Clocked ten weeks back in car city. Within six hours I got my first speeding ticket, and after a hundred-odd hours since spent penitent on Sydney buses…

Luton airport as a last goodbye to London is a bit of a comedown... but the preceding week was a love-in with a no-shoes-please party after which Jake went home wearing Nico's and Nico went home in nought but his patriotic, ironic, Aussie flag socks…

Somehow, despite an attitude problem and tendency for insubordination, I got through high school without a detention. The penalty point system, which in many ways was 'soft on crime' but also a precursor to mandatory sentencing…

Los guantes. I'm pointing at them. Blue, latex, M-for-medium, stuttering 'g' 'g' 'g' imploring my brain for more, but again get only as far as 'g...'. The Spanish dishy puts me out of my misery and says 'los guantes'…

I'm laying bare my hand. I have, no tricks. Something similar is happening in America: the Great. Trump is naked irony amassed while over here the press wets itself with concatenation (Brexit/Regrexit). Summer is happening and while summer's definitely nice, it does enhance the smell of piss in the Kingdom's capital…

The minute you emerge from the home to the olfactory frenzy of the city, you’re on. Like it or not, this city of smells, few of them good, serves that small, but not unimportant purpose of letting you know you’re alive…

My thighs have exploded, I fear permanently. Running is not an option, and the most taxing thing I've done since lending my bike to B all winter (I know, what sacrifice!) is a five hour stint in Harrods, styling our very own AB, on the same day as the London Marathon…

Spring, and the daffodil-laced strip-parks of this very nice, Corbynite, northern suburb stop abruptly when you step out onto Holloway Road––a dart of reality, that cuts from the permanently screwball Highbury and Islington squareabout, and deposits you on the A1 past Archway…

There's a pressing need for intellectual thought to be de-institutionalised before an irreversible rigor mortis takes hold. My lecture notes are mainly asides to stop me screaming. I scrawl instead: 'shut the f- up'. Still, I, no-one acts…

Ufff, February. Where were we? Oh yeah - we were back in 2015, heading for Devon, where brown with mud to the rim, my mid-shin gumboots almost went under on more than one occasion––a fine line I won't risk again–– upgrading to knee-highs before I next venture to England's soggy lowlands…

It was midway through December when I realised we'd arrived in this most latterly month of the year, the one that throws up Christmas with its tinsel, baubles and epileptic lighting, and your therapist asks with extra intensity: are you ok?

Sean G rolled into town, down the escalator at Shoreditch High Street, well-cut navy suit, louche––no tie. His laugh singed with an infectious Aussie twang, he brought the last of the balmy evenings and an easy familiarity. The following week, in front of an open fire, Caitlin…

Not a philosophical joke (that may end up being me), but there you have it, my very first philosophy joke. Once I dream of Nietzsche (please let it be Nietzsche and not the horse*) I’ll don a black skivvy and officially launch my London Philosophy Club…

Yes boys and girls, MC Science, a.k.a Ma Rudder is in town, so it's science week––except it's three weeks––and let me tell you, it's been said, and I can verify, science is everywhere. We're talking orreries, astrolabes, theodolites, miniatures, models and moulds, faience, glass and porcelain…

There I was in London one minute distilling my very essence into online forms and financial data, when I was told definitively that despite all advances in modern technology, the bifurcations, hooks, whorls and spurs of my fingerprints must be measured in Melbourne and only Melbourne…

Leafing through Philosophy Now in the Swiss Cottage library. Someone has added comments in biro; a spindly hand I associate with an elder member of society. Derrida is ‘clownish’. An article on ‘Ecstasy Through Self-Destruction’, is ‘bosh’ and Noam Chomsky ‘pillock’ has his name defaced so it reads Chimpsky, which frankly, I thought a bit childish…