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Just to put you out of your misery, the curtains won.

SO! Have arrived in Charlotte after a nightmare trip in the plane. Normally the Toronto Charlotte trip  is on a small plane, max of 24 people and if you stand up your head hits the ceiling. Usually there are four or five people on it. Yesterday there was 24. It was hideous. These planes aren’t designed for a full complement of people, certainly not the chunky Americans (and Australian)  on board.  The engines struggled, the take off was laboured, the plane wobbled like a jelly all the way up… It got better but only just.  Then the air conditioner turned itself off. Hurrah. Fortunately I survived the trip (obviously..) and then caught up with Trey and Wesley.

We went to the most fabulous restaurant, the Capital Grille in Charlotte. It was exquisitely decored (if that is such a word) and impressively priced. This place was fine. And it had THE most exquisite martini I have ever tasted. Superbness in a glass. So I had two. And we had wine, which somehow or another donated money to charity by us buying it. And all up, between the three of us, we had 1 and a half bottles. So keep this in perspective, two martinis and maybe if I was lucky two glasses of wine. Truly not a lot and, in normal circumstances, I would scoff at and ask for more.

I was hammered.

I have never in my life been more drunk. I attribute it to sleep deprivation and having flown 15 hours but I was so maggotted I couldn’t see straight. There was two of everyone, Wesleys, Treys, waiters, restaurants. I went to the toilet with Wesley and completely broke all tradition by having lovely chats with everyone in the toilet. Evidently it is the room for no discourse, much like a gay bar. (Minds out of the gutters please. It was all innocent. I was way, way too smashed to be of any use to anyone.) I walked back from the toilet and marvelled at the way the room was like a roller coaster, ups and downs and spinny.  We went back to the motel and I was poured out of the car. I walked through the lobby hoping that no one would realise how smashed I was. I staggered to my room, all the while giggling to myself that no one knew I was drunk then entered the room.

Then there was the curtains. Still open and ridiculing me with its openness. Being drunk yet sensible I tried to close the fricking things. Being drunk yet not sensible I had stripped off and thrown all my clothes on the floor in drunken piles of shame. Thus, dressed for battle, I began the curtain war. For the life of me I could not work out where the curtain rods were to pull them shut. I looked for ages. I gave up and tried to pull them shut with brute force. No luck. They weren’t budging. After twenty minutes of doing everything possible with the curtains I realised I was showing my all to Charlotte who possibly wasn’t too impressed to see the fat, naked drunken Australian swearing his head off while he tried to wrap himself with curtains. Eventually I stormed off to bed where I instantly lapsed into my alcoholic coma.

I woke at five where I could then see the curtain rods and see the pretend curtains they use to pretty up the room but don’t actually work. The real curtains were on the inside, behind the netting. I pulled them shut, swearing as I did so. Charlotte had seen more than enough of naked Nigel.

I

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AAAAAARRRGGGHHH

While the Internet is indeed a wondrous thing here, faster, easier access, cheaper sometimes you hit a wall as a traveller, particularly on the days when you absolutely need to access the net.

As a traveller I buy access in chunks, use up a chunk then buy a new one. Which is fine if the shops are open to buy a new chunk. Or if the website accepted australian credit cards.

So i returned home last night to realise that i had left the comp on for some reason. And while I had downloaded the latest episode of Glee I had run out of usage. And try as i might, no way of accessing it until this afternoon.

Not having the internet is like me losing a limb.

So apologies for lack of post and lack of emails I owed people

And Glee was not even very good.

(why have people stopped commenting? Are you all on holidays?)

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I sent Wesley a birthday present for his 51st. A boring tie and another present. All wrapped beautifully.

Now you remember the haircut/ beard clipper abstinence when I was losing weight. I got particularly woolly and was harassed daily by Wesley to trim the bloody thing. He was relentless. I have to admit I was keen to do so but had to hold out.

So when I did trim it finally I kept Mr Thompson in mind and saved the clippings to send to him. I even told him I would do so. He didn’t believe me because, really, who would be stupid enough to do such a thing. Me! I’d be that stupid.

So I wrapped them beautifully and posted them along. And waited for a response. And waited. And waited.

I was becoming a bit concerned when Wesley advised that the parcel had arrived finally. And had been opened. And been DNA tested. And had a bio sticker on it. And an identity number.

Then, to make matters even MORE genius, they rewrapped it for him.

I love the fact that my beard is considered a terrorist threat. Love it. Love the fact it was DNA tested. Love the fact they rewrapped it, which was really sweet of them. LOVE the fact I am mad enough to do it.

I just wish it had been more than just beard hair.

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So as you know I lost my luggage. Here then is the story of that fateful Saturday and really, truly, what I went through.

OK so first thing you need to remember is …. still sick. Seriously that guy did a number on me and have another blog in me about how ill I am as I think I may have turned into the walking dead and they forgot to tell me. For the moment, just know that I cannot walk anywhere without sweating buckets. There’s more but it can wait.

Oh you gotta be f***ing kidding me. I just wrote spiels on what happened and something went wrong and I’ve lost about three pages of writing. I am seriously cursed. I tried. I don’t have it in me to do it again tonight.

Oh I could just cry.

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Sorry

My apologies for the last post.

The situation, which I will go into detail in the respective blog post, was that my hand luggage was lost on the bus in transit to Charles De Gaulle airport. In it, amongst many other things, was my cords for the laptops and phones.

I was trying to write one last post before the battery on the comp died. I did so but, in my efforts to get it out, as literally I had seconds to write something, I was vague and not able to articulate fully and some of the comments indicated their concern for my health or mental state or both or whatever.

Believe me, if I ever top myself, I will announce it clearly here.

I am still searching for the bag. I do not believe I will ever see it again. I have spent all my time in London trying to locate it. I am beyond pissed off about it. I really am sick of being shafted all the time.

Anyway, I am sorry for any worry the last post caused. I am back on track after paying 60 quid for a new lap top cord.

Now to answer the emails enquiring if I was ok, thank you for those who showed concern. I appreciate it.

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Quick

For reasons  I will get into when I can, this is all I can write tonight.

Not happy. Clock is ticking.

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To fully appreciate this story, please remember at all times that I am feeling like a dog. Score out of ten wise I am a three. I have a raspy voice that is rapidly dying on me. I ache all over. And if someone had paid me ten quid I would have stayed in bed and curled up and died rather than traversed continents.

Anyway, whining over.  I got up at 0630 (yay) to be there for a 9 am flight from London to Heathrow.  I arrive there in plenty of time, plenty of time!!!!, to find that, for some reason the automatic teller won’t read my passport and I have to queue to see a real live person. A real live person who loves to natter it would appear. Each and every time. I waited in the line for thirty minutes while he served two (!!!!) people. Everyone thought he was marvelous as he was filling in the customers on every possible detail of their trip however I was glaring at him, wishing him dead so that someone less verbose would come and serve.

I finally get to the talky man and he tells me that I needed to be here half an hour earlier as I will have to run like the wind to get to the connecting flight (by this time they are boarding.) I give him SUCH a serve however my rubbish voice diminishes any possible threat I could have made and I sound more like a dormouse with PMT than anything.

I do indeed run to the airport gate and again thank God that someone in every airport in the world decided that the best temperature in any airport is subtropical.  Why???? Seriously why does it have to be so humid in airports? Do they want everyone to be drowned in sweat while they travel? Surely it costs the airlines money to have clean up the sodden sweat marks off the seats.

Anyway, as this is already an epic and I haven’t even go to the thing I want to discuss yet, I do get there on time and take a trip in what must be the oldest plane I have ever flown in. It still had ashtrays in its seat handles.  We miraculously arrive without dying and I enter Charles De Gaulle Airport and go through customs. As I finish customs a man in uniform motions for us all to go “this way” which we do and, before I know it, I am outside in the real world.  I look for a baggage carousel to pick up my suitcase and, sickeningly, begin to realize that the luggage is behind the barriers I was just ushered through.

I find a sign regarding baggage so I walk there in the dim hope that my luggage was there. Now I don’t know how long Charles De Gaulle airport is but let’s say five miles. Where I am is about ten foot from the beginning of the five miles, where the luggage was proved to be about ten foot from the end. Fortunately the airport had embraced the “lets make it feel like a rain forest” policy so I could keep myself amused by how many ringlets of sweat were forming on my body.

I do indeed, finally, find the luggage department only to be told that I had to be back where I had arrived and discuss my issues with British Airways.  Despite feeling completely crushed at this, I rally myself that I am walking for Britain and I must be shifting some weight even if it is sweat.

I return to British Airways and am told by a woman that I have to re-enter the boarding area and obtain my bag there.  I am HIGHLY dubious about this but she is insisting so, for no apparent reason, I try to reenter the boarding area. I get past passport check but my boarding card is naturally no longer valid and I have the wrath of the security people who want to know why I am trying to get into the boarding area so I can blow things up, presumably. I explain to four different people, who between them have enough English to understand what I am trying to do, and they tell me to return to British Airways and get them to sort it.  (To be honest, I am not sure why British Airways couldn’t sort this. Surely I wasn’t the only traveller who was ushered out to the exit by well-meaning or malicious security people. I had a bag claim stub. It shouldn’t have been this hard.)

Anyway I again present to British Airways who, this time, give me a form saying why I need to reenter and again tell me to go present to the security at the entrance.  This seems even more ridiculous so as soon as I get there I present said form and watch them scoff openly.  My voice is completely dead by now. A man, in broken English (and way better than my French) tells me I need to go to Customs and discuss my predicament with them.

I enter customs and meet a large black man who is dismissive of me that I cannot speak French, though to be fair by now I couldn’t speak. I write what I have done down for the man who reads this. He queries that I have left my luggage behind. I nod affirmatively. He then tells me I am a stupid boy for doing so and he will have to help me.  What you need to know about French Airports is that it is guarded by Army men armed with machine guns. At this exact point I wished for an army man to be present so I could insert their machine gun into this man’s rectum and fire happily

I clearly get quite homicidal when I feel sick.

Anyway, ultimately after I give the man my meanest wither, he directs me to a customs officer who lets me in to retrieve my baggage. The end. Sooooooooooooooooooooooo fricking simple but for some reason that took two hours while one department played blame the other department.

So I catch a train to Disneyland and am completely and utterly exhausted. My mother is beside herself that I can’t speak. So of course, they keep asking me questions. Ha!

The day improved. The day definitely improved. As weary as I was you cannot help but be charmed by Disney.  That and the bitching Thunder Mountain Railroad ride which is seriously awesome.

I was in bed by 9. Dead by 910. More tomorrow.

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