Further Notes from a Random Life

London is proving as physically challenging as Spain – except that now I don't get to spend my days lolling about, recovering and preparing for the onslaught ahead. I'm running on fumes here at the moment, and am looking forward to getting some sleep soon.

I provide, for your amusement, a couple of random snapshots from events transpiring since last we spoke.

This Is Your Captain Speaking

I caught up with an old friend last week who is a mere fortnight away from being legally permitted to fly a large tin can full of people through the air to exotic destinations across Europe. He was full of excellent stories that simultaneously delighted and scared me shitless.

For instance, when asked to demonstrate the protocol for an engine fire, he begins with: "So, I'm sat there reading the paper....".

He confirmed that he does indeed get to wear a hat and a badge to work; that you really do only need one engine to fly perfectly well and any extras are merely for backup; and that the reason more pilots die of heart attacks than any other cause is not (as I guessed) due to stress but the fact that, and I quote, they "spend entire decades sat on their arse."

He had a video on his phone of a session he and a fellow trainee had done in a simulator recently where a landing went quite horribly wrong. Watching the ground approach from the cockpit windscreen, knowing that disaster was imminent but still being shocked at the violence of the crunch as the plane hit cured me of any lingering regret that I was never one of those kiddies who got to visit the cockpit back in the day.

I pleaded with my friend not to waste the opportunity of a lifetime to work the classic line "It's my first day!" somewhere into his PA patter during his maiden voyage. While he agreed that this would be pure comedy gold, he had to respectfully decline on the basis that pilots are specifically forbidden to tell jokes. It's in their manual and everything. Something to do with some parade-raining spoilsports out there who really don't have a sense of humour about flying. Sigh.

I like that I have a pilot friend with whom I can have the following SMS conversation:

"Hey, pilot friend. Come to our BBQ this afternoon."

"I can't, I'm in the sim, practising Flap-25 landings. They're rare, but very serious."

"Oh, okay. Good excuse. Practise hard."

Weekend in the Country

On the weekend I went to a wedding in rural England, back in Devon where I lived six years ago. It was spectacularly beautiful - the sun came out for real for the first time since I've been here, and as the train trundled across the countryside I could look up from my nap every now and again and gaze serenely at rolling green fields and hedges - the storybook England of glorious cliché, one classic jigsaw-puzzle scene after another.

The wedding itself was lovely, as weddings often are. The beautiful day helped, as did my fabulous shoes. I had the exquisite pleasure of approaching an old university friend and, after greeting him enthusiastically, watching him struggle to work out who the hell I was. He recovered quickly, but it was fun all the same. It's endlessly amusing to be the last person anyone would expect to turn up to a particular event, especially when you are generally assumed to be safely tucked away on the other side of the world.

The ceremony was in a wonderful old church, and the sunlight spilling through the stained glass windows provided a persistent distraction from all the Jesus in the air. I learned that if it is at all possible, one should retain the services of a professional BBC radio announcer to perform a reading during one's wedding - it is, in fact, a pleasure to hear anything read aloud if it is done that well. Danny could have been reading the phone book (and perhaps he was, I was lost in the soothing sounds) and I would have enjoyed it just as much.

J,The will be very amused to note that one of the hymns during the service was that perennial favourite, 'Lord of the Dance'. I wished she had been there to provide the movements.

The party was in the Great Hall at a massive old estate - as we drove in and gazed upon the clusters of ivy-choked stone buildings I could almost hear the pitiful cries of the ye olden day starving serfs groaning under the yoke of submission to their feudal lord and master. Then I blocked my ears and went and cavorted as madly as the occasion seemed to demand. Among the guests at the event were several individuals of my acquaintance of an exceptionally high quality with whom I spent many happy hours catching up on the years that have passed since our last occasion of mutual drunkenness.

I finally indulged a long-held desire to actually call the couple in question on their decision to include amusingly random household items on their wedding list, and have sent them a lemon squeezer for a gift. It's a really good lemon squeezer, and I figured no home is complete without one. I can't wait for the thank-you note: "Dear jLo, thank you for our exquisite stainless steel lemon squeezer. We will use it and think of you for years to come." Excellent.

And, lastly -

In other random news, the oft-mentioned Mr Canadia has arrived in London. Welcome, Mr C! Amusingly, he is currently dossing at Casa de jLo & Mr Juicy, and it is exceptionally weird to be typing this with him sitting across the room (tapping away on his own Mac, it's a veritable nerd-fest). Valencia and Amsterdam seem very far away right now, and yet now there's a piece of that trip right here.

My life is a very strange place indeed.

Stay tuned, my friends, next up will be the exclusive Ficklish preview of a certain largish sporting tournament that folks seem pretty damn excited about. Smooches to you all.