In what I concur is a somewhat unexpected and unlikely state of affairs I've visited no less than 3 royal palaces this year. I must just quickly dispell the myth that I've suddenly become some sort of ardent royalist - in fact I inadvertantly corrected the Queen around this time last year when she got UCL and King's mixed up (she didn't look too miffed, just mildly confused, as she moved on to talk to someone a little less revolutionary.) I just realised it's something I'd never done which was on our doorstep, and was cajoled by some visiting relatives.

First off was Windsor Castle. This attracts, I discovered, a particular brand of visitor: foreign, earnest, and educated, at least to the extent that they know that the queen doesn't generally live in Buckingham Palace; the kind of tourist who doesn't pronounce said palace with a sounded "h", who knows that Windsor is outside of London, and have enough about them to venture there. And Windsor Castle is probably the most inviting of the three that I've visited. A genuine place of residence - if a somewhat elaborate one - with a bit of a buzz to it. People live here; stuff happens; even if you think that stuff is a bit outdated and ultimately obselete. It also employs one of the most elaborate queuing systems I've ever encountered, living up to and inded surpassing our national stereotype as if to reassure the tourists who have made such an effort to get here. Edward politely ushers you into the first queue, and Elizabeth politely yet firmly takes your postcode so that you can include gift aid with your purchase (British visitors are few and far between and Liz was on a mission) before shooing you gently into the next queue, where your bags are scanned airport-style just in case you have plans to blow up her Maj, at which point you join a final queue where your ticket is torn and you are sent upon your way. The tours, should you wish to join one, are conducted as though by some eminent historian of the 1970s. Not for Windsor Castle this modern nonsense of dressing up in period costume and cracking jokes about Henry VIII's wives. This isn't the Tower, you know, and they do things properly here. Reminding me rather of a public school, frequent signs tell me not to go on the grass, and somewhat pointless chains stop me from going less than 4 feet from what are people's front doors (it strikes me that if your front door leads directly into the grounds of a tourist attraction you should expect people to come and peer in at you - that's like saying if you should have the right to live in Soho without people pissing on your doorstep at 3am.) As a matter of comparison, their shop is considerably more tasteful (or, at any rate, less tasteless) than the others, and their ice cream not inconsiderably cheaper.

And now we come to Buckingham Palace. I have a bit of a bugbear about Buckingham Palace because it turned both me and more recently one of my mates down for work at its much-lauded "State Rooms Opening", presumably proving the fact that its sifters have been trained to spot a republican at 50 paces. Buckingham Palace is rather different to Windsor. First of all, you can feel the resentment in the air that you're even there at all. Shelling out your £9.50 you're aware that you should be feeling a sense of great priviledge at being let in. With the forced smiles honed by years of the right sort of upbringing, Hermione and George, who can't be any older than nineteen, show you benevolently into the first room. Adidas-clad families shuffle gratefully through, ready to gawp at how the other half live. I find this all just a tad uncomfortable. The only thing that makes me feel a little better is that the other half evidently live in a world of camp opulence that would make Elton John blush. A sort of cross between a 1970s hotel and Liberace's living room, Buckingham Palace is stuffed full of chandaliers and gold-encrusted wall decoration, huge scarlet curtains complete with Brothel-inspired golden tassels, and countless unidentifiable items made from silver. It also has quite possibly the tackiest giftshop I have ever seen. Housed in what is basically an ornate portakabin, which you know is designed to be whipped away the minute the last wretched commoner crosses the threshold back into the real worls come September, it's complete with the sort of tatt that I fear is being sold without the slightest hint of irony. Plastic fridge magnets in the shape of Buckingham Palace (a snip at £5.99 each), garish plastic crowns, innumerable teatowels and of course an array of Duchy Original products (Charlie's been struggling in the likes of Waitrose since the crunch.) In the excitement of it all a four-year-old we've brought with us (he's a relative, I've not kidnapped him from somewhere) almost nicks a fake crown. Part of me thinks it would have been a triumph if he's succeeded, but they'd probably have detained him somehow under the terrorism act and treated him to a spot of waterboarding, so I'm glad Hermione's Army missed it. On the way out we almost have an ice cream (also Duchy, apparently, made with real vanilla pods!) but it's another £5 and frankly I'd prefer Mr Whippy any day.

And finally, Sandringham. I don't warm to Sandringham when I'm told that the current royal family kept it for the shooting and Balmoral for the hunting, when the rest of the world are considering if they should pick the property with the parking space instead of the one near the bus stop. It does, in its favour, have beautiful grounds - fabulous woodland that goes on for miles. It also has a series of somewhat unpreposessing huts at its entrance that put me in mind of Center Parks, complete with a huge and incongruous wooden squirrel that looks like it ought to be in a US theme park. The gift shop is a little more upmarket the Buckingham Palace - here you can buy a stuffed corgi ("Oh! Margaret! It's £10! That's practically free!" as we heard one delighted customer exclaim) and garishly pink, Sandringham-branded coconut ice. Made in Harrogate.

Again Sandringham attracts its own unique brands of visitors - this time in the shape of women who look a bit like Penelope Keith, all wear green jackets and are flanked by bounding golden retievers and the like. F and I, who are dressed like normal people and don't answer one another with the phrase "Oh, ra-ther!" before barking orders at our accompanying hounds. As we leave a coach deposits a group of women of a certain age all carrying walking poles (though while they would need these in Norfolk, which Noel Coward rightly observed is very flat, is beyond me.) We leave, with some chocolate and, of course, sone coconut ice, Who could resist?

House Hunting

I've always had my suspicions about estate agents. One recent example, for instance, is the fact that several of the rather lovely houses currently being advertised on what would otherwise be sparse listings have actually been sold and moved into long ago but remain on the websites to give some sort of false indication that the estate agent in question actually has something to sell. I've blogged previously about their advertising ploys ("Close to Greenwich" being code for "Deptford", "Open Plan Studio" being "Bedsit" - you get the picture) and once again I have the joy of experiencing it first hand as we search, loved-up newly-weds that we are, for a place to call home that doesn't involve 3am fire alarms and sewage incursions.

So we chose Isleworth.

I don't know if you've ever been to Isleworth, or if you did then quite possibly you didn't notice. I did Elby a great disservice when I described it as "somewhere you drive through on the way to somewhere else and think, it's a nice little place, but you wouldn't want to live there." Granted Elby is fictional, but it's made more of an impact on me that Isleworth, which, unimpressively, actually exists.

This rather explains how we came about choosing it. It's not that we're actively looking for somewhere with as much flair and excitement as (*in-joke alert*) England's number 3 batsman, it's just that we can't afford to flirt with its altogether more interesting neighbours. What's amusing about Isleworth is that even the Estate Agents don't bother to keep up the bullshit for very long.

"It's a lovely quiet area," she lies, shouting above the roar of an enormous jumbo jet that is so low in the sky that if people waved at us out of its windows we might actually wave back. Our chosen road is not just in the flight path - one spot of unexpected turbulence and we could end up with our roof taken off.

"Apart from the fact you're in the flight path," I point out, unncessarily.

We change the subject.

"What's the area like?"

"It's great!" she enthuses. "I've lived here all my life. You have Twickenham down there, Richmond just over there, and trains into central London every fifteen minutes".

So Isleworth's biggest selling point is that it's quite near to other places which are not Isleworth.

"What about the immediate area?"

She looks as though she was hoping I wouldn't ask that.

"Well..." she pauses, clearly, thinking on her feet, then brightly says "Over there is Hounslow bus garage."

Well that's good.

"Are there any supermarkets? I mean, even a little Tesco or a Sainsbury's or something?"

"There's a Morrisons in Brentford."

A clincher if ever there was one.

"Ooh!" she brightens. "There's a Spar on London Road!"

It gets better!

"Any other shops?"

"Not really. "She thinks, then says "I work in Domino's Pizza on Saturday."

I don't know if this is an attempt to answer the question or change the subject.

What she hasn't mentioned is the sewage works to the south. Things didn't get so dire that she felt she had to play this up as some sort of modernist water feature.

The house is beautiful - a 3-bedroom terraced cottage with a huge open-plan lounge/dining room - the sort of house that would fetch a million or so in Pimlico when you have a few more selling points than a suburban bus depot and escape routes to racier climes. We can just about afford it. But, to my shame, I don't think I can quite come to terms with being one of those smugly-married home-owning types that, when friends invite you to those sorts of dos smugly married home-owning types go to the best you can do to keep up appearances as they wax lyrical about their local famers' market, Montossori nursery and art house cinema is "We've got our own brach of Spar. And did you know there was a Morrisons in Brentford?"

Music To Top Yourself By

I am apparently, at the rather-too-old age of 27, embracing my inner Emo. (I could never be a goth as I couldn't be arsed with all the make-up.) Anyway, while I sat patiently waiting for a student to arrive and my computer to do something it was meant to have done several minutes ago I started compiling the following. Think of it as a sort of "Now That's What I Call Miserable Gits" or, as I've called it, "Music to Top Yourself By". I'd like to point out below are some of my favourite tracks of all time, but you have to admit they'd be fitting ditties to have playing on repeat in the background when they find your decaying body.

1. Climbing to the Moon - Eels (My favourite track)
2. Alone, Jealous and Stoned - The Secret Machines
3. Try Not To Breathe - REM
4. I Am Stretched On Your Grave - Kate Rusby (there are lots of versions but this is by far the best)
5. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want - The Smiths (my second favourite track)
6. Fallen - Sarah McLachlan
7. Asleep - The Smiths (yeah, Moz and co are quite good for this sort of thing)
8. The Drugs Don't Work - The Verve
9. Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen (again there are lots of versions, but if you want melancholy you can't beat this one.)
10. Unloveable - The Smiths
11. Where the Wild Roses Grow - Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds with Kylie Minogue
12. Days - Kirsty McColl (better than the Kinks version for this purpose)

and finally, so such list would be complete without...
13. Creep - Radiohead

13 seemed an appropriate number to stop, though I realise I'm Joy Division-less...

Apparently CD sales are tumbling - maybe they should be looking to me for ideas? Or not...

I'm now off to play myself at Tennis on the Wii, as I'm home alone. Can you think of a more tragic scenario than that?

Barcelona - such a beautiful horizon

Barcelona was proud of its Olympics - and rightly so. They're the first I properly remember, and not just for the Freddie Mercury track which rather irritatingly sticks in your head once you've heard it a few times. These were the games where Sally Gunnell flew to victory in the 200m hurdles only to be faced with a Sports reporter's banal question "Are you glad you've won?" (er, no, actually, my favourite metal's actually bronze so I was hoping for third.) They were also the games that rejuvenated its crumbling, crime-prone waterfront (according to our guidebook, anyway), and, by extension, its battered spirit, and put Barcelona firmly on the map.

I like Barcelona a lot. I like it all the more because, since its first free elections in 1976, it's always had a socialist government. For Barcelona is, for some reason to my surprise, a very socialist city. Its infrastructure is faultless - it costs a mere E1.75 for a single journey on the Metro (against London's £4) and a huge digital display counts down the time until the next train second by second, and when it appears on the platform as the display triumphantly counts 5 - 4 - 3 -2 -1 it is sparklingly clean. The city seems to work well for the people who live there - the streets are kept clean and well provided with street lights, post boxes and bins (though we fear we may have posted our postcards into a bin by accident.) In contrast, though there is an awful lot on offer for tourists, a large proportion of it seemed to be out of order when we were there. We tried to go up in a cable car, but were told we couldn't because the lift was broken; determined to get a view of some sort we opted to climb the monument (a huge statue of Columbus) instead, but were told we couldn't, because the lift was broken. Worryingly, on asking if we could climb the stairs, we were told there weren't any, which made me hope that the lift didn't break while people were actually at the top.

Feeling a little desperate, and being pissed on by rain of an intensity that makes the North West look like the Sahara, we got the Metro and Funicular (which incidentally is integrated into the normal public transport network - I LOVE this city!) to the top of Montjuic to have a nosey round the Olympic Stadium, which is accessible to the public and, like a lot of things in Barcelona, entirely free, in the hope that you will buy a luminous pink plastic Sagrada Familia in its compulsory gift shop on your way out. (Paul - you'd better appreciate that one - possibly the best yet at a mere E1.90 and surely worth every penny!)

But by far the most enjoyable and intriguing tourist attraction in Barcelona is one that didn't seem to feature in any guide books, and into which we stumbled to escape the persistent downpour. The Olympics Museum in Barcelona is basically a collection of all the pieces of random memorabilia that didn't make it to the official Olympics Museum in Lausanne, proudly displayed alongside detailed descriptions written entirely by Marxists. Next to pairs of trainers signed by the likes of Linford Christie huge boards triumphantly declare that the re-introduction of the Olympics in 1892 was a result of the "Workers' Struggle" - now that the Workers (always written with a capital W) were enjoying better diets, living conditions and something approaching leisure time, sport was no longer "the preserve of the ruling classes". To further illustrate this a few exhibits along there was, inexplicably, a picture of Leeds United and underneath the explanation "football started out as a game played exclusively by the ruling classes, but has since become the sport most intrinsically linked with the Workers." There follows a not insubstantial detour into the history of Barca, Barcelona's revered Catalan side. Nowhere does it even attempt to claim that this bears any relevence to the Olympics, but that doesn't seem to matter. In another part of the museum, one of the best-kept displays is one entitled "The History of Catalan Sport", which features extensive information and photographic acompaniment on the delights of Petanque, which I don't recall ever having featured in the Olympics.

Among the many displays are some interesting exhibits including the sets of medals from each Games (I didn't realise each games had its own unique medal designs, and I would agree with the creators of the museum that the Catalan - not Spanish - designed medals of '92 are among the most impressive) and a seemingly random collection of Olympic torches, including (though the display doesn't mention it) the 2008 torch which was almost wrestled out of Connie Huq's hands.

A little way down the hill from the museum is the Fundacio Joan Miro - a gallery dedicated to an artist who honed the art of ripping the piss long before Tracy Emin got up one morning and decided she couldn't be arsed to tidy her bedroom. Most of the exhibits on the ground floor apparently symbolise Womanhood, that is to say, they all include shapes that look a bit like vaginas and those that don't are basically large phalluses. On the first floor there are some very beautiful pictures that would definitely not make it through to the Turner Prize, a whole room of paintings that look like to bored doodlings of someone who is supposed to be taking the minutes for the Points Based System Working Group and the ultimate piece, about which the person on the pre-recorded guided tour is a little too enthusiastic: three big white canvasses each bearing.... a wobbly line. Apparently it took Miro many years and much heartache to get the wobly lines just right (see how they don't touch the edge of the canvas? That's dead significant, is that. Nobody's quite sure why it's significant, but definitely is significant.) Slightly unconvincingly, the voice on my headset (which is so precious to the Foundation that I had to leave my passport at the desk before I could have one) stresses ot me that the art in front of me is not simply the wobbly lines, but the fact that Miro "contemplated" them for many years after their conception.

Contemplated my arse.

One of the main problems I have when going abroad, unadventurous English person that I am, is the food - both identifying it and daring to it eat, as well as figuring out how to actually order it. Our Hotel - the rather nice Catalonia Corsega, which is on the southern edges of the villagey Gracia district comfortingly far away from the tourist traps of the Ramblas yet a mere 10-minute walk from the gloriously wonderful Casa Mila (La Pedrera) - takes guests' suggestions and criticisms very seriously, and as a consequence offer an "English Breakfast", because British people were disappointed at being expected to eat what the Catalans eat while in Catalonia. The result is as though someone English has described an English breakfast in detail to a bemused Catalan chef who has never actually seen one, but has tried to faithfully reproduce what he has been told about. What he reproduced was fat-dripping Serrano-style ham burnt to a cinder, "sausages" which looked like the rubbery mini-frankfurters you get out of a tin, also burnt to a cinder, some very watery-looking scrambled egg and a valiant attempt to recreate baked beans in a country where you can't simply by them in a tin. It remains untouched, and we feast on an array of meats, cheese and chocolate-filled pastries and lots and lots of gritty, strong coffee.

There are elements of genuine local cuisine though that are just a step too far. It seems to me that all "local delicacies" consist of bits of animal intestine you would never otherwise dream of eating, and I sometimes suspect it is a ruse of guidebook-writers to cajole people from Wolverhampton into eating a sheep's stomach lining or (in the case of Catalonia) marinaded pigs trotters. Deliberately choosing restaurants that didn't have faded 80s-esque photographs of the delights on offer, we did run the risk of inadvertantly landing ourselves with a duck's colon or horse's bladder, but fortunately the ended up with huge pieces of steak cooked to perfection, cheese croquettes to die for, and lots and lots of pastry-based items involving lashings of dark chocolate.

But the highlight of the trip for my mother? We sat next to Delia Smith on the train, and listened to a frankly disappointing conversation she had with her husband regarding the layout of their couchette. On my return my mother had one question: not what was the best part of Barcelona? Or, did you visit the Sagrada Familia? No, "What did Delia Smith have to eat?"

Veal, since you ask.

I'm largely posting this for somewhere to save my work without losing it, as my home computer has helpfully decided it won't save things any more. Anyway, these are the fruits of my current creative labours...

Fitch's fingers hovered over the buttons long enough for the tone to go dead, so he had to replace the receiver and start again. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. What did one say, in these sorts of scenarios? Was there such a thing as Helpline Etiquette? He'd always felt rather scathing about this sort of thing and, if he was honest, being in this situation now didn't make him any less so.

He dialled.

He waited.

A rather disingenuous and all together too sing-songy voice finally said:

"Thank you for calling the Employee Assistance Helpline. In order to help us answer your call more efficiently, please select one of the following options:

If you are or have been experiencing suicidal thoughts, please press one.

For difficulties involving marriage, divorce and for all other relationship issues, please press two.

For financial concerns, including debt and bankruptcy, please press three.

For all other enquiries, please hold."

There was a pause. Fitch considered the options and idly wondered which option one should pick if one were having suicidal thoughts due to a relationship which had gone down the pan as a result of debt-related worries, thinking perhaps one would have to deal with the issues chronologically.

Evidently there wasn't time to weigh up the options, and he was deemed to have held; the next thing he knew he was listening to a tinny version of "The Montagues and the Capulets", and wondering how long he might have to wait. It occurred to him that this rather torrid piece of orchestration was perhaps not the wisest choice of music. He would have expected something more calming, maybe a spot of Debussy? "The Lark Ascending"? Something to ease the tension, not to conjure up images of what was, in effect, youth knife crime.

Sixteen bars into "The Montagues and the Capulets" the music stopped sharply and the disingenuous voice cut in "Your call is important to us, but we are currently experiencing unusually high call volumes. Please hold, and an operator will be with you shortly."

Fitch pressed the speaker phone button and lay back on the sofa. He listened again to the sixteen-bar snippet of Tchaikovsky, and to the woman's assurances that he wouldn't be waiting long. Then he poured himself a whiskey. Single malt. None of that blend mallarkey.

So this was it. A mid-life crisis.Though at forty-eight "mid-life" was possibly a trifle optimistic. If it truly was "mid-life", he reasoned, swilling the liquid round in the glass and staring at it with an intensity that wasn't strictly necessary, he wouldn't die until he was... (he did the sum his head, maths never having been his strong point) ninety-six, which was pretty good by anyone's standards.

His dad had, according to his mum, had a mid-life crisis, but his dad had never been particularly adventurous or flamboyant, and as far as anyone could tell the extent of this crisis was that he took up fishing. He became quite enthusiastic, and not enirely unsuccessful, in certain areas at least. He took to going down to rock pool with a small plastic fishing net and trapping the shrimps, and parents eyed him suspiciously and ushered their offspring back towards the beach huts, and Fitch and his brother stared into the saucepan later that evening and watched the little creatures swim frantically round and round turning pinker and pinker until they eventually stopped.

His mother decided to forgo the mid-life crisis, declaring that she was too busy with the more mundane aspects of having three children, like spelling tests and headlice.

He topped up the glass and in spite of himself found that his left hand was beginning to conduct an imaginary orchestra as "The Montagues and the Capulets" swept into their fourth performance.

You could probably blame Margate to a certain extent, he mused, opting for a bit of self-analysis in order to pass the time. After all, living somewhere which was to all intents and purposes closed for two thirds of the year was hardly a good start.

(To be continued...)

Rewind

As my writing has basically stalled in the past few months, my brain numbed into functioning logically and unimaginately by a mixture of the monotony of day to day life and legal drugs, I thought I'd post something from my hyperactive glory days of last April. I realise I have a tenancy to write about nursing homes and miserable people which is getting perhaps a tad predictable, and I know that the piece below was led by Kimberly Wintle and Fi Woof's fabulous delivery in their performance at the Old Red Lion, but it has its moments and I'm quite proud of it.

- - - -

A nursing home. Kathleen led slowly by the arm to an armchair by a member of staff She is quite elderly and frail and unsteady on her feet. Throughout the monologue she is being literally “looked after” by a member of staff from the care home. Kathleen is aware of this, but is accepting of it.

KATHLEEN: (Looks at her watch.) Nearly eleven.
(The member of staff ensures she is sitting comfortably, adjusting the cushion at the back of her head and pulling the little table nearby so she can reach easily.)
I don’t know what time she’ll come, our Caroline, but I’m sure she will come. She’s not said she’ll come but she wouldn’t miss my birthday. (Pause)
(Smiles at the staff member, who exits.) It’s not a bad place. She looked at others, our Caroline, but for some reason it had to be this one. She tells me how nice it is, how well I look, and how good the food is, and I’m sure she’s right. There are small things that bother me, of course, but there were small things that bothered me at home. I don’t see enough of Caroline, and the children…they’re very busy of course. They’ve always had so many hobbies, the children. Kate plays the violin… or was it cricket? One of those…. [trying to remember, then, frustrated:] Oh, well, anyway, they’re very busy, and I’m sure that’s why they don’t come very often.

Our Caroline comes every couple of weeks, though. [Thoughtful] Sometimes not quite so often. I think she comes less these days than she used to, but maybe not. I think time just… Everything’s the same, you see. I think she feels she’s intruding. She thinks I have a social life here, and, you know, I don’t want to tell her I haven’t because that would worry her, to think I’m unhappy. [Pause. Thoughtful] and I’m not unhappy. [Smiling] Last week a young gentleman came and played the piano, and we all joined in. And we had a tea party, once... [Remembering] We have a games night every Wednesday… no, Tuesday… No… Well, I don’t think it happens any more. Where was I? Yes. Caroline. Well, she comes every week… no, two weeks. Sometimes less. But then there’s the drive from Shipley – it’s at least twenty minutes each way… Well, I understand, and she knows I understand. We’ve always been close like that, me and Caroline.

(The member of staff comes back with a cup of tea, which she holds to Kathleen’s lips until she’s satisfied she’s had some, then she wipes her mouth with a tissue and puts the tea on the table)

I’ve been here for…for a while, but it feels like ever such a long time. (Thoughtful) I think our Caroline was reluctant putting me here, but I was a nuisance, you see. Not that our Caroline ever said I was, of course, but I knew I was. I was starting to worry her. Ooh, it was only little things. You know, forgetting to turn things off, silly mistakes, things that if you do them when you’re young people say how daft you are, but as you get older they start to worry about you. I’ve always found our Caroline’s house ever so confusing. She has these two doors on the landing that look exactly the same, and one night Steve came out and found me sitting in the linen cupboard. Told Caroline I seemed “confused and distressed”! Well, I’d say that was a bit of an execution. I never have been able to remember which door is which and of course I realised when I came up against a load of sheets and towels it wasn’t the toilet, and I was just getting my bearings when Steve walked in and gave me ever such a fright, it’s no wonder I reacted the way I did. You don’t expect people to be creeping around their own houses at all hours, do you? Well, he was fine. Big fuss about nothing, if you ask me. I was ever so sorry about the bump on his head, of course, but I hadn’t broken the skin or anything and Caroline told me he’d soon see the funny side.

(The staff member returns with a hairbrush and starts to slowly brush Kathleen’s hair)

You see, they do look after me. Our Caroline comes every day and she says I’m looking well and notices I’ve had my haircut, and she says things like “isn’t that a nice dress, Mother? Isn’t that a lovely dress?” She talks to me a little like the nurses do, I’ve noticed, but then we don’t have much to talk about these days. She brought a friend with her the other day and they brought a box of chocolates then talked amongst themselves. Caroline said “Mother doesn’t talk much these days”. And is it any wonder? They talked about what a nice place it was, then they talked about a film, and I couldn’t very well join in as I’d not seen it. “You could take me to the cinema one day”, I tried, once, and they smiled, sort of sadly, and Caroline patted me on my shoulder and said “don’t eat too many chocolates, Mum, you’ll spoil your dinner.” (Staff member leaves.)

There were other things. The doctor explained them to me. I could hear them talking at night, what with them paper-thin walls, talking about me after I’d gone to bed. “She’s not right”, he’d say. “She’s not safe”. Not safe, I ask you! This from the man who thinks it’s safe to drive after four pints and once ploughed his car into the central reservation on the M62! And then he’d recount some daft thing I’d done, full of embellishments, usually, how I’d forgotten where I was, or where they lived. Well, really! All I’d done was telephone the wrong number and spoken to a lovely young girl who’d bought their old house in Otley, and of course I realised soon as she’d picked up the phone and we’d had a lovely chat. Well, it turned out she knew our Caroline and phoned later to check I was alright, bless her, because I’d been ringing about something quite important, I think, that must be what it was… though I can’t remember now what exactly… Well, anyway, Steven said this was a sure sign, and he’d read about it in the Daily Mail. People who are starting to get dementia who go back in time and forget where they are. Well, I’d not forgotten at all! They’d only been in Shipley five years, which is hardly a lifetime, and I’ve a good memory for numbers. They stay in my memory for ever. And anyway, I used to see a good deal more of them in those days before they moved, so I must have just been…what do you call it… auto-pirate. You know, when you do things without really thinking, because they come naturally. I think I must spend a lot of time being an auto-pirate.

(Staff member returns with a biscuit)

STAFF MEMBER: Would we like a biscuit?
KATHLEEN: No, Love, thanks, Love.
STAFF MEMBER: Are you sure? You like biscuits don’t you? They’re lovely biscuits.
KATHLEEN: No. I’m alright, Love.

(The staff member looks concerned and holds a biscuit in front of Kathleen’s nose as if to tempt her.)

KATHLEEN: No, I’d better not, Love, I expect my daughter will bring me some chocolates. [The staff member leaves. To audience] Ooh, it does irritate me, that does, them talking to us as though we’re in nursery school, all sing-songy, and when they come up to you then lean in close to your face and it’s always,
STAFF MEMBER: do we want some more tea?
KATHLEEN: and
STAFF MEMBER: would we like a biscuit?
KATHLEEN: [sighs] I don’t know why they all use this “we” all the time, but maybe someone’s said that’s what you’re meant to do, because they all do it. But it does get to me, that. I don’t want to say so because I wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings. They mean well. They’re only young, these girls, you know, and they do their best.

(The staff member stands a little way away from Kathleen.)

Now where was I? I can’t remember. That’s the trouble, you see, they come up to you just when you’re… and then… [sighs] Well, what with all this fuss around you… Now. Had I got to the apple cores? No? Oh, well, that was a right performance. You’d think I’d set fire to the house the uproar that created. Well, we were having this family dinner and the kids were coming over… I probably shouldn’t call them kids now, should I? Emma… (rattily) No, no, Kate!… and….and her brother… They’re not really kids any more. Well, they were all coming over – it was some big occasion – and I’d said I’d help out and, well, Steven said he didn’t think that was such a good idea, what with me forgetting things, but our Caroline cut him off, she said, if Mum wants to help that would be lovely, so I made an apple pie. Our Caroline’s never been much of a cook. I expect she’s too busy really for all of that. I know people don’t cook these days like they used to. But she used to love apple pie as a child. So I made this apple pie and made it all nice on top with the sugar and the little pastry apples. And I got it out of the oven and everything without them reminding me, because Steven was worried I’d forget all about it and burn it. Anyway, we had this meal and afterwards I cut open the pie and… [getting upset at the memory] well, it should really be ever so funny, but I found I’d gone and thrown the apple away and put the cores into the pie… Well, I was ever so upset, and our Caroline laughed and said what a funny thing to have done, and we’d all laugh about it later, but then Dan… Ben… he got all miserable, saying he’d saved an apple-pie space and now there wasn’t any, and so I said I’d make it up and buy him ice-cream and then… and I’ll never forget this… Steven got ever so angry. He got up and he shouted “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?” Well, I thought, there was no need for that! And I told him so! I did! And Steven turned to our Caroline and said “she’s changed! Look at her, Caz” (ooh, I’ve never liked the way he calls her that. Caroline’s such a pretty name, and her father chose it for her) “Look at her, Caz,” he said “she’s out of control. She doesn’t know what she’s doing”. And there was this almighty row, and I told him he should respect his elders, told him I’d like to see him do a bit of cooking once in a while, and he said they were on the breadline looking after me, that I was ruining their relationship, and the kids got upset, then Steven said that was my fault too, that I’d upset them…. Oh, it was awful. [Sips her tea and recovers. The STAFF MEMBER returns and holds KATHLEEN’s hand, as if to calm her down.] Well. I ended up in hospital. I can’t remember why, now. [Frowns, thinking.] I think something happened…. [Obediently, to the STAFF MEMBER] That’s why I’m here, you see. I can’t manage.

(The staff member checks the teacup, sees it is empty, and takes it away.)

She doesn’t talk about him much these days, mind, and he’s not been since the day I moved in. She thinks I’ve not noticed, but I have. I know Caroline. And I’m not going to ask where he is because I know he’s not around. I suppose if I did ask her she’d make something up, say he was ever so busy at work, but what do people want with a British plumber these days when all them Poles and Czechoslavs will do it at a fraction of the price? No. He’s definitely buggered off.

(Looks at her watch). Nearly ten past. (Fretting.) I hope she’s not broken down. It’sa long way, from Otley. She usually does come around eleven. I think it’s because it gives her an excuse to leave, because I need to get ready for my dinner. I think otherwise she’d feel guilty, us running out of things to say. (Pause.) I expect she’ll be here in a minute.

(The STAFF MEMBER returns with another cup of tea.)

I never did ask what happened to her face, but these days she’s looking better. I didn’t like to ask, but she’d volunteer the information. “I went and opened the kitchen cupboard into my face,” she said once, and went on in elaborate detail about how the cupboard doors are on springs, and if you push them too hard they jump back at you. “Can you believe it?” She asked, and I couldn’t. A few months ago, after her standard kiss on the cheek and “you’re looking well”, I replied by saying she was, too, better than when I’d seen her before, and she blushed, saying the weather was good and she’d caught the sun. Well, I don’t know. I don’t get out these days. But Nancy, who lives here with me, says she reckons our Caroline’s got a new man. I do hope she has. (Frowning, thoughtful) but if she has I hope it isn’t because she’s (thinking) you know (brightly, remembering) on the rewind. You know, to get over Steven, going out on the rewind. Of course, I’ll never meet him. Some silly woman in her reading group told her people with dementia can’t cope with change, and now we’ve nothing to talk about, and every time she comes it’s kiss, you’re looking well, I bought you some chocolates, isn’t it nice here? Do you still play cards? Don’t eat too many, you’ll spoil your dinner, goodness is that the time? And she signs the visitor’s book apparently so the staff can tell me later that she’s been, which they do.

(The STAFF MEMBER comes up to Kathleen with the book and kneels in front of her, pointing)

STAFF MEMBER: We’ve had a visitor, today, haven’t we, Kathy? Wasn’t that nice?

(The STAFF MEMBER pats her on the shoulder, closes the book and goes away. PAUSE.)

KATHLEEN: And I suppose it is nice. Everything is nice. And one day it will all just… stop, and there won’t be anything to be nice, or to complain about… I don’t expect I’ll notice. And I expect it will be a blessing for our Caroline, too, in the end. (Pause. Looks at her watch). I think it’s too late for her to come now. We’re having our dinner at twelve. Marconi Cheese. (to the STAFF MEMBER, standing nearby.) Do I like Marconi Cheese?

(The STAFF MEMBER responds by coming up to her and holding up her coat and walking stick. She helps KATHLEEN up and helps her put on her coat. KATHLEEN Looks at her watch again. THE STAFF MEMBER starts to lead her away)

Archipelago

I'm not, if I'm honest, the world's most adventurous eater. I like food, and by my father's standards I'm positively audacious in my tastes, happily accepting cous cous as a standard carbohydrate accompaniment to many a dish, and knowing the difference between pastrami and Parma ham. Dammit, I've even named my blog (if with a certain sense of irony) after a posh salad leaf. At the same time, I'm still marvelling at the fact that my nephew-to-be eats olives as a standard part of his diet and can and does demand pizza "with artichoke hearts on it" (WHAT??? You're FOUR! What's wrong with Monster Munch and Dairylea?) and I'm inclined to avoid things with foreign names I can't pronounce. So Archipelago - a restaurant name, incidentally, which I've only just learned to spell - would not have been my first choice of venue.

Archipelago markets itself as providing "exotic cuisine in the heart of London", and to me this immediately begs the question: why? Why is there a need for "exotic" cuisine in South Camden, and anyway who defines what consitutes "exotic" in the first place? The aforementioned cous cous is considered the preserve of the terribly culturally-aware middle classes when labelled "Be Good To Yourself", sold for £2.99 and drowned in Philipo Berio, but it's a staple diet of much of the Middle East. Similarly, I should think Yorkshire pudding would be considered fairly exotic in, say, Indonesia, but this doesn't mean the Indonesians would necessarily want to start eating it. Certainly it seems to me that, given the diversity available in food in the UK these days, the not inconsiderable effort and money it must take to bring a crocodile over here and serve it up to me in a stew is probably not proportionate to the enjoyment I might then get out of eating it. I have heard tales of the weird and wonderful culinary experiences of friends who've travelled to far-off places (and, often, the effect it had on their respective digestive systems), I'm just not sure why you'd choose to have those culinary experiences just off Tottenham Court Road.

It doesn't help, perhaps, that the reason we are here in the first place is that the last time we all had a meal together, someone inadvertantly spoiled it by dropping dead in between the main course and the pudding, and UCL, in its well-meaning attempt to make ammends for this admittedly pretty awful experience, suggested a mere month after the event that we all went out for another meal together with the now-deceased notable by her absence. In fact, we are all feeling rather awkward and a little anxious, and perhaps not in the right state of mind to choose from a menu where we can barely identify most of what's on offer. In the same way that my Bradford-born dad thinks Tabbouleh is some sort of musical instrument, I'm confident that I wouldn't know what a gnu was even if it came up and bit me on the arse, so I am certainly in no position to decide whether or not I might fancy it as the main ingredient of a terrine.

Designed, I think, to look "exotic" and mysterious, the restaurant is laid out with all the order of a returned gap-year student's bedroom. Wooden elephants and little stone buddhas decorate the tables, the benches (possibly pews?) are covered with multi-tasselled, brightly-coloured cushions and throws, and mbiras, panpipes and what look like ill-conceived violins inexplicably adorn shelves around the room. The menus are little scrolls rolled up inside a jewelled metal box at the centre of the table, and the glasses could have come out of the cupboard of any self-respecting student, in that none of them match.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the most adventurous of our group turns out to be an Old Etonion who has indeed been on a gap year and has been globe trotting on and off ever since. He seems torn between the duck (that reliable staple of the Fine Diner's menu, but maybe a little too ordinary under the circumstances) and the crocodile, which he reliably informs me tastes like chicken. To me, this begs the question: why not just eat chicken? I would hazard a guess it's rather easier to get hold of a chicken in London than it is a crocodile, and I've no doubt they're considerably less bother to prepare in that you don't need to descale it first. After much deliberation he decides he can't pass up on this rare opportunity to savour a large carnivorous reptile, and meanwhile F orders the zebra. I took rather longer to make up my mind as there was not one item where I could confidently identify all the ingredients. I know perfectly well, for example, what a kangaroo is, but I've no idea what one would taste like after being "zhug marinated". Similarly, I'm somewhat suspicious as to how the "vegetarian option" of "wok-seared frogs' legs" (which incidentally also taste like chicken) would turn out, or how on earth you could have a vegetarian option of an amphibious-based dish in the first place. I won't tell you what I ordered but I can assure you you'd be disappointed.

Perhaps most amusingly - certainly it left me chuckling for days - was the "dessert". Spotting such choices as baklava I was much more in my comfort zone, it presumably appearing as there weren't any exotic mammals you could conceivably put into something sweet, though this didn't stop them trying. My right-hand neighbour ordered some safe-enough-sounding concoction called "Baby Bee Brule" which claimed to be "orange blossom honey and ginger stem brule"It arrived looking and smelling safely edible, until you noticed it had been unceremoniously decorated with a small dead bee. The dessert looked nice enough, but the little (presumably baby) insect that adorned it looked considerably put out.

I've been trying to work out since whether the staff were looking genuinely smug because they worked in such a reputable establishment and felt a cut above, or because they realised that z-list celebrities in a jungle eat this sort of thing as a test of macho endurance and to gross out the nation's viewers, whereas the likes of us gamely pay well over the odds for anything sold to us as "an experience". Yes, they saw us coming.

Round Robin Rant

With the exception of the wedding invite blurb, which is not quite the same thing, I’m pleased to say that I’ve never sent a round robin letter. This is possibly because I don’t have a five-year-old grade 8 flautist called Xanthe about whom I can crow. I am, however, receiving more of these each year, which I note is a sign of my advancing both in age and up the social scale.

It might be perhaps a little unfair, but have you noticed that you’re much more likely to receive such a letter from Kaftanned of Stoke Newington waxing lyrical about their new organic cheese business which they’re juggling with renovating the villa in Perugia than you are from Broke of Buttershaw showing off about his newly-acquired second-hand van? And whereas we appreciate hearing all about what our friends in Dallas have been up to over the past year, we do wonder why our friends in Arnos Grove don’t haul their asses to an equidistant pub some time and tell us their news in person.

The content of these letters, though, as Simon Hoggart has constantly illustrated far more humorously than I ever can, is occasionally worth the irritation you feel at being otherwise ignored then gloated at. There are three types of round robin letters. The first are the ones that smugly relate the various achievements of the various offspring (Little Ammonia has mastered ancient Greek even though she’s only four and is hoping to start her degree at Cambridge next year, and Emphysema has just won Young Musician of the Year despite still being little more than an embryo.) The second are from people who mistakenly think that you should share their pain, and include lines such as “We were sad to lose our beloved cat Freddie (the cats invariably have more sensible names than the children) under the wheels of a Vauxhall Corsa in May, just weeks after dear Mummy fell into the Avon and drowned.” The third are rather more earnest, and invariably (though not always) much less fun, and usually from people who themselves cringe at the thought of jumping on the Round Robin bandwagon, but have to find some way of fielding all the “and what are the children up to these days?” questions from far-flung friends, the lack of such a news update implying that Sebastian and Antonia have passed their ten GCSEs and 4 A levels with straight As at 16 and 18 respectively, and after all, what is newsworthy about that? The only humorous examples related to us this year were a friend who let his 16-year-old daughter edit the letters, so they all went out announcing that said daughter was studying A levels in English, History, Maths and Hard Drugs, and another (sent to a friend) which with sweet sincerity announced “Amber has been diagnosed with dyslexia, which if I’m honest is quite a relief because we all thought she was just a bit dim.”

As most of our friends are too young to have yet produced Nobel Prizewinners we haven’t had too many of the first example (though one friend insists her 5-month-old is “a lovely little talker” and already saying “Mama and Dada” etc. The English graduate in me may write in the New Year to say how pleased I am that she’s following expected phonological development patterns and experimenting with nasal and fricative sounds which are often mistaken for real words but are in fact part of the “babbling stage” prior to the Holophrastic stage of language growth, for which they’ll need to wait another 6 months of so. Only I’m not that sad.) A second showed that the writer hadn’t thought about his whole audience, seeming to have geared his letters to out-of-London or, I should hope, overseas friends, regaling them with the news (as though any of them care) that “We had our mayoral elections in London this year, and I’m pleased to say that Boris Johnson was victorious, replacing our previous incumbent, a change long overdue in our opinion!” Aside from the fact that, as a Camden-based Socialist, I’m more than aware of the result of the mayoral election, that letter may as well read “Dear Lefties. Ha ha ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha, and did I mention, ha ha ha. Yours, Smug Tory Git.”

If I were to write one this year it would sound like a whinging and somewhat unlikely season of Corrie, what with our sewage flood in April, fatalities of both family and friends, and would end “then in November someone died in our lounge.” So I didn’t write one, and I'm sure you're all grateful.

I was musing (at 3am the other morning, so it might make more sense in my head) what one of these self-congratulatory little pieces of dribble might sound like were it write by a contemporary from my past rather than my cosy, saccharin-coated present. Perhaps something like:

“Dear All,

Well! What a year it’s been! The children are all growing up so quickly and yet again haven’t ceased to amaze us this year. Kelly got her first ASBO in March, ahead of some of her classmates. She is also still playing hockey and truant, and we are looking forward to our first grandchild in 2009! Kev has got a new job and took part in several successful robberies earlier this year, but was arrested in June when he accidentally caused an explosion at our local petrol station. We’re all very sad as this will be the first Christmas he’ll be spending away from home. Steve is still looking for a job, but is excelling on the fruit machines, having won three pounds in October. He also came third in the local darts tournament – we were all very proud!We were very sad to lose Gnasher, our beloved Rottweiler of 12 years, who was put down in September after biting an old lady outside the post office. He will be missed, but we hope you will all be able to meet Satan the Alsatian (picture enclosed) soon. We hope you are all well and that we will see more of you in 2009.”

I apologise for the deplorable social stereotyping throughout – it's neither big nor clever, but it did keep my simple brain amused for a good few minutes, and I hope it will encourage you to talk to me and actually participate in your lives in 2009 rather than saving up the smug bits for next December.

Blackpool

Having not written for almost half a year, I'm surprisingly at a loss as to what to write now. I could concentrate on the idiosyncracies of immigration law - a witty piece on the pros and cons of the Post Study Work visa route. But I won't. I'm going to talk about Blackpool.

I have only fond memories of Blackpool. Having been back this summer, I can't imagine why this is. It's cold, it's tired, and if you let your guard down for a minute you realise it's also inestimably depressing.

Apparently everyone else has figured this out already and gone to the Costa Del Calmari, or wherever, because when we arrived at 10am on an (admittedly pre-end-of-term) day in June it was completely deserted. We parked in a vast and utterly empty carpark across which we then trudged in a howling gale to the Pleasure Beach, which didn't open until midday. So we trudged into town. I was in the mood for a bit of nostalgia, and Blackpool did not disappoint. The grey and uninviting waters of the Irish Sea lashed at the sea walls so that you couldn't get onto the beach - I think in all my childhood visits the sea around Blackpool and Lytham, its more middle class neighbour which my mum thus perferred, was always either so far out you couldn't see it or so far in you couldn't get to it. Wandering into town, the tower was still there, the entrance covered in posters for an orange-coloured gentleman with an obvious toupee who was resident and performing various 50s hits (apparently). I was heartened that Jungle Jim's, the huge children's play area, is still there, albeit under the name "Jungle im's". The town is, not to its credit, like any other town in the area - uniform, predictable, bearing the usual medium-sized Marks and BHS and various clothing stores frequented by youthful shoppers whose tops are optimistically tight and skirts unnecessarily short, main drags punctuated by seedy side streets smelling of fish and chips and urine. We went into H Samuel and watched a young woman, clearly on the hunt for an engagement ring, work her way through the shop's most garish collection - great gold snakes with diamond-diamond-diamond scales, huge silver interlocking weaves with tiny diamonds set close together to the extent that if you look at it long enough you get a migraine - and exclaiming in the sort of voice that manages to sound excited and innocent in a way only a Lancashire accent can "Ooh that's Loovely! Look!! I'nt it nice??? Don't you think it's Loooovely?" Eventually the young man with her, who'd been notably quiet throughout, mulled over this and after delivered his well-considered response in measured tones: "It looks like it's been shat on by the diamond fairy."

The Pleasure Beach is actually really rather impressive, once you get over its modern facade. Most of the rides were built in the 20s and 30s, which is a terrifying thought when you're 40 feet high on one of them and about to rattle your way down to the bottom again in a little wooden car. But first you have to get through the entrance, which clearly thinks it's in Vegas. We were treated to the kind of music they play you just before the crash of drums, explosion and spray of tinselly bits at a rock gig when the star comes on, except we were in a queue waiting for our email to be exchanged for the tickets we've bought. An over-enthusiastic, film-trailer voice was announcing "Hot Ice - the UNBELIEVABLE new show at BLACKPOOL ICE ARENA. The most SPECTACULAR, DARING and DRAMATIC ice show EVER performed." This went on for a while, but the illusion was rather shattered when we saw that the announcer was actually a bloke called Darren (it said so on his badge) with a microphone who had clearly done this so often that he didn't need a script or even much level of concentration. We watched Darren go into the office behind the desk proclaiming "gaze IN AWE at the spectacle THAT IS Hot Ice..." turn on the kettle and put a tea bag in a tea cup, rummage around in the fridge for the milk declaring "you WILL be AMAZED", and eventually wander out with the fruits of his labours cupped in one hand, still whispering atmospherically into the mic in the other "back for its second SPECTACULAR season..." We saw him an hour or so later, still singing the praises of Hot Ice, this time with a bacon sandwich.

I have a tendancy to get rather excited at this sort of thing, and today was no exception. The child in me started to scream "Oohthebigdippper!canwegoonthat?Pleasecanwe?please?Ooh!Ooh!thebigone!Canwegoonthat?" and the adult quickly followed. We went on The Big One, though we had no view through the fog and rain, which was starting to pour. Then we went on this thing whose name I've blocked from my memory for ever. I've no idea what it was called, suffice to say it went backwards at great speed and I was rather surprised when it stopped and I found that I was still alive, if a little hoarse. Then, finally, the ride my mother would never let me go on - the Big Dipper. Being a 1930's ride it doesn't, I'm relieved to say, go upside down, or indeed do very much at all, but its dips and plummets are of a stomach-churning level none of the shiny modern offers could quite muster. And you get the added bonus of whiplash if you sit at the back. Hurtling up a hill it stopped momentarily, and as we gazed across the Fylde, it started to hail. Quite a lot.

Happy Days.

The carpark was as empty when we returned, sticks of rock in hand, as it had been when we left, our Micra the only car in sight and still intact (I can only assume it's not worth nicking, which is a shame, because it is insured.) We drove out through the teeming rain, past the Yates's Wine Lodge and posters for the "Unofficial" Queen tribute band "Ga Ga" and the exotically uninviting "Ladyboys of Bangkok."

I like Blackpool, but having been back, I understand why I also like London.

Ice Cold in Quebec

The Ice Hotel ("Hotel Du Glace" in French) is just that - a hotel made entirely from ice. Romantic, you say? Romantic my arse. Any notion of romance wears off after about 10 minutes, by which point you have realised you can no longer feel your fingers. Or toes. Or any part of your face.

The Ice Hotel markets itself as "unique and enchanting", both of which are bollocks - there's one in Sweden too so it isn't unique, and it's enchanting up to a point in that ice is very pretty, but becomes less enchanting when you're picking your way to the chemical loo at 3am. What it really is, in fact, is a £200-a-night cross between an igloo and a budget Blackpool guest house. For your £200 you get:
- a small room with nowhere to put your clothes
- a matress with a plastic cover over it in case your bed starts melting in the night, and, to combat the cold:
- a few dead animals to lie on (or at least their furs), which I promise is neither comfortable nor goes very far in helping you forget it is (I kid you not) -10 inside and
- a sleeping bag "suitable for artic temperatures" - the kind you take with you when you're climbing Everest. Except that I'm not climbing Everest, I'm on holiday.

You don't even get your own loo, but have to trek (and believe me in these temperatures that's a trek) through the snow to the nearest portakabin, and dinner, if you've paid extra for it, as a further yomp through a field to a nearby restaurant, where you're greeted by a bloke dressed in red playing an accordian. This is, no doubt, the equivalent of us welcoming the Canadians to the beautiful Lake District then sending them off to a Harvester to be welcomed by Morris Dancers.

There is, however, a bar, where you can drink out of ice glasses that stick to your lips while sitting on ice seats that stick to your bum, and if you're feeling flush you can buy coffee and hot chocolate there too (probably the hotel's most lucrative product.) In addition there's a slightly irrelevent chapel where the only held are extremely expensive weddings - the rest of the time the chapel is packed with Japanese tourists taking each others' pictures sitting on the altar - and a shop, which is always packed, probably because it isn't made of ice, but is another (somewhat unsightly) portakabin, and is therefore warm. There are fires - rather apologetic looking flames inside glass boxes - in the bar area but if you want to sit next to them you are forced to endure the strains of Celine Dion, Quebec's most internationally-renowned export, being piped through loud speakers around you.

We are extremely gullible creatures. Take the Ice Hotel, for example. We flock there because it's "unique", but why is it "unique"? Because if there were lots of them nobody in their right mind would go there. It's freezing cold (on the website the clever marketing bods of the Ice Hotel use Farenheit when proudly telling you that the thick walls of the building act as a "thermos" and therefore the temperature INSIDE the hotel will never drop below 23F. That's -5C. Thermos? How pissed off would you be if you got out your flask on a cold wonter dinnertime and found it was frozen solid?) It's also overpriced - prices start at £200 a night and that's for a tiny room which has a curtain for a door, rather like an NHS holspital cubicle - and you have to crap in a plastic box over a chemical toilet. Who in their right mind would want to go there?

We did.