I'll take you to foggy London Town.

My Thursday started ordinary enough, I suppose. The Standard Thursday Phrase, 'So, what are you going to do this weekend,' was passed around more times than a bowl of rice at a Chinese dinner table (Heyo?). But when it came to the answer most replied with a bemused and uninterested shrug, a smug shrug, if you will. Whereupon, one of the many, many people I know suggested with a cheerful smirk, 'Let's go to London.' This suggestion was met with uproarious applause, a few playful noddings, and one hideous evil eye (that man did not go nor will I ever speak to him again!). London then. It was settled. Now what to do?

We decided to meet Friday night to discuss fervently our plan of attack, upon which the fate of our enjoyment rested. We decided to meet Friday night to ready ourselves for the days ahead, mentally prepare ourselves for what should and could be a moment not worth forgetting. We decided to meet Friday night in a Pub.

20:00. Chancellors Bar and Restaurant. I arrive promptly, as is my nature, to find the pints have already been poured. No worries, I shall have myself one poured and join my team who must be ever-ready to plan the days ahead. After the pouring has ceased I join my companions at a rather elegantless picnic table outside. 'So, what time are we to leave tomorrow,' I query. 'We have to wait for Myeke, who has the train timetables,' was the uninterested response. Very well, I shall enjoy my beer as there is no real rush and I can't imagine she'll be along. Myeke arrives unceremoniously half way through my second pint, timetable in hand. Oh bully, now let the planning begin! 'Let's leave at 09:27.' 'Okay.' 'What do you want to do there?' 'I don't know.' 'I want to go to the British Museum.' 'Okay.' 'I'd like to go to the Tate Modern.' 'Okay.' 'Another pint?' 'Yes please.' And so it went.

Saturday morning and luck was on our side, an absolutely beautiful morning. I strolled with a few of my compatriots to the bus stop on route to the train station. After the normal morning niceties I bravely asked Scott, a fellow New Mexican (viva la raza!), 'About how may people are coming, do you think?' 'Well,' pause,'I think I told the Fins, a few Spanish girls, one or two of the Germans, perhaps the guys from Hong Kong, and us five.' 'Oh okay. Just curious.'

It should be known that the trains are absolutely wonderful in the UK. Sharp, fast, clean, easy to handle, quick to the helm...my, they are yar. (You know you've hit a new low when you make a Katherine Hepburn reference that has no relevance at all to what you're describing and most people have probably never heard of, simply to use the word yar.) Nevertheless the trains in these parts are a dream. Five pound ten to travel into London and use the tube all day is something that should be cherished like a new born child. Unless, of course, you find yourself in an undesirable seat.

Now it should be known that really I am in absolutely no position to complain, especially after Peter's delightful experience on the trains in China, but I just thought I would share with you a small, tiny, itsy (wait for it) bitsy, quasi-comical episode aboard the train.

But now that I've built it up, I find it unfunny and uninteresting and I'm regretting making something out of it. So, quickly, I sat between two of the Germans in our party (which came out to be 16) who talked most of the way in a pleasant and deliciously tasteful mixture of German and English, which I call Germlish. Then to include me, as I must of have looked rather sad or depressed or constipated, they asked me about American swear words. So they had a jolly ol' time, along with the 80 year-old refined and no-doubt appalled British couple sitting in front of us, trying out what you could and couldn't say on American TV. But you know me, I can't complain.

Then, just when I thought all hope was lost, we pulled into Waterloo Station and disembarked into the busiest and most frequented train station in the UK.