Rage against the Machine...

I am in a cold rage.

I have taken a leaf out of Friends' book in order to defuse the ticking bomb of anger that festers deep inside me tonight. Although instead of having a big mocha/frapa/cappu/whackaccino and a slice of cheesecake, I am putting my faith in the healing powers of a large mixed shawarma and a bottle of rioja. Already the rich juices of the kebab are clogging my arteries and the wine (a £4.67 Berberena, on offer at half price) is working its tannin-inspired magic.

I could scarcely believe the intensity of my anger on the journey home. Unable to even look at my colleagues on the train, I felt a short but all-consuming desire to stand up and scream out loud, share with the entire carriage the frustration that has undoubtedly been building up like a monumental geyser about to pierce the earth's crust for the first time.

The eruption nearly came at Fulham Broadway as I read in the evening trashrag that is London Lite about the latest moronic antics of the current generation of sons-and-daughters-of-stars: Alfie Allen photographed stumbling out of Mahiki at 3am, his charm and class oozing as he hurled monosyllabic insults at the paparazzi. WHO GIVES A SHIT???

Yet Alfie Allen was a mere accelerant to the inferno that was already raging within me. The combustion agent that ignited the blaze was a combination of several highly volatile components:

- My boss checking into rehab for alcoholism for one month, having gone AWOL at the recent round of trade exhibitions, creating a car-crash atmosphere within the department.
- Said boss having one month previously cancelled a once-promised 3 month sabbatical period. I have now reassessed what I need to do to get one month off at my company.
- My assistant being diagnosed with M.E. and her primadonna antics as she struggled to come to terms with her illness, leading to my other assistant threatening to resign and forcing me to recruit a temp for three months, further slowing me down by requiring a back-to-basic training monotony.

I need to get out, I need to get away before I burn out or implode. Failing that, firing a few thousand rounds on an AK-47 right here, right now would probably do the trick. I yearn for excitement, and I want it now.

I do however know that the grand scheme of things is firmly in place. I am 23.3% (recurring) of the way there and look longingly at the world map every day as I head for the shower. Call it a cherry, a carrot, whatever you will (in my case a pint of Guinness would probably work better), I can truly think of nothing else in the world that could keep me focused and make this mundane routine even remotely bearable. No longer rudderless, I now amazingly find myself with more direction than I have ever had before. Bring on April 2009!

Wow, it is true. Transferring my anger and frustration into typewritten words has helped me return to a more level plane.

Either that or it is down to the kebab and red wine, you pick...

The Strange Case of Dr. Knoll and the Polish Vodka Bar...

The story begins on an overcast Friday evening in March (as if a Friday evening in England would be anything but overcast. Or July for that matter.). It was balmy and I had a case containing my laptop with me. The train was late but I was on time. London was throbbing with an invisible pulse, the city felt alive, electric even.

It was...

THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. KNOLL AND THE POLISH VODKA BAR... (oooohhhhh)...

How the bloody godfathers do I always manage to go to the Polish vodka bar, start off with the best intentions (ie no vodka karma papa, pray let me drink no vodka), meet no fewer than 75 new people and consume even more shots, wake up the following morning with a troupe of Siberian forest yaks playing Tennessee banjos in my head WITHOUT ACTUALLY REMEMBERING A SINGLE HUMBLE NANOSECOND OF THE JOURNEY HOME????

Why, dear reader? How, dear reader??? Elucidate this mystery for me, I beg thee! This has been going on since time immemorial and still I cannot conjure an answer.

Answers on a postcard please my friends, but forgive me if I do not hold my breath.

The Girl from AMT Coffee...

Words cannot do this feeling justice. The sheer lifting of my heart when she smiles her perfect smile is a sensational feeling of elation, a glorious moment of rapture, when the whole world stops and I live only in that moment in time.

Her name is Adriana and on Wednesday she waved at me. She was in the middle of the coffee shop, hidden from view behind a ridiculously oversized coffee roaster, making the beverages (for she does not make common drinks) for her colleagues. I unusually decided to buy a drink even though she was not serving - I like to live on the edge. As she reached over to give her colleague my beverage, she saw me, smiled that perfect smile of hers, raised her sweet hand and waved at me... time stopped...

It has taken me two years to find out that she is Colombian, soon I will risk a cheeky "Hola!" and hope for the best...

Re-reading this 10 minutes after having written it, one has to wonder what Grade A crack pipe I was smoking at the time...

CouchSurfing: a beginning...

I really did not know what to expect of my first tentative steps in the world of CouchSurfing. What I was hoping for was to meet a few people, be they locals or foreigners, with whom to share a few beers and rediscover Vilnius.

So what did I get out of it? A world-class hangover on Saturday for starters, with what felt like a little marching band of Lithuanian folk singers, complete with tambourine section, all bouncing around quite happily inside my cranium. But mainly an absolutely fantastic weekend partying hard and a real hint that there is a lot more to be had out of this traveller's phenomenon. Yes, it is a social networking group and site, but one with a real purpose, with a real reason to exist, it feels real and truly alive.

Thank you, CouchSurfers of Vilnius, for your friendship and time, and the seed of inspiration you may just have given me...

Aciu.