Smelly bastards. And British Rail

OK, so it's not called British Rail any more, but for once I will have something nice to say about them. But that's to come. First, I am celebrating.

Why am I celebrating? Because today was the first time in two weeks that I had a shower. The past fortnight has been a melange of sponge baths, unsatisfying hairwashes, flannel wipes and on one memorable occasion it rained while I was at the bus stop.

I won't say it was easy, because it quite patently wasn't. It was like trying to organise one of those 'cross the river with a plank and an oil-drum' exercises, only with special-ed kids. I utilised every piece of furniture in the bathroom, some things from out of the bathroom and, ingeniously, a piece of rope. It paid off, I'm clean and also feel like a new person, albeit one with a mangy leg.

Yesterday was return-to-France day. On Monday I had my staples removed - an experience that everyone I spoke to said was easy, far easier than having stitches removed. As a result, I know I never want to have stitches. It sucked really badly - and it sucked really badly 25 times - I recommend against any form of surgery now purely on this basis.

However, I had the immense fun of travelling from Fleet to Paris on public transport with no flying and one leg. Entertaining, yes. Fun, no. The good thing was SouthWest Trains and the Eurostars' "Mong Service", which involved collecting me from every arrival point; driving me around in a groovy little golf-buggy affair and dropping me at the next point (all the while carrying my luggage for me). In fairness the only bad part about the journey was the pain of sitting down for hours on end. That and the fact that they didn't tell me the Eurostar terminal was no smoking until I had got in there and sat down 2 hours before my train.

I eventually got home, and am now a true Parisian intellectual - I will be sitting here for a few weeks now sharing my useless thoughts with the world, drinking wine and doing no real work. Bliss.