Some unusually frigid weather of late has treated us to bursts of snow. Under such romantic conditions, I could not resist the allure of Abney Park Cemetery - my favourite place in this city. I would very much like to live in this chapel.
Lately I have been observing the frenetic finger movements of people playing games on their iPhones and I predict a whole new kind of repetitive strain injury that will emerge. They will call it iPain. I think I already have it, just from watching them. 
In order to exploit my expiring theatre opportunities, I went to see A Cat On A Hot Tin Roof starring James Earl Jones and Phylica Rashad (above). I also saw the ballet of The Snow Queen that I had just missed when I arrived two years ago and Matthew Bourne's powerful and sumptuous Swan Lake (below).
I saw Hairspray for the first time on stage in 2008. I went again last week and was blown away by the cast. Well, the young cast at least. Belinda Carlisle is playing Velma von Tussle and although I will always love her for 'Heaven is a Place on Earth', she is so full of Botox that her happy, sad and angry faces all look exactly the same. I too dislike the lines on my forehead that are settling in for the long haul, but I could never rid myself of the ability to emote. 
After such unadulterated fun, I went to see it again two days later... and to abort a lengthy explanation, I have now seen it four times in one week. It induces all the same feelings as being in love, which is the perfect climax before I leave. Such experiences are the reason why I came here. Also, I may or may not have developed a mild infatuation with one of the cast members, but that's just a sidenote... 
It is Wednesday morning now, one day before I fly to Prague. I'm very organised and have done almost all my packing and shifting. I would have time to go to Hairspray again tonight. Although to be fair, if I go one more time I think the cast will be taking restraining orders out against me. It would be so easy though. But I must not. I will not. I will not tell my supervisor that I'm going to the Farmer's Market while I race along to the Shaftesbury Theatre to get another ticket for my last night. Will not. But could.okayIgottarunbye!
For the first time in my life, I spent Christmas Day without seeing another human being. It was bliss. I would love it if all my Christmases were spent this way. On Boxing Day I flew to elegant Vienna to spend the night with a friend before taking the bus up into the Czech Republic. I alighted in Brno (above) and spent a few days enjoying the snow that fell on a city quieter and quainter than London.
Fortunately, this third visit to the capital of Hungary coincided with my friend Kelsey who was visiting her boyfriend Ali (above). 
Speaking of appetites, this beautiful big spider started building a web in my window recently. He was a little too large for comfort, so I put him in the back yard. Two days later I came home late at night to find that he had climbed back up two stories to my wide-open window and was building a large circular web. At that point I didn't have the heart to destroy his work and I respect the effort so much that I simply layered up for the night and left the window open. He stayed there for two days before I escorted him to the FAR end of the back yard this time.
Having forgotten about Daylight Savings on the Sunday morning, I got up an hour earlier than I realised and wandered about in solitude through the Oxford University Botanic Gardens.
At the far end of the Gardens I took a seat in the chill morning shade and had a look over my map. To my great surprise, I discovered that I was sitting on Will & Lyra's seat: the very spot where the main characters of Pullman's Dark Materials promised to meet on Midsummers Day. I rippled with goosebumps when I realised. A little red-breasted robin flew up to me and said hello while I sit - I'm sure he was dying to say something. 
Naturally, no trip was complete without paying my respects to the aesthetically pleasing dead. The St Sepulchre's Graveyard was overgrown and rambling, full of memories and ghosts. I hope that one day my remains can lie in such a beautiful place as this.
It is a little depressing to think that this time last year I was backpacking through Europe, exploring fairy-tale towns and magical villages. Maybe that trace of resentment is the reason why when I saw a man in the lift reading a book called 'The Big Book of Yes Attitude', I could barely resist the urge to punch him. Then again, I think I would have had that reaction at the best of times. Just imagine what I would do to the author...
This year I learned that that one of my favourite literary worlds was in fact a real place, so armed with my superior sense of solar navigation and the map in the front of the book, I embarked on a pilgrimage to Watership Down. The land itself is owned by Andrew Lloyd Webber and it is so unassuming that without prior knowledge, one would never notice that they had stumbled upon the home of those famous rabbits. 
This view affords a glimpse of the Hampshire environs through which Fiver and his followers trekked in search of a new home. The Downs were cold and I soon shivered in my thin clothes as I watched the underside of the trees breathe and whisper in the chill autumn wind.
An attempt to climb this tree resulted in being thrown to the ground (I hadn't asked him for permission). When I tumbled to the ground, I landed on barbed wire which ripped a Harry-Potter-scar-shaped cut into my hand. Apparently you can only catch tetanus if the metal is rusty. Clean barbed wire is fine.
The previous fortnight I spent in the hitherto unexplored land of Slovakia with Matej, a fellow adventurer who couch-surfed with me earlier this year. I flew into Bratislava and wandered around on buses until I reached the village of Svätý Anton, nestled in the hills of the country's heart. We stayed several nights in an ancient cottage that had its own well, no indoor plumbing and a sloping lawn full of musical grasshoppers. In the attic I found a chest of newspapers dating back through the communist era of Czechoslovakia and even before World War II.
Apparently Anton was the 'patronus' of hunters (I think he meant 'patron saint') so for that first weekend they held a Hunting Festival in which everybody gathered to display various parts of dead animals for decoration and consumption. It went somewhat against my convictions, but it's just part of their culture and as I have not yet ascended to godhood, my vengeance shall have to be banked.
The presence of New Zealander was considered unusual enough that I was given a special invitation to a nearby Falconry school to observe and experience. Matej starred in the best photo of the day with this magnificent golden eagle.
We climbed the forests and lakes of Banská Štiavnica, wandered around Banská Bystrica and made our way eventually to Beňadiková near Liptovský Mikuláš where his father lives. For three days I surrended to a regime of rank gluttony, attemping to retrieve myself from the emaciation that has wasted my body of late. 
From there, we journeyed to his hometown Štrbské pleso (above) and climbed Mount Rysy in the High Tatras. Although it was only 2500m high, I was quite dizzy by the time we reached the top to look over into the wilds of Poland.
After Sunday night staying with his grandmother in Žilina, we took off to Brno in the Czech Republic to set up his new room in time for the new semester. I discovered that I do not like painting. I also rediscovered that sometimes I have a shamefully vile attitude about things.
My final four days were in Svätý Jur with his mother and grandmother. We were just in time for the harvest so we gathered grapes in the vineyard for a day and then operated their 150 year old wine press, turning them into sweet juice for fermentation. As part of the experience, I tried my first two glasses of wine and for the first time in my life I got a little drunk. I can't say I'm a fan of the sensation. Near to his house were the magnificent ruins of Biely Kameň castle, but my most magical moment occurred during our day-trip into Bratislava. 
I was wandering through the old town and came upon a courtyard surrounded by the towering ruins of old brick buildings, hollowed out by years of neglect. Windows stared vacantly like the eyes of skulls and the doors gaped into rooms and cellars long abandoned by the living. How could I resist going in? 
The nettles stung me as I stepped into the shadows and I paid the toll gladly, brandishing the burning welts on my arms as right of entry. In silent ecstasy I climbed the stairs, treading carefully through crumbled mortar and drifts of rubble that glorified the impermanence of human accomplishment. I climbed higher and higher, over snaking ivy and debris until I reached the fourth floor, an attic half exposed to the sky. For a while I sat among the saplings that grew all around and thanked God for entropy. I didn't need to see those constructions in their prime to know that they had never before been so beautiful.
Tired but gratified I made my way back to London on the 20th of September. My neighbourhood may be scabby and foul after the magic of Slovakia, but my own bed is my own bed, and I know I shall return...
Some argue against the virtue of celebrity placements in the theatre, but there are times when it works very well. Ethan Hawke was delightfully camp as Autolycus in The Winter's Tale, and Sinead Cusack shone in The Cherry Orchard. That woman is so amazing I would watch her doing the dishes. Rachel Weisz seems overly youthful and luscious for the role of Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire, but she explored the role perfectly. Opposite her in the role of Stanley, Elliot Cowan was the most brutally exquisite specimen of a male I've seen in a long while, yet I have never loathed a character quite so much as I despised him. I will miss all this when I return to New Zealand.
On the 22nd I flew to France and met my friend Michael for a weekend trip to Disneyland Paris. I watched the opening special when it first opened as EuroDisney in 1992 so the nostalgia was thick and fast. We began with the iconic 'It's a small world after all', in which I became increasingly certain that the dolls were staring at me, resenting me, dreaming of awful things to do to me if they were able to drag me down under the building after lights-out...
We were cursed with blue skies and 30+ degrees and I walked around with an umbrella to shield me from the relentless Ultra-Violet. I thought I would attract stares but no one seemed to even notice. The umbrella proved itself to be a god-send, as by mid afternoon even the swarthy Mediterranean types were struggling under the onslaught of the sun.
I was rather worried about the weekend, that the commercial reality of a corporation such as Disney would leave my childhood fantasies of Disneyland in tatters, but I really did have a great time. The rollercoaster rides were pretty wild and even the more tame attractions had their own charm. The Spinning Cups ride was one of the most fun, in which we spun the wheel until the back-breaking centrifuge left us staggering from the cup, delirious with laughter. 
I was disappointed with the merchandise that was available. There were great quantities, but it was mostly dross. Everything was horribly Mickey-obsessed, with very little of Donald Duck who I greatly prefer. He's foul-tempered and a downright prat. What's not to like? Uncle Scrooge is my ultimate favourite and the only thing they had of him was a lapel badge. 
And is it just me, or could Stadtler and Waldorf have stood in for Stewart and McKellen without anyone noticing?
The drab London summer is perfect weather for vampires, so naturally I am happy as well. Since Canada I have laid low in an attempt to conserve funds, choosing to enjoy instead the diviner pleasures in life, like doing yoga in the rain at night. I am a true kiwi and prefer the world when the sun goes down. See... even this swimming pool looked better at night.
Recently, I narrowly avoided becoming a neighbourhood statistic. After seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (below) again, I found myself walking through a rather deserted area about ten minutes from my house. Three demographic stereotypes in black hoods crept up behind me just before I crossed a bridge that would have left me quite trapped and at their mercy. Alerted by their quickening footsteps behind me, I spun around to find them almost on top of me with two of the three fanned out on either side to prevent me from running. I swerved into the last doorway before the bridge and pounded loudly on the door. The boys called me a pussy and slithered away, unnerved by the potential attention I had attracted. After a few seconds, I sprinted down a side-street and waited with two men outside a house for several minutes. The three boys did return and waited at the end of the street, watching me like patient predators. Eventually they left and I returned home, overwhelmed with gratitude that I was spared whatever crime they intended. 
Now, if I am walking home at night, I carry a nice pointy pen in my hand. It’s useful not only for taking notes as I go, but for defending myself against thugs, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Death Eaters. The other night as I took a relaxing bath, I enjoyed a soundtrack of crashing noises, screams and angry yelling, a multitude fighting, dogs barking and sirens wailing. You can imagine how in my current living situation, I am quite intrigued by the outbreak of Swine Flu and I'm quite disappointed that they are coming out with a cure. Disease is nature's legitimate method for reducing populations that have swollen beyond sustainability. Thanks to the smiley-faced devil of medical science, our species has bypassed all natural mechanisms for controlling our numbers and now our population is increasing exponentially at the expense of countless other forms of life. We are mimicking the way a malignant tumour ravages the body that sustains it, and I'm just waiting for a giant doctor to come along with a giant scalpel. 
I recently watched the trailer for 2012, an upcoming disaster film about the end of our civilisation. It got me all excited.
On Saturday, Christopher and Serge married each other in a simple, heartfelt ceremony that took place beneath a maple tree in the front yard of Christopher's family home. I was one of many who crossed oceans and continents to attend.
Together we climbed Mount Royal, the central hill from which the city derives its name. We lost ourselves in the forest as we ascended, hiding behind rocks and racing each other up the slopes. At the summit we watched as dark, angry clouds rolled languorously over Montreal, the air thickening with tension. When the downpour began, we sprinted back down the hillside, overtaking each other in turns until we emerged, wet and exhilarated at our apartment on Fort & Maisonneuve. It was like being a child again.
Rio the hair-factory uses the plughole to dispose of the bodies of her enemies. Even when she does not have any body parts to discard, she likes to hang out in the bath, just to pay her respects to the dead. She's a lady that way.
I saw my first skunk and a friendly raccoon running around a park at night. 
Montreallers are brilliantly bilingual and they switch between French and English with ease. It really is a European city. Their independent sense of culture and identity is quite understandable. They are also really really really good looking. However, people are still people, and I was asked for a light by a man on the street who then commented, "You speak really nice English. Is it Shakespearean?" It would have taken too long to explain how deeply mistaken he was about (probably) so many things, so I just smiled and said, "Yes. Yes it is."
It was sad to say goodbye to Xavier so soon. He is ten years my junior, but my senior in generosity and kindness. After six nights there I returned to Toronto which is in the throes of a midsummer garbage strike. Rubbish bags are piled up in parks and lots, while the bins on the street are overflowing like cornucopias of human wastage. It's about time that we saw what pigs we really are. Perhaps this swine flu is quite appropriate...
Toronto reintroduced me to a subsection of society that I think I had forgotten about. Generally considered to be a cult, this group uses standard cult rhetoric such as "You Belong" to enforce their group mentality, and even develop their own districts in an attempt to cloister themselves away from the rest of the world. I am speaking, of course, of the cult of the gays. 
I stumbled up one of their communes as I walked up Church Street. I was first tipped off when I noticed a profusion of rainbows. The gays, like George Bush, need to see a flag every few steps otherwise they can be easily disoriented and forget where they are. I attracted many stares as I walked through, looking waxen and cadaverous in my heavy sunscreen. They must have been wondering what Gollum was doing so far away from Middle Earth, and in the middle of the day. I didn't linger too long for fear that they might think I was also a gay. Of all the nerve. What would the ladies in my prayer circle think?? 
After four nights, I journeyed 450 kms northeast in Ottawa, the nation's capital. I stayed with Jamie, a friend I've not seen since 2001 in Korea. We spent my first full day driving around Gatineau Park and hiking around Pink Lake. 
On Wednesday I foolishly walked two hours into town in relentless sun and 35
Prior to the commencement of another long weekend I stuck out my umbrella and caught the nearest firm breeze to Sweden. Stockholm is an elegant and attractive city, featuring a profusion of waterways between the islands that make up the capital, and a lovely Old Town in the centre of the archipelago.
On my first night I was hosted by a very odd Canadian man with very dubious communication skills. For a translator, I found that odd. Also odd was the continual puckering of his mouth, contorting of his lower face and general grimacing that gave him all the appearance of a wizened, toothless crone. There was nothing for us to talk about. He didn't understand any of the ideas I expressed, and I don't have the slightest regard for being trendy or fabulous.
They are working on an impending exhibition about toilets with a working title of 'The Big Sh!t Exhibition'. I suggested 'Nature Calls', which they were so delighted with, they have adopted it as the formal name and will be inviting me back to Stockholm later in the year. Whether or not circumstances permit me to attend, it is a wonderful connection to make with the city.
Night buses are a trial already, without an idiotic pair of breeders deeming it appropriate to bring a screaming baby on board. The fantasies that ran through my mind were quite universally felonious.
Not a great amount happened in Ireland and everything I considered amusing falls definitely under the category of "You had to be there". So to avoid boring you with anecdotes that die upon the retelling, I leave you with a photo of my visit to the C.S. Lewis statue and my favourite quote from the trip.
Uttered confidently by a random Irish woman: "I studied geography: I don't need directions."
The next day I struggled for hours through fields of thorns and gorse before meeting up with a fellow couch-surfer named Simon. From the austere settlement of Princetown he took me on another large walk through lonely moors and stately ruins so rich with silence that unshelling an egg seemed intrusively loud. 
I spent the evening in a farm cottage complete with a firey hearth, a cage of cheeping chicks on the table and a sweethearted but rather unphotogenic sow in the shed nearby. The hearty Easter roast was the best food I've tasted since Christmas in the countryside of Austria. 
Another night of tranquility, an ebon sky littered with diamonds and then in the morning I was off to Exeter for a drawn out day of waiting for my bus. My imagination is still humming with the places I saw, the emotions I felt and the ghosts that grazed my mind as I wandered through their haunts. 
It is the weekend, and as usual I slept most of the day away, waiting for the garish sun to set before venturing outside. I went for a long walk after midnight which I enjoyed so much I have decided that nighttime is the new daytime.
What with the budget pressures of the current time, I have been living a stringently ascetic lifestyle. If left to my own devices, my diet becomes so spartan that my last meal was composed of day-old toast, three-day old leftovers and a much maligned banana.
The snow was short-lived. The ground is now bare and dry. A moment of silence please...
God bless London for its hubbish qualities. My ex-Dymocks/flatmates Adri & Andrew passed through recently and we all caught up for dinner and a midnight stroll along Westminster. With my new camera lens from Flourish & Blots I managed to snap a fleeting image of the Knight Bus.
I returned to my occasional catering role at NZ Embassy on Friday night, serving wine at a book launch. The service part I perform with excellence, but the minute someone actually asks me about the alcohol I look like a Mormon who has just been asked an unscripted question. The most recent (and vaguely repetitive) incident went as follows: 
One fun night out I went with an ex-Dominion workmate to see La Cage Aux Folles (The Birdcage) with a workmate in which Graeme Norton starred with a stageful of dancers, the calibre of which I have rarely if ever witnessed. If I could throw my leg over my head like that it would open up so many career opportunities. In this time of uncertainty and mass redundancy it might be something to work towards...
The Donmar production of Twelfth Night was also an utter treat, with our friend Harry (the burglaresque fellow third from left) in a hilarious capacity as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. A group of seven of us went to see him. I miss Harry. He's delightfully dry.
