September 30th

I’m sitting on the bed of the cheapest, nastiest hotel room in London. If my arms were only slightly longer I’d be able to touch all four walls. Not that I’d want to touch anything in here that I didn’t have to. The shared bathroom next door will not be shared with me as the last occupant clearly had a serious gastro infection and an inability to flush. My suitcase remains firmly shut, wedged between the end of the bed and the wall. Even if I wanted to risk hanging my clothes I couldn’t as there isn’t enough space between wardrobe and bed to open the door, and I suspect the door would fall off if I attempted it anyway. I crawl across the bed and cautiously push open the narrow, rotten window frame and light a cigarette. I doubt very much that the smoke alarm works, or that any of the hotel staff are familiar enough with English law or the English language to tell me that I can’t smoke in here. In the few minutes it takes me to finish a cigarette I watch ten Tube trains pass by my window on the short over-ground stretch to and from Earls Court station

Last minute decisions rarely turn out well, but I wanted to spend one night alone before I head off on the next part of my adventure, not knowing when I might next find some solitude. And, at last, this is my final night under European skies for a while, because in the middle of my passport is a shiny, new visa and in my hand is a one way ticket to South Korea, departing tomorrow evening at 9:30pm from Heathrow.

After thirty depressing minutes, I call my nephew Farren, buy some beer and snacks and take the tube to his student flat, planning to return only when I am so tired I could sleep anywhere. This place qualifies as ‘anywhere’.