Overweeners and the Exudate of Ungentlemanly Conduct,

My conscience is such that I have to review everything I do, sometimes, I regret the things I do immediately, stop doing them and apologise, sometimes, I’m aware of what I’m doing yet I still go on. Perhaps I was cranky from lack of sleep, perhaps I am ungrateful by nature (seeing as all my expedition was paid for) or perhaps I am entirely reasonable when I describe my latest international business trip as a misery. England is a foreign land of strange and unnecessary ways, with that in mind, I entered the week in a poor frame of mind; Reading never had the charm required to drag me from this state.

I didn’t sleep long enough the night before departure; this was largely due to the diet of my brother. I hate airport security, I always feel like I am being made to undress, and redressing quickly to catch a flight is stressful. I hate flying, there are no distractions if it’s cloudy or if seated near the aisle (this is an example of my pragmatism). People being served food when I’m not hungry is irksome (this is an example of my selfishness).

From the aeroplane, we mount the bus. The worst part of England, for me, is that the people continue to go about their ways as if that is the only way. When I state this I’m concentrating on their motorways; these always seem choked to me, I couldn’t live like this. A car is for driving, not for sitting and waiting in. If the English people want to sit and wait, they should sit and wait in a bus or train station.

From the bus, we mount taxis, this is perhaps where I seem ungrateful again, I hate taxis. This trait is bred into me and even when I’m not paying the fare, I still loathe each journey. Each journey is over-priced, that’s a given, but nothing is learned from a taxi journey; the driver takes obscure routes and visitors to their city gain no bearings.

The accommodation was basic, and despite statements such as ‘it’s only a bed’. I struggled to cope, although I don’t consider myself to be pampered, I just needed something more to bring some light relief. I wouldn’t have asked for much: perhaps a bedside lamp that was in reach of a plug such that it could still be considered ‘bedside’, perhaps a room with a less stern smell, it was the aroma of ‘clean but with no pride’. I didn’t want to queue for breakfast (elastic toast) or a shower. I felt that I spent the week queuing (this is perhaps a result of sleep-deprived crankiness).

I should be grateful to eat meals that are paid for me. I grumped the first night, I was not hungry and I did not want to walk far to find a restaurant and then wait long for a meal. I only went along with colleagues because I did not want to return to my grim cell. A buffet of sandwiches and other things was provided on the second night during the poster session where I had reverse epiphany – during these events, sufferers of the reverse epiphany are known to march off in the realisation that there’s no point - I decided that this conference wasn’t sufficiently relevant to my work. A conference dinner was provided on the third evening, there is only one choice in these affairs, whether THE dinner will be eaten or not. At least there was less queuing for the evening meals, lunch was a different matter.

The presentation of my work was completed without catastrophe; the only adversity which I had to negotiate was the tedium of unnecessary wind-ups employed by my colleagues. I was a burden to my colleagues, I’m sure of that. In my crankiness, I perhaps saw the worst in them and did not always greet them as best as I could within the limits to which I usually do. I was defensive all week; I could not help but feel offended when cashiers inspected my Scottish bank notes.

I took little part in the conference on Wednesday, I visited the town centre, my main aim was to buy some fruit and to find a book. I had an overwhelming fear of finishing the novel which I am reading and being left with no book. After acquiring these essentials, I spent the day reading and drinking lattes outside a coffee shop, this is one of my favourite things to do.

I was glad to return to Scotland, in a game of one-upmanship which only I was aware of, I made my way to Heathrow early in the day. I’m always amazed by Scottish faces at the airport, we’re never aware of the fact that we have distinctive faces in our everyday life in Scotland, it’s only ever when I’m waiting my the airport gate for a flight back to Embra or Glasgow that I notice this. Neil Coast should have investigated this on his Face of Britain documentary of a few years ago.

I arrived into Embra airport and emerged later into the rush hour traffic in my car, with the window down and the Rakes up, I rolled along for 5 minutes before I could do what those in England seem unable to do – press down on the accelerator pedal and drive.