The voyage via ferry from The Netherlands to The UK was uneventful to say the least. Feeling abunbdantly sorry for my travelling companion Miss Big-Paws – I spent most of the time sitting in the ship’s kennel room keeping her company.
Upon arrival at border control we were ushered into the ‘other’ line, where I was met by a cordial 20-someting border guard who proceeded to ask a lengthy series of questions while risking carpal tunnel syndrome by feverishly taking notes as I replied. “Yes I travelled to the Netherlands with my dog, it was easier and less expensive to go ther first. I was there 2 nights, I had dinner with a friend one night - actually a ‘Couchsurfer’ that I hosted at my apartment 2 summers ago. You know that website? Anyway, I was in Rotterdam, then came here. I don’t know how long I will be staying – ideally 3 months maybe, but my father isn’t well… is this too much information?”
I have not packed drugs in my orifices. I am not illegally defecting from my Canadian homeland despite it’s freezing cold and snows way too f’cking much, and I’d be hard pressed to find decent employment or affordable housing there anyway.
( I didn’t say that, but wanted to.)
Why all the notes? Was I ‘under suspiscion and considered a threat to The UK’s national security? Does Her Magesty’s Secret Service need to compile a file on me? Will middle aged men dressed incognito a la 007 be coveting my every move? I hope they at least bring martini fixings along, and look like Daniel Craig or a young Sean Connery.
Shortly after my temporary detainment from border control I was picked up by Sir English and driven the 90 minutes back to his flat. During which time we exchanged pleasantries and got reaquainted.
Upon entry into his small apartment, my eyes widened in disbelief as I had assumed he would be some sort of urban male minimalist. However I was entering another completely opposite form of quintessesntial man-cave adorned with the standard vast quantities of wall-to-wall magazines and books, dvds, testosterone art aka. film posters à la James Bond, even car parts and anti-freeze under his kitchen table, and fittingly furnished with man-cave furnishings of the IKEA pine variety… but I was not prepared for this LITERAL decor monstrocity…
An item so aesthetically awful and disturbing, it could only make me cringe and feel as though I had been molested if I were to ever sit in it. Italy gave me crappy blue Fiats and MacDaddy Gorillas, instead England gives me pervy King Kong severed hands to fondle my ass.
Fortunately Miss Big-Paws immediately frond space, made herself at home, and appeared content enough.
Alas, let’s see how things unfold, shall we?