Well, it’s happening again. Chloe and Allan have decided to throw caution to the wind and go around the world.​

The route will take us from London – USA – Japan – Vietnam – Malaysia – Dubai – Albania – Greece and back to London.​ With one or two detours I’m sure.

Can we have a Moussaka in Osaka? An Aperol in Albania? A Vimto in Vietnam? A double espresso in Dubai? See Orangutans in Sandakan?

Watch out for various ramblings over the coming 6 months. First stop (via Dublin) is where Chloe is pointing. The Doctor Who convention awaits.

Along with nine million other Londoners, we really needed to get out of the city for a few days. But where? Somewhere accessible by train and not so far that we’d use loads of our time just travelling. How could we choose a destination that the other 8,999,998 Londoners hadn’t thought of too?

It was a mystery. But who better to solve it than Agatha Christie herself? We would use the ABC Murders to guide our holiday choices in 2021. You might recall that the murderer used the ABC Railway Guide to choose the locations of his crimes and, in each town, his victim shared initials with the place. So we’ll be following the bodies. Let’s face it, it’s nowhere near the weirdest thing to happen this year.

First stop, then, is Andover, where poor Alice Ascher met her end. We’re only here for a night and are actually staying a few miles outside town at the Jack Russell Inn (sorry, Andover, but they promised us cocktails in the garden and a very nice room). We pick up a taxi from the station piloted by the very lovely Tim.

On the way to the hotel, he tells us that the current Andover Station isn’t the one that would have been around in Thirties. That was nearer the centre of town. The original railway line is now a main road but the Station Inn still stands next door to the old station site. As Hastings would have said, ‘Good Lord!‘

Dammit. We posed at the wrong station. But all is not lost. Tim is going to pick us up for the return journey in the morning so we’ll make a quick stop off on the way.

With our morning excursion in the bag, we can relax and enjoy all the Jack Russell has to offer. In our case, this is a couple of afternoon negronis (which quickly require a little afternoon nap) and then espresso martinis and a delicious dinner while the sun sets. There’s nothing here but the hotel, a pond and a field full of deer. Perfect.

Next morning, Tim collects us and takes us for a look at the Station Inn. This was definitely a working inn, complete with stables and (possibly) the remains of a railway building. Even better, he’s been doing his research – last night he looked up the ABC Murders to see if he could establish the exact location of the tobacconist where the first murder occurred. Sadly, we all conclude that Agatha Christie took full advantage of artistic licence and made pretty much everything up apart from the name of the station. But kudos to Tim for following detective instincts that Poirot would have been proud of!

After six months spent almost exclusively at home, we were gagging to see somewhere other than Vauxhall. Brighton has sea and is less than two hours away – that’ll do.

We were forced to cancel our trip to Greece back in May, so splashing out on two nights with a sea view at the Brighton Grand feels perfectly justified. Only ever having been here for work during party conferences, we’ve never had to stray further than the downstairs bar. We didn’t realise there were just two rather aged lifts. Trying to keep guests safe, these can only be used one household at a time, so getting up to fifth floor with luggage takes some time. We don’t care – we’re just so excited to see different pavements, buildings, people, wallpaper (you get the gist – even different carpets are a bit exciting).

It’s September, but the last dregs of the glorious summer linger. We’re treated to autumn sunshine and evenings dry and mild enough to sit outside. Oh, the joy of a drink outside a pub with other people (though not too close, obviously). We could really get used to this table service thing.

We walk on the beach.

We eat fish and chips and are dive-bombed by seagulls, of course.

We do some shopping. Get Cutie is the clothing equivalent of an old fashioned sweet shop, a pick ‘n mix of styles and fabrics. Every order can be tailored to your preference. A dress with pockets and a shirt will be delivered in a few weeks.

We do some sightseeing. Drowning in the excess of the Royal Pavilion without the crowds is a rare treat.

We are stalked by a gigantic seagull that hangs around outside our window for the entire trip, fixing us with its thousand-yard stare. What does it want? All the food, we’re guessing.

Most of all we are not in London. It’s a short trip that will keep us going for months to come.

On 23 March 2020, the UK went into lockdown. We had no real idea what was coming or, for the purposes of this blog, how long it would be before we went anywhere…at all.

Touched down in LA around 4.30pm, which was gone midnight UK time. We had just three jobs: get to our apartment, find some dinner, and stay up until at least 9pm.

We achieved the first by hitching a sneaky lift with one of the free LAX hotel shuttles (we were staying just behind the Fairfield Suites). Cheeky.

Job two was completed with a walk out to Ralph’s supermarket and its pretty good sushi counter. Check.

Allan fell at the final hurdle when he completely passed out at 8.45pm. Still, we’re giving ourselves 8 out of 10 for day one!

You know you’re in trouble when they change the actor playing the Doctor and you are swept away on a stormy emotional sea for the next twelve months. That is what happened to me, though it took a very dull management workshop on change for me to realize it.

(You have to pity a team led by someone who relates all management advice to her Doctor Who experiences, but that’s another issue entirely.)

Remember back. Christmas 2009 and New Year 2010. To the excess of food, booze and pointless gifts, add a double episode. Not just any double episode. We know this is the end of the Tenth Doctor. We know ‘he’ will knock three times. We know the Time Lords are back.

I started 2010 quivering with anticipation. I was genuinely tense and almost physically shaking as ‘The End of Time’ part two began. I feel far less foolish about this than perhaps I should, since my better half goes through a similar experience every time Newcastle United play.

And then it happened, as I knew it would. An explosion of golden light, some painful facial contortions and the freshly hatched Eleventh Doctor appeared on our screens. He did a creditable job with very little dialogue to work with – just a catalogue of body parts (legs, arms, fingers, eyes, nose, chin), a moment to bemoan the lack of ginger hair and the sudden realization of imminent danger. Then the credits rolled and I was left…

…angry.

I was ambushed by anxiety, fear, a moment of denial and then, yes, anger.

Let’s take a moment to consult Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s classic ‘change curve’. Originally conceived as a way to map the path through grief, it is now used to help managers understand how people deal with large-scale change.

Step one: Shock
Step Two: Denial
Step Three: Anger

Check. Check. Check. At this rate, I’ll be well on my to stability by about January 5th.

No such luck. I had three months to wait before I could spend any time with Eleven (Matt was just too informal, Smith had too many echoes of John Smith – both suggested acceptance that I just didn’t feel. Eleven he stayed for quite some time.)

I didn’t get on with series five. I loved elements of it. I was able to dissect episodes and offer critical analysis with the best of the Ming Mongs. But I couldn’t embrace the Doctor. I secretly loathed his funny, alienesque bone structure. I brooded resentfully on his elbow patches. I sorrowfully recalled the Tennant years. And I bloody hated bow ties.

Bastard. I was now deeply and fully immersed in Stage Four: Depression

In October 2010, I left the UK to spend six months in South East Asia. In January 2011, while in Vietnam, I was desperate enough buy series five on iTunes. It took seven hours to download each episode, but I was recovering from some spectacular food poisoning and I NEEDED SOME WHO!

So began my journey of recovery. Through Vietnam and into Cambodia, I re-watched and re-digested the beginning of the Smith years. After so many months in the wilderness, I re- discovered my funny, sad, angry and, yes, glorious Doctor. I was successfully coming through…

Stage Five: Acceptance

So where am I now? I can safely say I am in the final stage with a vengeance. Wobbly with excitement as ‘Let’s Kill Hitler’ burst back into my living room; writing for fanzines; persuading my infinitely generous husband to come to Gallifrey 2012 with me. Yes, I am finally back on the road to normality with…

Stage Six: Reintegration

And I can finally say it. Matt Smith, you are one of the great Doctors. I bloody love you.

This article first appeared in Fishfingers and Custard Fanzine in November 2011

A two and a half hour odyssey led Paul and Kevin to explore currents, rowing boats and what it means to be a man.

After a disastrous foray out into middle river, Paul broke the oar lock and was washed, screaming and crying*, on towards Fordingbridge. Some quick thinking and a little luck brought him to the opposite bank from Undercastle Cottage. One problem, no bridge.

Eventually meeting Kevin, who had fought his way through dense forest to reach his stranded comrade*, the two managed to steer and pull the boat between them far upstream from our location. Floating back with the current, and some more inspiring teamwork, the two finally brought the boat home.

Kevin nearly fell at the final hurdle when he thought to test his theory that he could hang between the boat and jetty, by toes and fingertips, without incident. Allan was on hand to persuade him otherwise.

* Untrue