Bollocks to the tube! I'm walking.

Still without the internet, but I don't mind. I rather like these PC-Bangs. They stay open till really late, no one bothers you as you listen to Aphex Twin really loud, smoking away like your life depended on it, and you can sustain your energy with pots of noodles (not to be confused with pot noodles). I've been eating out most nights, mainly because it's easy, and also because my kitchen consists of a washing machine with a stove on top and a sink to the side. It's pretty basic, as is the rest of my flat, but I like it that way. The bathroom has a toilet, as you'd expect. A basin - again another reasonable expectation, but the novelty is the shower-head thats attached to the tap; for you see, there is no shower cubicle. What we have is a sloped floor that leads to a drain, so you can shower away willy-nilly (literally) walking about in a self contained shower-bathroom. The economy of space is all very well, but when the first four showers of my stay consisted of cold water and me shivering like a complete twat in front of the large mirror, the sight does get quite humiliating. But all is quite well now. The landlady, "Grandma" as she is reverently referred too, busted into my flat last night at 12 midnight with the building manager, eager to please me, but forgoing the fact that she completely fucked up my desperate attempt to get over my jetlag. I got up to assist, but she shook her head and pointed to my bed, then pushed me down on the bed, to make more emphatic that I should go back to sleep. How the fuck I was supposed to simply go back to sleep as two loud Koreans kept chatting away then turning on the water, stopping it, then chatting again, then starting the water again, I have no idea! But she's a robust lady, thick everywhere, and rather formidable, so I decided to remain seated, forcing a smile that felt as fake as the wooden finish in my flat. But like I said, all is well now.

I finally went on one of those city explorations where you are determined to do everything on foot. I used to get so frustrated when I worked in the shop and some tourist asked me how to get from Trafalgar Square (where I was based) to Camden, and when I directed them to the nearest tube they'd say:
"No no, I walk. How I walk to Camden?"
"You can't walk, it's too far!"
"No no, is OK to walk." And at that point I'd just shrug my shoulders and point in a general northerly direction. Utterly hopeless. But now I understand! Sometimes a tourist just wants to walk. And walk I did. It nearly killed me, and I ended up eating a god-awful hotdog on a stick, surrounded by chips all enmeshed together by batter and ketchup, but it was worth it. On my journey I walked all the way up this huge boulevard with a pretty aquaduct kinda ditchy thing in the middle, with bushes and fountains and the like. But the interesting thing was that all along this road, or a great part of it anyway, was an unimaginable amount of shops dedicated to hats. It was ridiculous! Far too many hat shops, all selling the same kind of hats, one shop after another, the same hats, endless, ongoing, a barrage of caps and sun visors. Is it a seasonal thing? I'm not sure. I don't think so, but still it was like the cocaine excess seen at the end of Scarface, but in hat form. There weren't any hat junkies shoving hats on their head and sighing in ecstasy, but you get the picture.

The side streets were all neon lights and flashing side boards, millions of wires on large poles leading off in all directions into run down exteriors, only to provide world leading technology on the inside. It's an odd combination; rickety market stands and side stalls, all manned by anciently old people with their heads bent forward and their eyes squinting at some kind of screen. No wonder so many Koreans wear glasses, fashionable ones, black rimmed most of the time. The stale smell of pickled vegetables left to linger in the humid heat and dense pollution strikes the nose as dried piss, but it's somehow a nice smell due its culinary association. Then you get the proper aroma of delicous Korean cuisine. I look in and want to eat, but everyone is with someone, and I'd feel too self-concsious to be on my own. "Look at that man", they'll say, "eating with chopsticks like a fat-handed twat", or the nearest Korean equivalent.

I am already quite confident on the tube. Check me out rushing around the underground labyrinths, doing interchanges like its a thing of no importance. Although this is only along the lines from my borough to the centre of town. A slight route change on a new line and I'll be back to an ant-like pace, deciphering the meaning of a new colour-coded system that's supposed to help, though only makes me think "but that blue is only a shade lighter than the other blue." I do stand out though when I bring out my book on the tube, looking like a right wally of a westerner. Nearly everyone is watching TV on their sleek smart phones, negligent of the joyfull fact that they are speeding incredibly fast along an amazing network of underground tracks, transporting people from one destination to another. Sometimes people just don't get tubes. It bothers me.