Piccadilly to Cockfosters

Selamat malam Malaysia, at least for the weekend.

Am greeted at the airport in KL by not one but a team of four “meet and greet” personnel employed by the Monsoon Cup. They literally whisk me to the hotel that is attached to the airport and deposit me there where I will spend 6 hours before breakfast with Kevin Wilson and 12 hours of drugged discomfort to London. Asian hospitality makes Arab culture seem standoffish.

Kevin Wilson was the Principal Race Officer (el jeffe) for the event I had just finished as Regatta Secretary aka “torture on a spreadsheet”. He was PRO for the Olympic Sailing in Quingdao, and absolutely sparkles when doling compliments or sharing autobiographic accounts. An absolute peach of a man – and if that isn’t a metaphor it should be. Slightly crisp, and sweet with a warm fuzzy embrace. He had some radical theories about Olympic sailing – great amo for my interview in England.

I landed, half-heartedly hoping my friend had checked her Facebook messages so she would know SURPRISE! I would be in town, and could I stay over, and perhaps she could bring some gloves when she came to meet me? Gracias! And by god I received a text at baggage claim – Piccadilly line to Baron’s Court. Despite my dazed post-flight indifference to the world around me, and admittedly residual post-sleeping pill shakiness, I couldn’t help but freak out when I found out where I was headed: “This is the Piccadilly Line to Cockfosters” – WHAT?! Did that polite automated English woman just say what I thought she did?

Miracles happen – and I was met by girl and gloves. A necessity as going from 5 to 55 degrees North can be a SHOCKER in the imminent December days. Rosie ironically just had two job interviews herself, and I was headed to one the next evening in Newcastle. We spent the next morning tromping all around central London – pictures in front of Big Ben, ate “Sausage and Mash” etc.

After flying up to Newcastle, I was checked into a proper B&B, and I could help feeling like I was actually IN a quaint British “PommyWood” picture like Calendar Girls. Complete with the “exploding toilet” episode when I woke up at 0300 to check the trickling sound, soaking wet floor, opened the bowl and was shot in the face by a freezing waterspout. I wedged a cup over the leak and somehow forced the whole operation at least into silence if not submission. Was tickled in the morning by the gregarious clucks of the women who ran the kitchen, “Whot cannAYE getchya, love?” and by the fact that I was literally on the other side of the planet from my habitat of late (Sydney) and I had paid for none of it.

The “interview” entailed more dog-walking and infant and bottle-feeding than I expected, but it was all enjoyable, and only got better when we finally got down to boats. I could be UK bound come February. I’ve always fantasized about having an English bank account…

But in the meantime, I’ve got to get back to Malaysia by Wednesday morning, so can we talk more next week?