Why I wear my wife's cloths!

There are many reasons why a man might wear women's clothing, not all suspect. Sometimes there are highly practical reasons to engage in cross dressing! Fortunately for me, Vicky's taste in clothes was far more masculine than feminine. As such, I have inherited a reasonable selection of polo and t-shirts. However, there are two items from Vicky's wardrobe that have accompanied me on this trip, both of which comfortably fit into the description of 'women's' apparel. But more on that later!

My flight to St. Petersburg arrived slightly early, at about 3:30pm (local time). Even so, by the time I found my way to the bus and began the journey into the city, a raven haired dusk was approaching. Although the temperature was already down to -21c the combined body heat on the crowded k13 bus belied the cold outside. A 20 minute ride got me to Moskovskaya metro station, to the south of the city centre, and a 50 metre walk had me descending into the warm, stuffiness of the metro station.

The St. Petersburg metro system is efficient, if a little antiquated. The city isn't massive, although sprawling. Buying a token, I quickly found my way to the appropriate platform. Platform is a bit of a misnomer.  Unlike any other underground system I've experienced, I found myself in a tiled corridor with a series of steel sliding doors running down each side. I felt more like waiting for a lift than a train. A distant rumble of wheels on tracks suggested that the train had arrived on the other side of the portal and, indeed, when the doors parted, there it was. The trains are old, and reminded me of the District line, as was, on the London Underground of the 1980's. with my rucksack on my back, joined the commuters on the carriage. With only one change of train, it wasn't long before I reached Vasilyeostrovskaya station, from where, I had been told, the hotel was just a few minutes walk. 

Arriving at Vasilyeostrovskaya, I had my only worrying moment. I couldn't help being reminded of the Moorgate disaster as I and about 2000 Petrovites shuffled through a 2 person wide tunnel to the foot of the single escalator to the surface. At one point, I swear, had I lifted both feet off of the floor, I and my rucksack would have easily been carried along by the throng! Eventually, I safely gained street level. Though I had a warm jacket on, I was still wearing the clothes I'd been traveling in and within a couple of minutes, the freezing cold penetrated my clothes and I started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. My exposed ears quickly lost their sense of being and I was eager to get into a warmer place.

I found my hotel without too much trouble - one missed turning, but I'm not averse to asking directions - and checked in. Taking some time to gather myself and take in my situation, I decided that I now needed to eat and probably could do with a drink and so prepared to venture back out into the night. Still wearing similar clothing, it didn't take long before I, again, began to feel the cold bite of the St. Petersburg air. Fortunately it was only a short walk before I saw a sign for an Irish pub! I opted for this as I didn't have the constitution to continue wandering the snowy streets. 

Entering the building, the similarity to an old pub was striking. Lots of things adoring the walls and ceilings - mainly with a football theme - smokey corners with people playing cards and a bar with several British and Irish beers on offer. Home from home, I opted for London Pride and a beef Stroganov!

The following morning, with the temperature no warmer, I instigated plan B. I unpacked the two items of Vicky's clothing that I'd brought from home. The first was less controversial. A set of salopets to go with Vicky's ski jacket that I was already using. Ok, not too bad, except that the fly zips on the wrong side! I know it's a simple thing, but why is it so counter intuitive! The second is a pair of 15 denier, 'nude' (I understand that this is descriptive of colour!) tights. A tip I remembered learning from a biker friend of mine years ago, was to wear tights under your trousers. And, guys, I can now honestly say, if you have every wondered how girls in England can go out at night, in the depths of winter, wearing little more than a pelmet, embrace the wonders of nylon.

I have now spent two days wandering the streets of St. Petersburg with a snug, contented smile and toasty warm legs!

I'll tell you a bit more about the city when I've done some exploring. Until then...da svidanya.

The journey begins

Knowing that I might be roughing it for the next few weeks and months and having air miles to spend, I took the plunge and booked my flight to St. Petersburg BA Club class.  London to St. Petersburg is a relatively short haul - about 3 Hours - but even so, I thought I'd treat myself to the experience.

Following passport and security checks I made my way to the privileged sanctuary of the club class lounge, stopping briefly to buy a bottle Jameson's to keep me company and, hopefully, help make some friends on the Trans Siberian train journey to come. The lounge was surprisingly full, however it did give me the opportunity to sort myself out and quickly pen my last blog. Had I wanted, there was an array of food and drink available for the taking, but I contented myself with a cup of Twinnings Earl Grey (another $10 plea...oh no, let's not go there again!)

The flight was called and, again, I was able to make use of my hallowed status and was the first to board the aircraft.  Settling into seat 1F, I was about as near the front of the plane I could get without a pilot's licence. And now the fun starts...I have space and loads of it, so I sit back and enjoy the ride.

BA828 takes off about on time. As we climb east north east, over Twickenham and then Chiswick, is is a fine, clear December morning. I easily pick out Alexandra Palace as we pass over north London and then locate my in-laws house in Epping. Nodding a hello, we then fly over the roof of my own childhood home in Harlow. I can't actually see it as it would be under the airplane, but I know that it is there as I pick out many other familiar landmarks, including the Kitchen household in Berecroft.

Our route is to take us in an almost straight line along the Dutch and northern German coastlines, across Denmark and the Baltic to what, for many years was know as Leningrad. However, as we reach the Essex coast, we climb into cloud and the surface of the planet recedes from my view.

With no land to look at, I unpack my ipad and start typing my blog.

'Hot towel, Mr Mooney?'

          'Yes. Thank you.'

'Would you care for something from the bar, Mr Mooney?'

          But it's only 10am? Ah! But on Russian time...it's mid-day

          'Yes please. A whiskey would be nice. Thank you.'

'And what would sir like for lunch?'...and so it continued. I think I could get used to this jet setting lifestyle. Although, I'm not sure my liver would cope!

Before anyone gets the wrong impression, I've just realised I've already made two references to whiskey and I've hardly left British airspace. It isn't my intention to drink my way to south east Asia! 

One of my biggest failings in planning my trip has been my phenomenal lack of planning..and, indeed, research. So I will end here for the moment and look at my St. Petersburg guide book to a) work out where my hotel is and how the hell I get there from the airport - bearing in mind it will be dark, minus 19c, and Russian when I get there, and b) see how much I can cram into my short visit before moving on to Moscow.

For the time being though, I am going to relax and take my time. After all, I'm not Russian! (Posthumous thanks the Patricia Woodfall for that last joke!)

Trailer for sale or rent...

Russian Visa - check

Mongolian visa - check

Chinese visa check - check

Siberian beard...check

And so it begins. After months 

of planning, dreaming, speculating and procrastinating, I'm now sat in the BA lounge in Terminal 5 at London's Heathrow airport.  I'm waiting for the gate to open to allow me to board BA 878 to St. Petersburg and, from there, China and beyond.

I have just read the note book given to me as I left - with strict instructions not to read until I got into the departure lounge - and am left amazed and stunned by the wonderful messages and comments written by such wonderful friends.  My phone has been buzzing incessantly with bon voyage messages from family and friends. I'm sorry that I've not been able to reply to them all.

Yes! I nearly turned around and came straight home from the airport, but I then took a deep breath, walked through security and...well here I am on the verge of an epic journey, some of which I have no idea where it will lead.

This is a short blog just to get things going.  Hopefully my next will be from Russia...with love!

Time for a blog rant! 

Please don't read further if you are expecting a fun and frolicking blog from me today!

Ok, 2012! I've had enough now. Stop it! You have taken my partner, my job and now my dog.

Almost a year to the day that Vicky was told that there was something seriously wrong with her, I have received news that Inca also has cancerous tumours in his chest and lung. Yes, he's just a dog and yes, he is nearly 12 years old - about average for a Labrador. But, FFS, who have I pissed off so much?

Inca started to be ill in early november, when he developed a quite distressing cough. Thinking it might be kennel cough, his vet gave antibiotics.  However, these didn't seem to be hitting the spot.

Other than the cough, Inca was relatively happy.  His tail wagged high when out for walks and he had a good appetite. When, a couple of days ago, he only ate half of his breakfast, I began to get worried.  Inca never leaves food - especially his own. His vet referred him to a specialist in Ringwood and I took Inca there on Thursday (29th Nov).

The specialist checked Inca over and then gave me a list of probable causes - starting with a seed, or other foreign body stuck in his throat; maybe an infection or laryngal paralysis; and ending with the possibility of a tumour or other more 'sinister' cause. However, he reassured me that the latter was 'way, way down' his list of likely diagnoses.

Later that day he called to tell me that the x-ray had revealed the presence of a mass in his chest and that there was fluid in his lungs. His list had just been turned upside down.  He drained nearly 2 litres of fluid from Inca's lungs and a subsequent x-ray confirmed mass in one of his lung nodes.  A biopsy will help determine whether the tumours are benign or malignant, but the prognosis is pretty grave in either case.

If they are benign, surgery may be an option. However, given his age and the likelihood that they may return along with the fluid on his lungs, there would be quality of life issues.


Jump forward three days

On Saturday morning, the specialist called to confirm that the biopsy results indicated soft tissue sarcoma (STS).  The fact that the sample was taken from a site away from the primary cancer in his lung suggested that metastasis had occurred - in other words, the cancer had spread. The only way to confirm this with precision was to operate to remove the primary cancer and take a full tissue biopsy. However, that the spread had happened was an almost certainty, therefore the operation would be futile, beyond analytical purpose.

Enough is enough. Having seen the ravaging effects of cancer already this year, I couldn't let Inca go through what would be to come, not when there was a peaceful and dignified end to his life that could be chosen.

Over the following 48 hours I felt that this decision was wholly vindicated.  I had the chance to spend some time with my little man. I let him sleep in my bed - a treat usually only accorded following copious amounts of alcohol - and we went for a couple of pleasant, if short, walks. We also had a couple of visits to the King Charles pub where, for the past 11 years, he has generally been more welcome than Vicky and I! He feasted on Mackerel - courtesy of Lynn, his dog walker - and Tuna. However, from Friday, he wasn't really interested in food and it was obvious that eating was a reflex action rather than the hobby that he had previously enjoyed. This was exemplified when we visited a friends house and he immediately headed for the unattended bowl of food belonging to Jerry - the incumbent springer spaniel - only to look up at me as if to say 'Do'ya know what? I can't be arsed!'

By monday morning, his lethargy and lack of appetite were, without doubt, both at a new low.  He didn't want to walk or eat and his body was quivering. I made the fateful call to the vet just after lunch.  In an odd way, I was shocked when he said that I could bring him over that evening - it all seemed too quick.  However, once I had taken stock and spoken to friends, I resolved that the time was right and that to linger would only be for my benefit and that Inca's state was deteriorating at a rate that would result in his suffering, distress and pain.

At 6pm, accompanied by friends, Barbara and Freya, we went to the surgery. The process was quick, painless and clinical.  Inca's vet has never been known for his bedside manner and doesn't really do 'touchy, feel'y'. Us three friends were in tears as he, with great care and compassion, slid a needle under the skin and into a vein on Inca's foreleg. Within seconds, Inca's body became limp and he slowly sank down onto the table.  A minute later...'That's it. He's gone now'. The vet knew that this was the correct thing to do and tried to reassure me that the decision and the time was right. He would not have allowed otherwise.

All of a sudden, I felt that I was in the final chapter of 'Marley and Me'. It was so hard to walk away from my puppy lying on the table, but the time had come and so I did. Outside, in the dark of a Kings Worthy evening, we three cried and hugged and then drove back down the hill to home.

So now, for the moment, it is just me. Except that it isn't. I have many wonderful friends and a terrific family. I have a ticket for St. Petersburg in my pocket and a train ride through Siberia to Beijing ahead of me. When I get there - somewhere around the 4th January 2013 - it is very much a case of 'flip a coin' to see where I go next.  It will be roughly south toward South-East Asia and then to North-East Australian and New Zealand. I expect to be home in mid-June, just in time to go and work the bars at Glastonbury festival.

Thank you for reading this far. I intend continuing my blog as I travel over the next six months and I promise - and hope - that future posting will be more positive and uplifting. To all my family, friends and readers I say 'Bollocks' to 2012, roll on 2013 and I wish you all a happy, health and prosperous Christmas and new year.

Postscript

Negatives: No more hairy cuddles; quiet and empty house when I get home; no licks and attention when I'm sad; lack of unconditional companionship; less motivation to go for long 'health giving' walks (HGW's according to Jolly vernacular)

Positives: I get to lie in; I don't have the embarrassment of having to replace numerous picnics trough'd by my dog who would always run and reach the source of tasty canapes ten minutes before my fat carcase could ever catch him to intervene - what always surprised me is that, when I did arrive at the the scene, parents were inevitably clutching crying children to their bossom. Why? it was the bloody food that needed protecting, not the child!!