on my lap for the remainder of the afternoon.

I love Paris for weekends like that.

Serious punter:

Serious drinker:

Serious money:

The Parisian Driver

Last night I got a fright on the scootler when a very fast BMW overtook me...came out of nowhere on a clear road and I had been in the centre of the road because the last time I'd looked in my rear view mirrors (perhaps 3 seconds previously), there had been nothing there. He beeped me as he went by - a warning that he was there - but I jumped about a mile.

I try to follow these kinds of people at a safe distance because normally their driving is dangerous and foolhardy, but also phenomenally skilled as I've never seen them get into an accident. It's actually quite interesting to watch as they weave their way through the traffic. The thing with traffic lights though is that it makes everyone equal: we all have to stop. Saying that, because it's Paris, some are more equal than others and many make it through on a decidedly bright-red traffic light.

The Train

This is really Christina's entry, but it's just too funny to not write up, and as she doesn't have a blog and I do...



Since the fire there's been various Eurostar problems and trains run in batches every 2 hours or so (2 to Paris, 1 to Brussels). Tickets for planned trains are no longer valid and it's a first come-first served basis. So Christina and Megan faithfully dashed across town last Saturday to get the next available train...which just so happened to be earlier than the one they were booked on. When Becky and I got to Gare du Nord, they were 2 of only about 50 people who had taken the train that night, obviously meaning that lots of people had heeded the warning to only take 'essential' journeys (now we see the priority attached to visiting Big Sis in Paris ;-)).



Actually, Christina was en route to Rome and the next day both she and Megan took the overnight sleeper. Unfortunately, they were booked in 2 different carriages but a kind French woman swopped with them to give them some more bonding time.



The real excitement started when Christina tried to get BACK from Rome. Although I'd printed her tickets for her here in Paris, there was no option to book the return journey, so I hoped she would be able to print them in Rome. Turns out she couldn't. They didn't seem to accept the reference number provided by Rail Europe. Not only that, but there were no ticket counters in Rome Termini. As she knew she had a problem, the first conductor whose path she crossed advised her to get on the train anyway. The second came along when she was on the train and asked for her ticket. She said she had one, but it was still in the ticket machine as it wouldn't recognise her number. He said she can't travel without a ticket. She says she has one - it's paid for and there's a reference number - but the machines in Termini won't accept it. He says she can't travel without a ticket. She says she has one etc etc. He puts her luggage on the platform. She still won't get off the train, saying she needs to get to Paris. He threatens to call the police. She says fine, because she knew that if she got off that train, she would just be left there watching her train disappear and being no further forward with the ticket situation.



So 4 policemen turn up and she is eventually escorted off the train and through the train station to the miraculously appearing ticket centre. With her escort, she gets taken directly to the front of the queue. The guy tells her the reference number isn't valid for Italian tickets and she has to call Rail Europe in London. She buys a phone card. Goes to the internet café. Find the number. Calls them. Is left 10 minutes on the phone until they connect her. She gets about 20 seconds through her sob story and she runs out of money on the card. She goes back to the man in the ticket office but this time she has to wait 1 hour in the queue to buy a new ticket (she'll have to sort it out directly with Rail Europe in London).



Finally she gets on a train at 11pm and gets to Paris at 1515 the next day - too late for a photo expo I had tickets for but still early enough for a nice weekend together.



I was recounting this story to the rest of the fisheries division over coffee on Monday morning, before going on to tell them that also this weekend I picked up a fine on my scooter...for not displaying the assurance certification on the windshield (much like a tax disc on a car). This is totally outrageous as the certificate is there as required, but rain and humidity have made it close to illegible. I tried my best by selotaping it all round the edges of the plastic, but apparently that's not good enough. The irony is that the changeover date for my scooter insurance is 1 October, so I got the fine 2 days before it's due to change anyway (which is why I hadn't asked for a new one). I am appealing the fine on the basis that the bike was perfectly legal, and I have enclosed copies of my insurance documents to prove it. We'll see what happens, but bearing in mind that Zara accepted a top back that I ripped when ceilidh dancing, I'm hopeful.



All Anthony could say was 'those Kellings, what a feisty bunch'.



:-)

The Queen

Last night I went to see Queen...and no not a tribute band, but The Queen so to speak, performing at Paris Bercy.


There's nothing quite like 50 000 people doing the hand clap to Radio Ga ga (radio ga ga clap clap radio goo goo clap clap radiooooo gaaaa gaaaaaa etc).


Those guys may be old, but boy can they rock. I have never, in all my concerts, heard or seen a guitarist like Brian May. OK the Edge of U2 fame was good, but he did not have the 'Red Special', Brian May's homemade guitar, which means he plays like no other man on the planet. And then Roger Taylor on drums was absolutely amazing. So good in fact that he has released solo drums/percussion + voice albums.

The only real disappointment was Paul Rodgers..the Freddie Mercury stand in. The guy did an Irish ballad about half way through and I thought there, that's the genre the man should stick to. But no, he's prancing around the stage, flinging his microphone stand around, but it doesn't come naturally. He absolutely massacred The Show Must Go On...you'll never sing it like Freddie Mercury anyway, so there's no need to make it 'your own' anymore than just singing it, so stick to the tune my friend. But there were some classic moments to classic pieces - like I Want To Break Free, We Will Rock You, We Are The Champions, Bohemian Rhapsody etc. Whenever they did golden oldie stuff, it basically turned into a Freddie Mercury tribute, which is nice, the man has been gone for 17 years and performed for the last time live 22 years ago (at the original Live Aid incidentally). They did a good montage of him on the screen and his recorded singing while the rest of Queen played live alongside, but you can't help feeling that they haven't quite let go. Then again, whenever they played your new stuff, you wanted the old stuff back again. I mean, that's why you go to a Queen concert in the first place.

They kept walking off after 3 songs or so to get a break while one of them carried on doing a solo, so you could tell they couldn't hack the pace any more. Saying that, when they were on stage, they were giving it all they've got, and those guys are musicians. Real musicians. They can really play - and all sorts of instruments, sometimes at the same time. When Roger Taylor did his solo bit he started from a drumkit that kept expanding as the roadies brought more and more kit on stage, but eventually moved off to play the strings of Danny Moses' electric double bass - itself a phenomenal instrument. It's got the finger board and strings and enough wood to make a hold to create the vibrations, and a long spike of course, but that was it. And Roger Taylor drummed the strings like a drum while Danny Moses worked the finger board. A fabulous moment was when they went dum-dee-dum-dee-dee-dum-dum (opening riff of Under Pressure). The tune carries through even with a continuous base beat from the other baton (called 'baguettes' in French: quite funny).

Other than that, the only real down side was that the old foggies behind us didn't like us standing up becuase then they couldn't see. Hey, it's a ROCK concert. But in the end, everyone stood for the encore so we were all happy in the end. Ears ringing on the way out? Check. Fabuluos time had? Check. Bright pink Queen t-shirt purchased? Er no, becuase 1 hour before the concert had even started (no support band so that they could all be in bed by 11pm) they only had size large left.

The Police

I am now the proud owner of a fabulous racing bike, kindly provided by Steve Hall (Nandi's husband). This new acquisition has not been tested yet because a) I need to pump up the tires and b) I need new shoes. I achieved the second of these requirements earlier today when I popped past a sports shop on my way home. The bike shoes have cleats (the shoes that slot into the pedals) and will have to be road-tested very, very early one Sunday morning when no-one is watching. As the sports shop was not on the usual route home, I ended up coming along a busy road that I don't normally have the pleasure of negotiating in rush hour. Very soon, the traffic all ground to a halt and, like every Parisian scooter driver, I ducked out of my line, into the adjoining bus lane, and hot footed it to the red light...where out jumped a cop who apprehended all those in the bus lane, and told us to pull in and join the 20 other criminals already waiting there.

A very nice female officer approached me and asked for my papers. I produced the little documents that I have faithfully carried for 2 years, only for her to tell me that the insurance document I had was for last year. So I'm supposing I never changed them over and probably because I totally forgot that I would have to. That's a virgin motorist for you. So that first got me a telling off and the magic words '135 euros' were mentioned for not having my paperwork in order. I am hoping that the next thing she will look at is my id card and it's little 'carte d'identite special' written on it, which will direct her nicely to my green plates. Unfortunately, this all leaves her decidedly unimpressed and she takes my documents into the car. 10 minutes later, she re-emerges and asks if I know why I was stopped. I am not only deliberatly trying to plead ignorance but undeliberately I am scared and my mind is racing and my French is all over the place and I'm only half listening, so she has to repeat herself and then tell me about 3 times that it's because I was in the bus lane. She then says it's a 90 euro fine and FOUR POINTS on the license, and at this point I crack...because every single day I go down rue de rivoli, faithfully observing the rules of passing between the moving cars while other (very young, male) drivers and careening through the bus lanes. And this evening I was only following others. And it's not fair cos as we were standing there at least 5 more scooters went through in the bus lane unstopped. And sometimes when it's really busy we are positively ENCOURAGED to go in the bus lane to help dispel traffic. And the police in Paris aren't consistent when they should be. At which point she said 'be careful' and her tone of voice was enough for me to shut my mouth.

She told me the actions I had to take, including to take my new piece of paper highlighting my misdeeds to a police station with the proper insurance document. And then I said, so what now? How do I pay? And she said 'you don't need to pay, just go with the correct insurance document'. And at that point I got one of the words I had missed earlier - that she was cautioning me but not fining me, even though she had every right to. I instantly felt mortified for being one of those obnoxious drivers who has rightly been found guilty but is annoyed at having been caught. This poor woman had put up with verbal abuse while she remained calm, professional and kind. I felt so terrible that once I'd scootled off, I almost doubled back to apologise for making her life harder when she was only doing her job - and being kind to me into the bargain. But I didn't, because it was a 1-way street and I was ashamed, but I shall immortalise her here instead. Thank you Madame Flic!

The Pope

So, the Pope is in Paris. Le Soir carried quite a funny picture of Sarko with his eyes heavenward and arm outstretched with the Pope beside him and a funny comment on which one is our saviour/leader etc etc

Anyway, Friday evening I decided to see what could be seen as I knew he was giving a speech and then having a go in his popemobile. I took the scooter down to Chatelet, which was about as close I could get, parked it and walked towards Notre Dame with the streaming masses. Near the flower market, we hit a barrier with a large number of police men only letting people with passes through - nuns, scouts and the like. We didn't have one but right then they opened the gates and let the 20 or so of us through. As we walked past the metro stop on Ile de la Cite, we saw about 300 people waiting behind barriers with their passes. Most of the crowd went dead ahead to where there was another large crowd, but to my left was Notre Dame and the road that skirts the square was barricaded off. I suggested we go and stand there as I figured there would be a reason for the road to be left free. So we find ourselves against these barriers and decide to hang out. They've got big screens at Notre Dame broadcasting the Pope's speech from somewhere up the road - in excellent French. He exists the venue and climbs into the Pope mobile and we watch on the screens as he passes through Paris. In the meantime, I turn around and the area behind us has filled up in minutes - it's now at least 15 people deep and stewards are handing out water and yellow flags. Suddenly, a swarm of police appear out of nowhere and line the street, and seconds later, who should appear but the pontiff himself, up high in his pope mobile with 6 of the scariest looking bodyguards surrounding the vehicle (ice-cold eyes scanning the ground seriously scarily intently). We were 3 metres from the Pope and I definitely, definitely had eye contact as he trundled past. It was soon over although we kept watching on the screens as he rounded the corner to Notre Dame, when a magnificent amplified choir from inside the Church started up. It was stunningly beautiful in the soft setting sun to hear this beautiful chorale come out from the Church. As we walked away, the music vibrated off the buildings surrounding the square and left me all goosepimply. I wonder if it was a bit like that in ancient times - religious music emanating from the centre of paris and calling people to worship.

Mr and Mrs Kelling

Father of the Bride, Mother of the Groom, Best Man, Martin, Kat, Fiona the Bridesmaid, Mother of the Bride, Father of the Groom....

The Kelling 5

The sticky and sweet tour

With only half a day left in Bangkok, Bern and I decided to head out of town to the (in)famous Chatuchak market. It is absolutely HUGE and made up of over 15 000 stalls packed tight under a corrugated iron roof...enough to make even the seasoned tropical traveller (which I am not) woozy. We had to stop twice - once for strawberry fanta (ever tried it? Turns the tongue well er pink..but a very odd pink) and once for a banana milkshake, which had no milk but plenty of ice. We mainly just wandered around as there was so much to take in, although Bern did manage to buy 2 pairs of near identical shoes in red.

The wierdest part was the pet section. All these tiny little puppies were on display. About 99% were labradors (all honey) and they were all part of a little factory line, which started with them being washed, then allowed to drip dry before being blow dried and back-combed so that they ended up as fluffy little puppies tripping all over the place. Not sure if they were headed for someone's dinner plate but at 100 dollars a pup, you'd hope not.

We left the dogs and joined the cats but most seemed to be small and scrawny and a few were quite clearly ill. Maybe they really are for meals and that's why they are not washed and dried for display, but along one counter we saw a very small, young tabby balancing amongst the hamster cages. As we watched in morbid fascination, the kitty was trying to determine whether he could take on the guinea pigs. After deciding they were bigger than him, he hopped along to the next cage where there were some little russian hamsters. These things look and run like mice and within a split second, kitty had isolated one, jumped down and gobbled him up so that only his body was hanging out the cat's mouth. The shrieks this incurred from us meant that the stall owner came running out, the cat dropped the hamster (very clearly left this mortal coil) and the cat got whacked, but not too hard otherwise he would have followed the hamster out the door as he was that small.

With all these experiences behind us, we left Bangkok, but not before trying some street food. Having packed, we plonked ourselves on the side of the street and pointed at things we wanted. Lunch came for a whopping 1 dollar and it was one of the best ever.

Having had our final meal in the baking heat, it was a relief to get to the freezing terminal where we discovered there was no longer an airport tax and we had spare Baht for trashy mags. Wahey!

Bern left first and I was stuck waiting for an extra couple of hours, but a very nice boy asked me for my paper once I'd finished it and we struck up a conversation. Turns out he's worked for the whole summer in China and was just finishing up a little south-east asian jaunt. He was lovely...and so 19 and just getting to grips with 'discovering himself' and all this sort of stuff. He needs to start writing a diary. He's an external verbal processor so I learnt some of the things he's learnt about himself...like to just say no etc. Well, better he learnt that one sooner than later. Apparently I classed as one of the interesting people he's met on his trip but that was only after I'd told him what fish he should be buying. It was interesting becuase he found the people he's met on his travels to be really interesting and they've taught him about life and himself and all that jazz, but when he asked me I said that it had to be the people that I live life with...and I don't mean especially in my flat or just Paris but that in general, it's the people that I am in a continuous relationship with that teach me interesting things about me and life, and rarely the randoms I meet travelling....

All flights went well and I arrived safely, if hot in 34 degree (midnight local time) heat in Doha and safely but cold in 18 degree (7am local time) in Paris, but nursing the worst mosquito bites I've ever had. Not sure when I picked them up but I've got three which have come up as blisters on my elbow. They are huge which means my elbow is so swollen I can hardly bend it and it's left half my arm numb.

Now I have to try and stay awake...and re-pack: that's still only half the adventure done....

PS Sticky: the heat; sweet: coming home

The end, the middle and coming up to the end...

Thanks to everyone who has written over the past 24 hours...time is tight and I'm leaving tomorrow so will reply properly once I am back in Paris, but thanks all for keeping in touch....

Our last morning in Phuket was not without incident. We decided that as we had a 3pm flight we would profit from some final remaining rays of sun before being cooped up for the rest of the day in a plane. The drama all started around 9.30am when Bern and I had finished our breakfasts and installed ourselves on the best available deckchairs by the pool but facing the ocean. Indeed there were pretty little pink hotel towels on the backs of them but seeing as they were on the back of ALL the deckchairs, we simply moved them and sat down.

About 20 minutes later, 2 Slovakian girls came down and said 've huv reserved theeese deckchairs' to which I said 'oh no you haven't'...mainly because the hotel rules (which I had studiously read when trying to locate the room service menu) explicitly mentioned that deck chairs must be shared and cannot under any circumstances be reserved. I told her this and she said 'no, ve got up at 6am to reserve theeese' and I said I'm sure you did but it doesn't work like that. We all huffed and puffed for about 10 minutes with her saying well is there a problem if you move becuase we have reserved 6 for all our friends. I said there was no problem (Bern was keeping suspiciously quiet, especially becuase it was her who had chosen the spot) if she could find us another spot to move to. More huffing and puffing and eventual moving of deckchairs (by them) and further reposing (by us). No sooner had we settled then the clouds came over and the rain started to fall. Still, within this time frame Bern managed to burn herself, but along a different line on her chest to her top from the day before, which means she has a 3-ring line of bright bright red where she was burnt first, then 2 inches lower where she was burnt by the pool and then finally the non-burnt colour. Looks very post-Ibiza British unfortunately.

We arrived safely in Bangkok but by the time we had got our luggage, negotiated a taxi, got to the hotel, checked in and arranged our stuff a bit, it was pitch black and we were hungry. It's not our fault that the nearest food outlet was in a huge shopping mall that was just over the street and let me tell you, you cannot cannot cannot beat Bangkok for shopping. I have never seen ANYTHING like this set up. You can shop till you drop round here and I had a very good shot at it. It's amazing how my 'need' list expanded as I looked at things on offer and i cannot believe the prices. Some things are obviously fake - like 8 dollar pumas that look a bit shifty, but downstairs was a legit puma store selling at 70 US dollars, which is still half price at least. Birkenstocks were 10 dollars and if they were fake, you'd have a hard time proving it.

This morning we wanted to make the most of our one full day in Bangkok, so we got up with the cockerels at 6.30 am and were out on the skytrain by 7.30...clearly not thinking that this would of course be rush-hour. It was absolutely stuffed and we were herded all round the place by the sheer number of people. It did however mean that we got to the Grand Palace here at 0830, which was just ahead of the crowds and tour groups. Unfortunately, I slowed us down from this point onwards and the day went hideously pearshaped. I was aware about temple/holy place rules so had brought a scarf to cover my shoulders as I was wearing what MIGHT be described as a shirt with sleeves that were just too short. So I put on my shawl and the guard stopped me, pointing at my trousers. I was wearing three quarter length trousers and apparently my bit of ankle would cause all sorts of problems in the temple (men falling prostrate at my feet instead of Buddha's??). At least the had the good sense to provide clothes free of charge and I went in to the clothes place get my to-the-ankles bright green sarong. I re-tried, only to be stopped again, this time because the shawl was not suitable. So back I went into the clothes place to pick up a very male looking short-sleeved shirt in peach. I looked absolutely hideous, but apparently this was now decent and I was allowed to enter. What really narked me was that everywhere the eye could see were people with skirts above the knee...going through security the guard even said to a woman who was wearing leggings to the ankle and a short dress on top to hitch up her leggings so that they didn't show, leaving a white expanse of leg on show...so apparently the problem was women wearing trousers and skirts of any length were acceptable, especially if work by Thai women.

Exhausted, hot, sweaty and grumpy, we then left the palace and tried next door looking for a famous temple, only to be directed by numerous 'helpful' tuk-tuk drivers in all directions, generally being told the temple was shut until 1pm but they could take us on a tour of the city in the meantime. At the same time, the clouds were getting thicker and thicker and so was the air. It was really really close and felt quite suffocating. Which spurred us on to our temple which lo and behold was open. We opted for a guide to tell us a bit about it ('money you pay me go to children who without your kindness have no clothes etc etc'...hook, line and sinker we fell for it). In the first photo shoot (aligning us with the reclining buddha) he dropped bern's camera and that resulted in pandemonium for a while. Then he kept trying to make us be little buddha's and copy everything he did like touch stones for luck and bow before the buddha. No thank you so I had to kindly but firmly refuse.

What he did do however was hail a passing tuk-tuk to take us on an hour tour of the city by motorised vehicle - Bern's briliant idea. It WAS brilliant becuase we got to sit and be driven around the city and get a real taste for it in a way we wouldn't have been able to do by foot or train...but we also got one hour's worth of grimy, dusty, dirty, dirty pollution. Oh it was totally disgusting. Everything and it's cat was spewing out grey exhaust fumes into the atmosphere and everywhere you looked it was a grey haze. And by this time it was 2pm and we had breakfast at 7am so for all those who have lived/travelled with me, there was one very grumpy Ingrid around this time, seriously needing some lunch. Actually, the lonely planet warns people that it's very easy to end up dehydrated in Bangkok and I was definitely showing signs of it. Lunch perked me up a bit but by then we were both exhausted. Bern and I did manage to find some cut price CDs (would be rude not to in Bangkok), but ended up at the hotel pretty much soon after that for a snooze...followed by the pool (would also be rude not to in such temperatures).

This evening we made it out to the main square in order to watch the Olympic opening ceremony on 3 big screens according to the 2 filthy rotten lying Australian bandits that we met in the hotel jacuzzi, which had made us rush our swim, shower and supper, only to find a very funky mall but no olympics. Bern was furious as it was her one aim today to see it - she loves it for reasons only she must know. To be fair, we ended up watching it in the hotel room (with banana split room service - perfect!) and I was highly impressed with the whole show.

I left her to write this so better head back. Tomorrow is the Big Pack as well as The Last Shop (eek) when we head to the very famous market here where you can find whatever you want - puppies, clothes, pottery, bags etc. I think I need a new bag to hold all my new purchases....

I don't know if I'll get back on the internet before I fly, but thanks for reading and hope to have more personal contact with you soon!

xxxx

The Beach

Yes, another day following the stars...this time it was to Maya Beach where the film 'The Beach' was filmed in crystal clear waters, golden yellow sand....and a swirling mass of garbage. It was hideous. All manner of rubbish is pushed into this once pristine lagoon by the rougher waves outside and once in the lagoon it's got nowhere to go. The currents mean that it collects in large masses several metres across that move around the lagoon. Trying to get into the water meant wading through plastic bottles, plastic cups and plastic bags and once in the water you have to keep a look out for the big groups of rubbish that also carry logs, wood and stones in their hurricane type-swirl. It's totally disgusting. And this is all Thailand has, at least in this area. Tourists come to see the environment, the colour of the sea and nature, but this sort of development can't last much longer surely. It seems to me that the area has already reached capacity - that much was evident as we came charging into the lagoon...10 other speedboats carring around 30 passengers each were already there and the swimming area has become a bit of a game of chicken. Unfortunately, I think it's just a matter of time before something gives. The government is aware of the situation but both development and tourism are such huge money spinners that restricting either is pretty much a lost cause here. After the Tsuanmi, the government put a hold on all new build to try and form a plan for development as almost everything had been washed away. According to the Lonely Planet, it hasn't worked and the area now looks pretty much how it did 4 years ago. I realise that as a tourist I am also contributing to the current state of affairs, but had I known what that really meant, I might have thought twice about the trip. To LP's credit, they did give us top tips on how to reduce our environmental impact in areas such as these, but obviously a lot more needs to be done at a higher level.

In order to work up an appetite for lunch, we fitted in some snorkeling at another cove. I did go swimming but have decided I am not a fan even of snorkeling. Diving was already a no-no but snorkeling I also don't find very comfortable. In the end, the water is so clear there that you can pretty much see what is going on without a mask anyway. The problem with the ocean, as I think I have mentioned before, is that things live in it. And quite often they want to eat me. Such beautiful sea-green waters gave me a fantastic opportunity to swim through fish shoals and see the little blighters from a long way off torpedo towards me looking for a bite. Actually, I found a 2-inch long crab attached to what there is of my tricep half-way through the outing.

After lunch we had a long trip to a second island we were going to visit, quite famous for its long sand barrier. However, the swell had picked up in the meantime and having passed the headland of our first island we hit the open sea and its 4-5 metre waves. Apparently, it only takes 1 person to vomit to set everyone else off. And not only that but this speedboat had a gap between the sides of the boat and the sun-protection roof thing above. That meant that we rode a horizontal-vertical-forward-backward-side-to-side roller coaster for 1 hour and 15 minutes, with every down motion that slammed a wave throwing water into the cabin behind until some could vomit no more. It was one of the best things I have ever done - I mean you couldn't pay for a ride like that at a funfair. I said this to Bern and she said 'yes, there's a reason why i don't' and turned a horrible shade of green. For half the people in the boat, this was absolutely fantastic fun, but for the other half it was a living nightmare as they moaned and flapped around the place (proper movement couldn't be undertaken in the conditions). Every huge roller was met with screams and you could tell them apart...some were 'wwwooooooooaaaaaahhhhhh' shrieks of delight (count me in this group) and for some it was the 'aaaarggghhhh' variety. Directly opposite me was a 16 year old girl with her parents and she rigidly kept facing the front and clinging on to her poor mother who looked like she was about to faint. Every time this girl saw a big wave coming, she would go entirely rigid like a 2 year old having a spasm - arms and legs would burst out in a star shape and her face would contort in abject fear and misery. After the bumpy moment had passed her limbs would return to a more natural position before the whole thing started again. And at the back of the boat sat a Scot. He had started at the very front of the boat ahead of the driver and I'd met him over lunch. He was wearing a Glasgow Rangers FC t-shirt and had G.R.F.C. tattooed on each of his knuckles. I guess at one time he was pretty hard but now he was about 60 and had a young Thai bride by his side. He told me over lunch how their application for a visa for her had been point-blank refused and he now travelled out to Thailand every 3 months to see her. He's from Cumbernauld, so frankly I think she's better off where she is. Anyway, it wasn't long before he came in from the wet and found a spot at the back of the boat. Unfortunately, as the boat has two sides, with two sets of spaces, water would spray in from both sides and invariably be directed to the back of the boat. Within seconds he looked like he'd just been for a swim and he had to spend the next hour like that. He didn't have the energy even to make faces or wipe his eyes from the salt before the next wave smacked him across the chops and here he was, all tatooed and tough, reduced to being drenched and not looking happy about it. I'm sorry, but I was howling with laughter on almost every swell: this was better than any entertainment I could have hoped for and was certainly worth the money.

All this excitement(ingrid)/trauma(Bern) meant that we went for a Thai massage this evening to recover...opting for the deluxe 1.5 hour version for 10 US dollars. A curtain was placed around our 2 beds and we were told to strip. I thought it best to check that this was actually a legitimate massage parlour but thought better of it. To be fair, she did a stunning job with me although I have never before had my bottom massaged - I did have a medical one once from the Unilever doctor right after I injured my hip in London and could hardly walk but that did not involve oil and certainly no spanking (Thai massage is a bit rougher than most). The placement of the tiny towel to cover my modesty was achieved with varying degrees of imprecision, which got a little draughty. I am now one slick, slathered chickadee, which is perfect because tomorrow Bangkok awaits....

Fun and other stuff in the sun

This morning we went to visit a project that my aunt and uncle have been supporting for some time. The project is run by Sharon and Mark, who first met my uncle (stan) when he was doing volunteer work in Newcastle for a ship that travels the world providing medical aid and missionaries called Africa Mercy...run by Y-WAM I think (Youth With A Mission who do the famous DTC Scheme - the one Simon Robertson did for anyone who knew him).

Anyway, they left Newcastle a few years ago and took their 4 kids to Thailand before settling after a few months outside Patong - sin city itself here in Phuket. The nightlife is legendary and most people go to gawp at the lady-boys who roam the streets.

There's also a large number of girls who have travelled to Phuket from the north of Thailand, looking for work and money to support their families back home. Many have little choice but to work in the bars and clubs around Patong. They get free accommodation but no wage when they work for the bar, and the only way they make money is to sleep with clients (it costs around 50 quid for a whole night). With sending money back and an irregular income, many are too poor to raise the deposit needed to move out into their own flat and so escape the cycle in the bars.

Sharon and Mark meet these girls and form friendships with them and offer them an alternative income...making jewellery in their shop. They give the girls a monthly income and free accommodation for the first 3 months, which allows the girls to save and eventually move out with their new friends. Sharon and Mark are hugely open about their faith - which brought them to Thailand - and about meeting the girls' physical and spiritual needs. Whatever you feel about their motivations, they are doing an absolutely amazing job here. In addition, I watched the news this evening and it was all about divisions in the Anglican Church over homosexuality. It seems to me that it's a great pity that it's the divisions and the back-biting that makes the headlines, rather than the people who, driven by their faith and calling, do so much to help others, such as we have seen first hand here in Thailand and also with the orphans in Cambodia. It's humbling to meet these people who give their entire lives to make a difference..and not through charity but through empowerment. The organisation is called SHE, which means Self-Help and Empowerment for women. You can find them at www.shethailand.org.

I checked out the jewellery (of course) and it is gorgeous and I simply HAD to buy a few items. It's of extremely high quality, very intricate, original and good value for money. You can order it on-line too (prices in Sterling but they ship everywhere). I was very impressed with the whole set-up. Sharon and Mark themselves are supported by donations so all profits are ploughed back into the business as they want to expand it to provide community programs.

After seeing the girls at work downstairs in the shop, Bern and I wandered through Patong in the broad and safe light of day. It's got a totally different feel to Kata Beach - further down the street - where we are staying. We have a gorgeous beach without harrassment and a nice quiet little town just outside the hotel.

We made use of our fabulous beach for the rest of the day as this was our official 'day off'. Yes, even being on holiday can get tiring and we made today a rest day. That meant we got to slather ourselves in factor 50 and sit around on the beach, swim in the ocean, dodge the waves, and sit at the pool bar drinking cocktails. Experience now seems to show me that however much sun protection you use, skin still has a fixed quota and I did manage to singe myself a little.

However, we comforted ourselves with a manicure and pedicure for about 3 US dollars each (and for Bern the most almighty foot scrub ever which has left her with size 4 feet instead of size 5) and now it's time to go and eat. We are hungry. Being on holiday is hard work.