My name is James Edmund Reilly. Hullo there! You seem a little bored. No matter; I have the remedy. Let me tell you about how my holiday began.

It was Wednesday 15th April, 2015. In Twickenham, where I'm proud to lay my hat, spring was determinedly springing. I awoke at 4:30am to the tuneful warblings of birdsong. Not wanting to be left out I decided that I would join my feathered friends in their early morning chorus. I gave voice and cleared the lungs with a good howl. I imagine it really added something to the melody. After around 15 minutes of this I felt I was done. By now I could hear daddy downstairs moving around and I settled back to rest, content in the knowledge of a job well done. Not only had I added to the music of the morning but I knew Daddy doesn't like to waste the day. I'd given him the wonderful gift of an extra 2 hours of awake time before everyone else got up. I knew he'd be pleased as punch. Mummy and I soon drifted off again.

When I came to later on I was downstairs in the kitchen. Daddy was busy making coffee for a decorator. The man didn't speak English but it was clear to me he didn't actually want a drink. However that didn't deter my father and the frustrated decorator, seeing the way the wind was blowing, reluctantly acquiesced. It was clearly a strange British custom about which nothing could be done. I could see him thinking: "Things are far more straightforward back in the old country, to be sure". As soon as he could, he trotted briskly down to the bottom of the garden, bearing the newly presented Starbucks mug of the brown stuff. I think he was trying to keep as great a distance between himself and my father as was possible. Fair enough say I; Daddy can be an odd bird.

We were travelling out to Mallorca to see Granny Annie and Aunty Severine. Mummy and daddy then began to pack. Well, mummy did anyway. Daddy did a lot of looking alternately pensive, worried and bored. I'm sure that was equally useful.

We boarded the train at St Margarets Station and changed at Clapham Junction for Gatwick. Benjamin, my elder brother, was in 7th heaven. "Trains!" he exclaimed, repeatedly. As people tramped past me they smiled. Yeah - I'm cute me.

Throughout the airport Benjamin insisted upon "shoulders". That is to say, he made Daddy carry him on his shoulders. Daddy did his best but after a while he seemed a little.. Droopy?

Aboard the aeroplane we took our seats. We had a whole row to ourselves. Benjamin sat next to the window. Mummy in the middle and Daddy took the aisle seat. Better for his leg he said. I sat on Mummy. Well, stood on Mummy would perhaps be more accurate. I didn't feel like sitting down - it was all so exciting!

For instance, in the row in front there were 3 ladies with peculiar voices. Australian, I decided. They looked most interesting. Priscilla, the lady in front of Daddy, had pink pink hair. Well, apart from the roots. They were another colour. Her face looked a little different to most ladies I know. There was lots and lots of powder on it. Also, her eyelashes were very bristly and black. Like a chimney sweeps brush. And her lips, matched her hair.

I thought she would be worth investigating and so I reached forward to do just that. I wondered what her face looked like underneath and I elected to try and rub some of the emulsion off her to see. Daddy didn't appear to be completely on board with my plan and pulled me back. So I settled for a little play with her seat back instead.

"My hair! He touched my hair!"

Priscilla was freaking out. She rounded upon Mummy and said, in an accusatory fashion, "Children freak me out" (she wasn't wrong) and "Don't let it touch me". Following up with some other choice phrases.

It!!! It???!!? The painted lady had harshed my mellow somewhat. Mummy seemed a little anxious after Priscilla had finished her tirade so I held her for a while. She needed comforting. I also expressed my considered opinion of Lady P by filling my nappy. That'd show her!

With that I went to sleep and didn't awake until Mallorca. At the end of the flight Mummy and Daddy seemed a little bit broken. But not to worry; I'll take good care of them. They'll be fine soon. Probably.

I just cried. I'm not an especially tearful person for the most part so that was kind of odd.

Lisette and I went to the cinema last night. It's our wedding anniversary on Monday and Lisette is due to give birth in a months time. So we felt an outing was in order - probably our last outing for quite some time.

We saw a film called "Boyhood". It moved me. It's a film pretty much like no other. You see a boy, Mason, age from about 7 to 19. It's amazing. It's not full of big drama - but it is full of the kind of things that happen when you grow up. It made me remember the things that happened to me when I was younger. I should say that my own life was easier than Mason's - there were far less genuinely scary adults in my own upbringing.

But so many of the things that happen reminded me of things I'd forgotten. At one point Mason goes "camping" with friends in a semi-built house and they smash up bits of wood and throw circular saw blades at a wall for fun. I was similarly stupid and dangerous. Where I lived there were many new houses being built. When the builders would go home for the night onto the building sites my friends and I would romp. I remember throwing myself happily off the roofs of new houses onto piles of sand below. It didn't seem dangerous. It seemed fun!

When Mason sets off for university he's excited. His mother is distraught. I remember my own parents driving me to university and mum being in floods of tears as they dropped me off. I don't think I appreciated that at the time - I was just delighted to be away on an adventure! Funny how human beings seem incapable of understanding someone else's perspective until they've lived it themselves.

So why did I cry? Well, I'm not sure. It was a mixture of emotions I think. Partly I'm so glad I ended up where I did, with who I did, that I made it at all. It seems so clear from watching the film that life is incredibly tenuous. It's remarkable that any of us make it as far as we do. There's so many opportunities for something to go wrong.

Partly I think I cried out of fear. I know my son Benjamin is going to face all this himself - or something like it; his own particular recipe of life. Bad things happen and I can't always be there to protect. I won't have the first clue half the time Benjamin's in danger. I've got to let go - not yet I know (he's only 2) but it'll happen. I know deep down it wouldn't be good even if I could protect him anyway. If I don't let him live his life then he isn't really living life in a meaningful way. But I want to save him from harm - and certainly take the rough edges off life if I can. Like most parents (I expect) I'm winging it, praying and hoping for the best.

I think that watching the film at this time in my own life probably contributed to the reaction. So much is change. One son growing up quickly. Another son or daughter due to arrive in the outside world within the month. I'm a bit overwhelmed. Excited - yes. Terrified - some. Alive - definitely.

It's just over 500 days since Benjamin, my son, was born. He's no longer the fragile newborn. He eats normal food, he walks, he sleeps through the night. He's a very healthy little fellow. He doesn't talk yet but I've no doubt it's in the post.

Lately I've been considering - how has becoming a father changed me? Because I know it has.

To a greater extent than I'd like, the answer is fear. Put simply, I'm terrified. I'm terrified of something happening to Benjamin. I'm terrified of him hurting himself, someone else hurting him or worse still, me hurting him. And lest I sound too narcissistic - it's not restricted to him.

Fact of the matter is I find much of the world more painful than I can bear anymore. I've found I can't read newspapers these days. They are filled with tragic events. People wounding each other, people killing each other. And I can't take it. Not that it didn't used to bother me, it did, but my reaction now is far greater. For every person I read about suffering I know that that person was some mother's son, or some father's daughter and for reasons that I cannot satisfactorily explain that makes it painful for me to even consider. I realise this sounds incredibly self-indulgent. Believe me I don't mean it to be - but I've got to be honest.

The flip side of this coin is the feeling of absolute joy that Benjamin brings to Lisette and I. Each morning we wake at about 6am. Lisette jumps in the shower, I go to the kitchen and make her tea (builders, milk, 1 sugar), me coffee (a large strong latte) and Benjamin gets 8 fluid ounces of full fat milk given 3 rotations in the microwave on full power. We assemble the drinks upstairs and then enter Benjamin's room to wake up the young master with a rousing chorus of Lisette's creation:

"Goooooooooooooooood morning, good morning! We love you very much, good morning, good morning to you! Goooooooooooooooood morning, good morning! You slept the whole night through, good morning to you!"

He'll beam up at us and, after a little coaxing, present Lisette with his dummies (he sleeps with 3 in the bed just to be on the safe side). And then it's back to our bedroom where Benjamin will glug his way through about 80% of the milk before breaking off to play with various toys that we have scattered on the bed.

Each day we're filled with enormous gratitude that God has blessed us *so* richly. What a magnificent little man he is. How privileged we are to get to raise this jolly little boy. To have each other. It's wonderful and we are so grateful. I've found I'm coming to forget what life was like before we had Benjamin. That's one reason why I'm writing this - I want to remind myself in the future how it felt in the past. In my head, it feels like we were just wasting time before Benjamin. I don't think that we were actually - what I'm trying to say is that I'd much rather be living the life I'm living right now than go back to my life before parenthood.

I guess that's it. Life is as it was before, but the emotional intensity is greatly increased. The joy has increased exponentially. And so has the fear. But it's worth it for the joy. Yes, it's definitely worth it.

On the occasion of Mum and Dad's 40th wedding anniversary I was prompted into making a speech. Not my natural thing really but it went okay - give or take a little (welcome) heckling from various Aunties present... I thought I'd put the notes of the speech up here - they're pretty much left as I had them on the day and you'll notice the occasional PROMPT FOR ME TO ASK THE PEOPLE PRESENT SOMETHING in caps. This is the speech:

Thanks for coming to Mum and Dad / Ann and Mark's 40th wedding anniversary. I've been asked if I'd say a few words. I wanted to talk about how we came to be here. How Mum and Dad came to be the people they are.

As far as I know, Mum and Dad met at York University where they were both reading Physics. I've done my sums and I'M GUESSING THIS WAS AROUND 1970?

Back then you used to be paid to go to university in the form of a government grant. (Funny how things change.) Dad, upon receiving his grant, used about 70% of it to immediately purchase a new stereo. This reduced him to penury but at least he could listen to his music. Mum was more sensible and held onto her grant.

I don't actually know how Mum and Dad met. HOW DID THEY MEET?

Either way, romance ensued and Dad had little chance of walking away from Mum. As he had no money Mum effectively took up the role of feeding Dad in his early days at university. Along the way, presumably when Dad's funding situation had improved, there was a traumatic break-up - where Dad broke Mum's heart. The rotter. Fortunately for me, Mum and Dad ended up back together. They married in 1973 and subsequently moved to Bristol where they both took up teaching.

Not too long after that I was born. You'd think that having me was enough (the pinnacle, right?), but no. 2 years after my birth David was born and, pausing only to move house from Bristol to Fleet, Kirsty and Peter followed after.

What you may not know is that there could have been more of us. In fact there would have been more... but for me.

I would have been about 8 years old I guess when Mum and Dad approached me one bedtime and asked me if I'd like another brother or sister. I think they were hoping for a sister for Kirsty in case she was overwhelmed by the prospect of having 3 brothers.

However, this was the 80's in Thatcher's Britain and the iron of capitalism had clearly entered my soul. I had worked out that money was a finite resource and had the opinion that there wasn't enough of it flowing my way. 50p a week pocket money just wasn't cutting it. I knew that if there was another child around then the likelihood was that my pocket money would only decrease. This I could not have. So I said "no". Sad, but true.

I came to realise that I had acted too late in many ways. Having David, Kirsty and Peter around was a disadvantage in other ways as well. When I asked Mum and Dad for a pet dog, a perfectly reasonable request for a young boy to make, they said I didn't need one as I had brothers and sisters. I was never convinced by this and, for the record, I would have happily swapped David for a golden retriever. By the way Aunty Kathleen, your bringing Tara to stay with us was one of the high points of my childhood. And when you took her away it was one of the low points. How could you Kath?

If you know Mum and Dad well then you'll understand that their faith in God is undoubtedly the most important thing in their lives. We were all brought up attending church, praying together as a family and, to my lasting regret, watching the Waltons too. (Dad felt they were a good example of a Christian family, albeit fictional, and one that we should seek to emulate) I'm certain that Mum and Dad care deeply that their 4 children all came to faith, and indeed married fellow believers as well. Lisette and I certainly hope for the same for Benjamin and his cousins.

Whilst I can't speak for David, Kirsty and Peter, I'm not sure I would have come to faith without this strong Christian influence in my life. And although I didn't appreciate it at the time (I think I must have been forced to read the complete works of James Dobson and CS Lewis in my childhood) I now think that it was invaluable. And I'm really grateful for it. Benjamin is going to have a very similar upbringing. Maybe without the Walton's though.

Since I'm a little older, and in fact particularly since we've been blessed with little Benjamin, I think I've come to understand why Mum and Dad had so many of us. And I'm delighted to part of this small clan. David, Kirsty and Peter - it's wonderful to have you as brothers and sisters. And David I would no longer swap you for a dog.

It's an ongoing privilege to have such fine parents. Mum, Dad, you have been a blessing to all of us and we're so glad to have you in our lives. Thank you, both of you.

It's now been 4 months since Benjamin was born. I realised the other day that many things were happening. Each day there are changes; every morning something is different. And so I wanted to note down where we are, what's happened, how we feel, what it's been like.

First let's take a look at the little man:

Now I know I'm biased but isn't he gorgeous? I think it's safe to say that Lisette and I have become that which we despised: parents that dote on their progeny. We're wondering if he might have ginger hair. Looks a bit that way. And do notice his tongue. That tongue was the cause of a lot of trouble.

The Breast Things in Life are Free​

After the lad was born we'd been told by other parents that the first 3 days can be quite tough. Or rather that after 3 days you've run out of adrenalin and you'll be running on empty. We were. Feeding was not going well at this point. Lisette was absolutely shattered and Benjamin was pretty demanding.

Now this may shock you but I hadn't thought much about breast-feeding up until this point in my life. I kind of assumed it just worked, natures lactic taps were miraculously turned on post-birth. Not so. Or at least it didn't seem to be plain sailing in Lisette's case. There was a lot of drama as different feeding positions were tried out (under-arm being the most successful). There was unquestionably a phenomenal amount of pain involved for Lisette. And the lad wasn't happy. He screamed. A lot. We were worried.

We were visited by a number of healthcare visitors and also by Mandy (continuing in the good egg stakes). The cult of breast-feeding quickly became apparent. The advice was nothing if not, well, consistent. "Breast-feed, breast-feed, breast-feed." It's hard? Tough. The kid's unhappy? Ignore it.

Babies weights are supposed to dip after birth. And there's an acceptable percentage by which their weights can dip. Benjamin dipped. And dipped. And dipped some more. However, we didn't actually know that this was the case at first. It emerged that maths was not the forte of the health visitors. They'd calculated that Benjamin had lost the acceptable percentage of his weight and so he was fine. We should continue as is. But as it turned out their sums were wrong; Benjamin had actually lost rather more weight than they calculated. He was unsurprisingly a little hungry.

It was Mandy that observed "he's a little floppy" on one of her visits. She lowered her voice and leaned forward. "You could try topping him up." So we did. Mandy had suggested that giving Benjamin a bottle probably wasn't a good idea as it might stop him breastfeeding entirely. Fair enough. So instead we would put tiny amounts of formula milk into a beaker and mid-scream (all he ever seemed to do at this point was scream) we would hurl the liquid down his throat. And repeat.

It felt like the oddest thing to be doing - but it worked. Benjamin settled. And screamed a little less.

Cat Got Your Tongue?​

Apparently breast-feeding is supposed to hurt initially. But after that it's supposed to ease up. So a month later Lisette was quite distraught to still be finding it so painful. Each time she started feeding Benjamin there would be that clamping-on noise of Benjamin getting purchase followed by a yowl of pain from Lisette. Bit puzzling that.

The health visitors seemed unconcerned. I don't think they were thrilled we were topping Benjamin up with formula but they were at least pleased Lisette was persevering with the breast-feeding (despite the cost to her sanity). I returned home from work one day to have this conversation:

"So, Lucy thinks Benjamin's got a tongue tie." "A tongue tie?" "It means his tongue is stuck to the bottom of his mouth. Her Freddie had one." "Is that bad?" "It means he can't feed properly, it hurts feeding for me, he'll have problems gaining weight and he'll have speech issues later in life" "So that's a tentative 'yes'?"

You probably see where this is going... As it turned out, Lucy had been right. Benjamin did have a tongue-tie. And soon enough Lisette found herself in the waiting room to get it fixed up. I was quite surprised to discover just medieval the procedure seemed to be. I'm not too sure how I expected them to proceed but I wasn't really expecting it to be a question of sticking surgical scissors under his tongue and snipping whilst he was awake...

But ours not to reason why and for what it's worth it seemed to be a glorious success! Benjamin is now feeding much more successfully and as you can see from his picture he particularly enjoys sticking his tongue out as he smiles!

... and this is him!

It took longer than expected​

When Lisette's contractions started on June 14th I assumed that the birth would be taking place in pretty short order after that. I was wrong. It all started out pretty easily I'd say. Lisette was having contractions about every 5 minutes and they weren't enormously painful. This may have been helped by Lisette plugging herself into a "tens" machine. (I know; I'd never heard of one either.) A tens machine is a small device which has extrudes pads which are attached to the small of the back (of the woman in labour) and deliver electrical pulses which sooth the contraction pain. It's supposed to be similar to the effect of rubbing your leg after you've knocked it. Maybe it's hocus pocus; I don't know. But once plugged into the machine Lisette seemed pretty much okay. And it was a beautiful day on June 14th so we did what any self-respecting Brit would have done in the circumstances; we sat in the garden and had Paul the next-door neighbour round for tea.

Over the course of the day the pain of the contractions got a little more intense but the delay between contractions didn't seem to decrease. In fact at points Lisette fell asleep and the delay would increase. That doesn't happen in the films. By the evening I was exhausted. The anticipation of imminent arrival combined with a fierce refusal for things to properly begin was quite wearing out my nerves. Lisette was tired too. I started dozing off on the sofa and in the end Lisette sent me to bed around midnight. I realise this sounds rather selfish but, as Lisette pointed out, there was nothing I could do and she needed me to have energy later. ## Orienteering

I woke at 4am on June 15th to hear Lisette crying out in pain. That was really scary. Knowing your wife is in pain, that there's nothing you can really do about it and that the pain is only likely to get worse. Oh it's rotten. It's worth mentioning at this point that Lisette and I don't own a car. Consequently we were really dependant on the goodwill of friends to get to the hospital. Fortunately we've been blessed with good friends and many people had said they'd be happy for us to call them at any point. But we were terrified of going to hospital too soon. The nurses on a maternity ward can be like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings; "You shall not pass!" - repelling us like a Balrog. So many people are sent home and told to come back later. We feared that would be us. In retrospect I think our fear was slightly ridiculous. We were less scared of the prospect of going to hospital and coming back early than we were by the idea of the imposition and bad manners it would be to ask our friends to drive us back and forth a few times. This is undoubtedly a very British fear; I can't imagine any other nationality having similar qualms... However, it seemed the moment had definitely arrived. We needed to be at hospital sharpish. I called our next door neighbours, Paul and Fi, and after the momentary panic of their phone going to voicemail and me starting to search for a taxi number they called us back and arranged to meet outside. About 10 minutes later Fi was speeding us to the Queen Mary Maternity Unit of West Middlesex Hospital... View Larger Map

Into the Hot Tub​

Upon arrival Lisette was declared "well on the way" (phew!). Then Mandy appeared. Mandy was a midwife that Lisette had met, and very much liked, before. "Mandy!!!" Lisette cried in between contractions, "I'm so glad it's you!" Mandy asked if we had a birthing plan. Some people are very detailed about their birthing plans. They'll have clear ideas about what they want to happen and what they don't want to happen. Having spoken to people who'd been there and done it, it sounded like birthing plans generally got forgotten in the moment and so there didn't seem much point to us in making one. Lisette just didn't want to take pethidine (a drug that makes babies groggy). Without any particular plan in place Mandy suggested the Natural Birthing Centre. Lisette was game so off we trundled. We found ourselves in a very warm dimly lit room with an orange lava lamp in the corner and a stereo playing Enya. In the middle of the room was a hot tub; around 3 times the size of an average bath. There was a rocking chair, a beanbag, a multitude of pillows and a bed. To my surprise there was also a knotted curtain suspended from a hook in the ceiling which looked to all the world like the sort of rope I used to climb in PE at school. Without futher ado Lisette clambered into the bath and was presented with her new constant companion; a scuba mask. The wasn't to enable underwater exploration but rather to inflate Lisettes lungs with laughing gas to ease the pain. Just the ticket. ## 8 Hours Later...

I now realise that mid-wives are probably engaged in a form of ritualised deceit. From the moment Lisette entered the pool there would be vague but regular pronouncements of the sort "not long now" and "you're really coming on". This all lead to the not-unreasonable expectation on our behalf that birth was pretty imminent from 5am. So I was a little concerned at just gone 12pm that things didn't seem to have much changed in the intervening hours. Mandy had gone home after staying 2 hours past the end of her shift. She really is a good egg. In Mandy's place we now had the indomitable Sally and her apprentice Karen. A lot of time was being spent regulating the temperature of the pool. Karen would let water out. Sally would pour hot water in and stir vigourously (generally leading to faint cries of "too... choppy..." from Lisette). Thermometers would be placed into the depths and studied ferociously. Lisette had been in the pool, on the bed and on the beanbags. For a brief period of time I stood clinging to the knotted curtain whilst Lisette hung onto me. (I'm sure it looked as odd as it sounds but it seemed to help - to my lasting surprise.) By now Lisette was back in the pool and I was growing increasingly suspicious of just how close to birth we actually were. They say the darkest hour is just before dawn and that seems to apply to childbirth. From Lisettes perspective the prospect of birth seemed to be less likely the more time ticked on. Sally said that this was to be expected and is a function of the way the child exits the body. It's not so much like a missile being launched; more like a mini-metro doing a 72-point turn. And each time the mini-metro backs up to re-attempt Lisette would become further convinced that the long expected birth was becoming a diminishing possibility. ## The Promised Land

Happily, Lisette's fears were unfounded. After hours of not much happening things suddenly kicked into high gear. This part was like the films. There was noise. There was pain. It was intense. And suddenly, floating in the water, was a baby! Lisette collapsed against the side of the pool; understandably exhausted by her exertions. The baby stayed floating, a little pink island. At this point Lisette and I implicitly expected that the midwives would kick in. Isn't this the point when they're supposed to pick up the child by its hind legs, raise it up and ensure that it takes it's first breath? Not anymore it seems. "There's your baby... Pick up your baby..." Sally and Karen gently intoned. Lisette came to with a start and reached out to grab the floating child. ## "It's a boy!"

A boy. A boy! I've got a son! We've got a son! Look, he's breathing. He's moving! He's got fingernails! He's got hair! This is amazing! The excitement Lisette and I felt when he was born. It was a moment of absolute joy. I wept. In a good way. I can't believe that we're alone in feeling that way. That wouldn't be credible. Has every human being born provoked that reaction in their mother, their father? Wouldn't that be wonderful? Wouldn't that be fantastic? I don't know if that's actually the case. But I love the idea that perhaps as everyone enters the world they create joy. And that's it. This is us; the brand new "us"!

Vital Statistics​

Our new son (son!) weighed 8lbs 1oz and was born at 12:37pm on June 15th 2012. His name is Benjamin Luxford Reilly and he is greatly loved by his parents.

It's the morning of June 14th 2012. Lisette is 9 months pregnant. Well 9 months and a day; she was due to give birth yesterday. I've attended the classes and so I know that kids aren't like microwave meals. They don't click and ding in exactly 3 minutes. They can come at any time. So for the last month that's pretty much what I've been expecting. Imminent arrival. It hasn't happened. But something's happening now... Lisette woke in the night. This isn't unusual at all. Since Lisette started on maternity leave she's pretty much adopted (the cat) Maggie's lifestyle. That is to say, she has about 3 or 4 sleeps a day and prowls the house during the night. Though thankfully she hasn't yet tried to use the catflap. But last night was different. When Lisette woke she felt a little strange. Not "I'm going into labour" strange; more "I've eaten a hot Thai curry" strange. As it happened she had eaten a hottish curry the night before. But lets not mince words; this was, sorry, this *is* labour. The contractions (after they'd been happening for 4 hours Lisette agreed that it probably wasn't a dicky tummy after all) are currently spaced about 5 minutes apart and they last about a minute. I know this as it's my job to time the contractions. We've gone high tech for that; we're using an app on Lisette's iPhone. When one starts Lisette cries "push the button" and I hit Start. Then when it's done she cries "'K" and I hit Stop. I've had more taxing jobs. Though nature has conspired to help me sympathise. In a cruel twist of fate I have this week developed a minor medical condition (I'll spare you the details) which means I've been doing a fair amount of groaning myself. It's probably not that comparable but I like to think it helps me to empathise. Lisette called the hospital and they said it was too early to go in. "Take paracetamol and have a bath" they said. Lisette's done both. It doesn't seem to have made any discernible difference. Maybe that's their stock advice to stop people going to the hospital too early. I'll sign off for now I think, I guess it'll all kick off soon. Exciting! Scary... Exciting!

It was now evening in Sicily and the sun was beginning to set. Lisette and I found ourselves in a cafe 5 miles from where we were lodging. The cafe was filled with about 40 elderly men; all drinking coffee and talking loudly. I tried addressing the man behind the counter: "Scusi Signore" I ventured (my Italian is not fantastic), "uhmmm, taxi... Scopello... Per favore?" The barman frowned. "Non. No taxis in Castellammare." And there he left it. It had, all told, been a very long day indeed. Lisette and I had arrived the previous night in Scopello a town that sits roughly halfway between Palermo and Trapani on the West side of Sicily. We first visited Scopello the year before and liked what we saw. It was a magical, though undeniably tiny, place packed with restaurants and cafes and situated next to the Zingaro - a massive nature reserve. We only stayed there for a day on that occasion, and we loved it. Lisette and I have rules when it comes to travelling. It sounds a bit extreme I know but we've found that following these rules has worked in our favour more often than not. Rule #1: Never go back - it's never the same the second time round no matter how much fun it was the first time Rule #2: Never book your accommodation - websites lie and some of the nicest places we've ended up in have come about accidentally. Rule #3: Never stay in one place for the whole trip - why stay in one place when there's a whole country to explore? But this time we decided to break the rules. We knew Lisette would be 6 months pregnant when we went and so we probably needed to make some adjustments. We broke our rules. Every one. When we arrived on Saturday night in Scopello it was dark. The square was deserted and our only companions were the town dogs. All the restaurants were shut. On Saturday night

. There were six people were staying in our hotel that night, two of those people were us. And our room turned out to be a vivid green in colour. For those of you unaware, green is a colour Lisette is only willing to tolerate in grass and leaves and she has outlawed it when it comes to interior decoration. Finally our room number was #13. I'm not remotely a superstitious man but it kind of felt appropriate... We had broken the rules and the universe was extracting its pound of flesh. We had to take action. I woke early the next morning to find Lisette had a plan: - "Let's go to Erice!" - "We don't have a car" - "Not a problem. We catch a bus from the main square to Castellammare. Then we catch a bus to Castellammare train station. Then we catch a train to Trapani. Stay with me... you're going to like this... We catch a cable car from Trapani up the hill to Erice which is a pretty hill town with lovely streets and views and things... What do you think?" I liked the cut of her jib. And I very much liked the idea of a cable car. So an hour later we boarded the bus and were away. An hour after that we arrived at the train station and that's where the fun began.... Trains in Sicily seem to run in an entirely different fashion to trains in other countries. They are not apparently bound by schedules; certainly little of what we read in what we have dubbed the "Omertà timetables" came to pass. It feels as if trains in Sicily operate in a fashion closer to pirate ships than to commercial ships. One imagines the train driver and his crew rising in the morning to cries of "Avast me hearties - which fair stazione shall we bear to the day? We ride the seven rails etc..." It is at once a glorious and terrible anarchy which is only compounded by the insanity of the ticket situation. Namely, without a ticket you cannot ride the train. Which would be fine but when we sought to buy tickets the ticket office was shut. After we'd missed a few trains (having been made to effectively walk the plank by various ticket inspectors) a man arrived on the platform sold us tickets and then went back home visibly worn out by his exertions. It quickly became apparent that in the off-season this is how Sicily functions. In Trapani, Lisette and I tooled along to the cable car to find it still shut for winter whilst proudly pronouncing on it's noticeboard that it had in fact opened for business 2 days previously. Still, we were not to be deterred and caught a taxi up the hill to magnificent hill town of Erice. We were delighted, we'd set out to get to Erice without a car and by Jove we'd followed this route and made it!:

- "Lisette... You know we've just arrived in Erice?" - "Yes my love" - "And it's all really pretty isn't it? Amazing views from the top of the hill, picturesque streets..." - "Yes it's beautiful isn't it? Have you seen the clouds blowing through the town? We're *that* high up we're in the clouds!!!" - "Hmmmmmmm... well take a good look around because the last bus for Trapani leaves in 10 minutes." - "Arrggghhhh!!!!!" Yes my friends, having travelled for 4 hours and spent a grand total of 20 minutes at our destination we now found ourselves heading back home nearly immediately. We were broken. Nothing was coming easily. Everything was hard work. We were not jolly. We were short changed by a ticket machine in Trapani (when even machines have turned against you know something is wrong) and once again denied entry to a train by Blackbeard the Bloodthirsty (ticket inspector 1st class). Finally we were in front of the bartender in Castellammare who was assuring us that there was no taxi service. We were pretty near tears and unsure what to do next. Then the bartender said "private car" and picked up the phone. He made a quick call and said to us "a man will pick you up in 10 minutes". We could have kissed him. True enough a man arrived shortly and started driving us the 5 miles to Scopello. He turned out to be a New Yorker who'd moved over to Sicily from Queens some 29 years before. We talked as he drove: - "Really thanks for driving us. We were pretty stuck... I'm John, this is Lisette" - "My name's Bernard. But I don't really like it. Sounds like a dog. You know, St Bernard?" I nod. - "I've never liked Bernard. I prefer to go by 'Dino' instead." - "That sounds a bit like 'dingo'" What was I thinking? I said it before I thought about it and in my head I now had Meryl Streep chiming "the dingo took the baby" on repeat. Bernard / Dino gives me a funny look. And well he might. I spend the rest of the journey thinking of what I can say to make things up. Finally I gush "Bernard - you'll never be a dog to us." This tickles him. And then he relieves us of 20 euro for the ride to Scopello. Lisette and I were feeling pretty low that night but I'm happy to say things turned around wonderfully. We spent the rest of the week buying arancini and bottles of water from the town and hiking into the Zingaro reserve accompanied by one of the town dogs. I love a dog. It was fantastic in the end. And our next adventure begins in 3 months...

We found out Lisette was pregnant at about 2 weeks. A combination of common sense and tradition meant we decided to keep the news pretty much to ourselves to start with. And it's undeniable that we were shocked enough with the news as is without having to deal with other peoples reactions as well. However, keeping the news of Lisette's pregnancy quiet up until this point has proved somewhat challenging. Lisette stopped drinking when she found out and to her surprise a friend, let's call him Chris for now, clearly noticed straightaway (what this says about Lisette I couldn't possibly comment). For Chris truly hates not to know a secret. Subsequently any time we met up with him we would be entertained by the ways in which he sought to know for sure. Various approaches were taken. There were the random questions: - "Are you okay Lisette?" - "Yes I am Chris." - "You're well?" - "Oh yes!" - "So... you're good" - "Yes... good" We found this thread of questioning would roll round with startling regularity. Moving on, there was the night we were drinking at the Eel Pie on Church Street and everyone was chinking pint glasses and "cheers"-ing. Someone randomly asked "are we celebrating anything?". At which point Chris turned to me, fixed me with a look and said "I don't know John... Are we?" Having got no joy with us Chris decided on a different tack... interviewing mutual compadres. Our friend, let's call her Sarah, was round visiting Chris for lunch. As it happened, Sarah was pretty much the only person who had advance knowledge of our news. Whether Chris had guessed this or not I cannot be sure but he certainly used it as his jumping off point: - "So Sarah... do you think Lisette is pregnant" - [Slightly stunned] "Why Chris, what makes you say that?" - "Well, you know... I've noticed that Lisette hasn't been drinking recently. And I was thinking to myself... well Lisette's just glowing right now. Don't you agree?" This about the woman whose spent the last 2 months clutching my hand and saying "John I'm nauseous - I need a ginger biscuit". After we heard that little tale we decided to deny knowledge of the child to Chris throughout the pregnancy and even after the birth. Our resolve on that point did not last long. We cracked and told him at 11 weeks. He seemed delighted; whether he was delighted that Lisette was pregnant or if he was simply pleased to finally been able to scratch his Sherlock-ian itch I couldn't say.

Ladies and gentlemen we have some news for you. The die is now cast. The deed is indeed done. The rubicon has been crossed. Lisette, my lovely wife, is very much in the family way. Yes, On June 13th 2012 we're due to welcome one Farquhar Scopello Reilly into the outside world.... Those of you that know us well will be aware that children (or "screaming brats" as hitherto we have characterised them) are not really our bag at all. So we're a little... hesitant about our news. We're kind of pleased. And we're kind of terrified. When we rationalise we realise that we've been very blessed in life so far - we've done a lot. Maybe this is a good idea? And then occasionally we just hold each other and ask "Have we made a terrible mistake???" It's the fear I wasn't expecting. I'm not sure what reaction I expected to feel to the news that I'm a father but I'm pretty certain that being petrified wasn't on the list. What if the baby isn't well? What if we're rubbish parents? What if he / she doesn't like us? He / she! If he's a boy what if he takes after me and spends the first part his childhood stealing money from family members? (I think it would be better, all told, if the child took after Lisette.) What if they're not happy? Are we going to lose all our friends without kids now? What if, what if, what if. By the way, I do realise that none of these thoughts are new or original in any way. My parents will have had these thoughts. Friends too. Even my siblings. I bet it felt new to them when it happened though. I guess that's the point. Doubtless if you've got kids you've felt these feelings, thought these thoughts and generally got on with it. For my part I feel like I've gone to the cinema to see a film I'm not sure about and I'm being freaked out by the trailers before the main feature. So this is our new tour; parenthood. We're going to a country where the food is at best suspect. Pray for us; we're completely out of our comfort zone now!

"... I won't let you down ... FREEDOM!!! I will not give you up... FREEDOM!!! Gotta have some faith in my sound... FREEDOM!!! " One thing I find fascinating about travelling around is the contrasts that you observe between different cultures. I’m not a believer that national stereotypes are the whole truth about a society but there generally seems to be some reality in amongst the myth. Take “FREEDOM!!!”. We were in the process of inquiring about a trip to Stromboli (an active volcanic island) from a man who looked uncannily like George Michael in his first post-Wham days (mirror sunglasses; the whole shebang). He was, by any stretch of the imagination, an ebullient and noisy character. I liked him instantly. During his description of how the trip might pan out he wanted to illustrate to us that during the day we would have “free time” and indeed “freedom to wander” on Stromboli. Isn’t it obvious that the best way to communicate this to us would be via a capella version of George Michael’s “Freedom ‘90”? Say what you like but it seems unlikely to me that people offering tours of the Scottish Islands are flogging their trips in a comparable fashion.

I’ve tried hard to boil down what the essential differences between Sicilians and Brits are. I’m not sure I’ve completely succeeded. What I can say is this: Sicilians are *generally* extremely vigorous and friendly. I have one caveat: Syracusians are excluded from this. They were the grumpiest, grouchiest, “we do not smile” type people I’ve ever encountered. Lisette actually made it her ambition to get a Syracusian smile. She failed! Wouldn’t have thought it possible. But looking away from them and at Sicilians in the main let me present my evidence: - Seller of bus tickets breaks off mid transaction to seize the man behind him by the shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks. Don’t see that on British Rail.

• Queuing. They don’t. Lisette and my tactics of looking hopeful and trying to be polite frankly don’t work in this society. My attempt to acquire some great smelling sausage from a marketplace was stymied by a million wizened old Sicilians pushing in front of me and waving fist fulls of Euro whilst berating the servers for not paying them enough attention. Lisette’s attempt to get off a bus was a near tragedy as she refused to push her way off the bus and they responded in kind by pushing their way onto the bus leaving Lisette stuck in the back corner looking quite sorrowful and saying “Excuse me, excuse me” plaintively to ears that were not listening.
• Smoking. They do. And I’m not sure I’ve seen a people embrace fags with this level of earnestness. If you smoke in Sicily then this is the preferred technique: lodge cigarette firmly in corner of mouth (ala Andy Capp). Do not let tobacco receptacle move but instead suck on it for dear life. Try not to exhale. That would be a sign of weakness and a waste. Instead seek to absorb every bit of tar, nicotine and smoke that’s available. I must admit I’m left most curious as to what life expectancy on Sicily is among smokers. My expectation would be that it is quite low. Tell you what though, when you see everyone firmly getting stuck in, it quite wants to make you give it a crack as well and see what all the fuss is about. Lisette is somewhat less convinced of this.
• Having purchased tickets on a bus to Palermo with our Pigeon Italian we realised that the bus driver had no clue that we didn’t speak the language and sought to engage us in detailed conversation. For some reason he didn’t pick up that we weren’t following what he was saying and so lapsed instead into a pattern of saying “Si!” emphatically if we thought he wanted us to agree with something or waggling our heads sympathetically if a different response seemed appropriate. We had no idea what we were agreeing with or sympathising with at all. In my head I was imagining he was saying things along the lines of “at least Mussolini made the trains run on time. And I tell you this: Berlusconi; he is no Mussolini!” Things got easier at Cefalu when an Italian girl got on and offered to translate. It then emerged that the bus driver was blaming the traffic on someone throwing their mother-in-law into the road from a moving car. The girl looked a little embarrassed by this and didn’t offer to translate any further.

love, John and Lisette PS I am no Gok Wan but I would like to say this: wet look leggings were not designed to be worn in a loose fitting style. It makes them look like bin bags. That is all.

It was the early hours of Wednesday morning on Ortigia, the island that is connected to the South East tip of Syracusa by a number of bridges. On Via Della Maestranza, one of the main thoroughfares of the island, all was quiet. Then a Fiat Panda detonated. It had been packed with explosive and parked directly in front of the main window of a shop that sold decorative metalwork. The window was blown in by the explosion and the stock redistributed around the interior of the store with some force. Lisette and I did not witness this. We arrived mid morning to see the remains of the incident. What presented itself was a blackened burned out husk of a car which looked like Mr Creosote post "wafer-thin mint". The street was coated with soot and the store was completely devastated. I tried to take a photo - Lisette pushed me on before I could. It made us re-evaluate though. Since we'd arrived we hadn't really given any thought to the organised crime that Sicily is so famed for. It seems likely that the store had not paid it's "pizzo" (protection money) and was being punished by the local enforcer. We've started looking at everything through slightly new eyes. We've seen other cars parked in front of building containing large plastic cylinders and edged gingerly away from them. We've seen cars with their windows caved in and nodded sagely to ourselves. Last night we were eating in a restaurant and an impressive man and what can only be described as "entourage" arrived. "So what do you reckon?" "Definitely mafia - did you see the restaurant owners face when they arrived?" "But ask yourself this; would the mafia actually go outside to smoke? Why should they observe the smoking ban?" "Dunno... Maybe they just like the night air..." I suppose it's possible we've become slightly over-cynical.

There's a lot of wild cats in Sicily. (Though I think cats are all really wild at heart - the "domesticated" ones only fool you into thinking otherwise by turning up for dinner.) The wild cats seem to be happy and the Sicilians definitely encourage them. It's quite common to find a plate on the ground featuring a couple of slices of sausage which the local felines will be tucking into. Lisette and I had arrived in a hilltown called Enna (in the middle of Sicily) and were wandering from old church to old church generally marvelling. We entered the Duomo (a kind of cathedral from what I can tell) and inside found an unhappy young man called Antonio. He was the caretaker of the Duomo and he had a problem. One of the wild cats (henceforth known as "Tiddles") had crept into the Duomo and gone exploring amidst a stacked up collection of 5,000 chairs. Somewhere at the back Tiddles had got stuck. He wanted out. The Duomo resounded with the howls of the trapped cat. Antonio and I got stuck in; we spent a good half hour moving chairs away from the pile and essentially dug a passage through the chairs to where the howling was the loudest. We, unfortunately, could get no further through without causing a chair avalanche (chairvalanche?). Tiddles kept howling but did not come out to meet us. Antonio decided to employ his Sicilian cunning. He went away and came back with a piece of meat, the like of which I have never smelled before. It was beyond rancid; flies were gathering. Antonios logic was "cats like smelly food" and to that end it placed it just at the edge of our chair tunnel. He then waited. Tiddles was silent. Antonio became impatient, he decided to climb behind the chairs and retrieve the (now silent) cat himself. He failed. As he climbed down he landed on the smelly meat, it became stuck to his shoe and he strode the putridness around the Duomo unaware it was now attached to his left foot. By now the Duomo absolutely reeked and some puzzlement was gripping the people looking round the building. Lisette saw one woman surrepticiously glance about her and then, when certain she was unobserved, take careful sniffs of her armpits to ensure she wasn't the cause. Tiddles was ominously quiet. Antonio was optimistic and took this to mean Tiddles had slipped out when he wasn't looking. I thought it more likely Tiddles had passed out from smell-shock. Antonio had finally noticed the decaying rottenness on his foot and disposed of it. And in the absence of any further noise he slid all the chairs back into place. Just as he was walking away there was again the howl of cat that is stuck echoing around the church. Antonio was last seen digging a new passage through the chairs to rescue the unhappy Tiddles.... The adventures continue! love John and Lisette

'Twas a fine morning in Taormina. The sun was shining, the world was happy; we were going up a volcano. Mount Etna was our planned destination having signed up with a tour the day before. We strolled down the main street looking for our tour and found a big jeep of jolly looking folk just waiting for the final people to join them before the ascent began. We liked the look of them, they liked the look of us; surely this was the start of several beautiful friendships. Alas tragedy struck, this was not our tour. And as we panned left we saw our future. An oversized double decker coach was before us, already full to bursting with people and still taking on more passengers; none of which looked particularly friendly. In fact they all seemed to be carrying expensive camera equipment and/or children and gave us the kind of looks that suggested that we had developed intricate plans to be away with both. We got on, feeling a touch wary and took our seats (just above the toilets). It was one of those coaches designed by optimistic fellows who imagine all potential passengers have the stature of Oompa Loompas. I am not an Oompa Loompa; I was reduced to sitting side saddle. Lisette looked generally concerned with the way things were panning out and was wondering if this had been a mistake. I was pretty sure it was a mistake but was determined to stick it out since we'd forked out the cash for it and I couldn't imagine them coughing up a refund. We were off! The coach swayed its way out of Taormina. And then stopped. Took on more people. We were off! And then we stopped. And took on more people. And... You get the picture. An hour after our initial departure an announcement came over the tanoy delivered in the style of a jaunty Rosa Klebb: "You are probably wondering what is happening right now?" she intoned. She was right! "We have just a couple little more stops to make and then we will turn and join the motorway..." Lisette had been slowly deteriorating for the last hour. Rocking from side to side and gently moaning to herself. Rosa's announcement coincided with the end of Lisettes tether. She cracked. "ABANDON BUS!!!" Lisette was out of her seat and heading down the stairs. "SCUSI! SCUSI! Madam! SCUSI!" she bellowed fighting her way up the aisle against the flow of traffic of people boarding the coach and coming the other way. By the time I caught up she was remonstrating with Rosa on the tarmac outside. Shortly after that Rosa and the coach departed down the road and Lisette and I found ourselves sat beneath an underpass in an indeterminite and none too pleasant town. Above us there were a collection of flags flying to no particular purpose. The Union (Jack) flag happened to be flying upside down; which I understand is the sign of distress. Seemed appropriate. The town we found ourselves in was completely unlike Taormina. It was like the Gorbals in the mid-80's. For some time we wandered from street to street seeking some method of identifying the town. In the end we found a cafe and looked up the address on the packets of sugar. It's called "Letojanni" and I wouldn't recommend it. Actually it seems to enjoy a further celtic connection. We found a pub in Letojanni; it specialised in one drink: Tennent's Super. Let's leave it there.

"That's right isn't it?" said Lisette pointing at the Wikileaks frontmans picture. "Wasn't he poisoned by the Russians?" It's possible that Lisette is confusing Mr Assange with Alexander Litvinenko... However, I do wonder if something might come out of this. I think that maybe Lisette has the beginnings of another "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier ... " inside her. Am planning to record her random thoughts and publish a spy novel of the collected works under a nom de plume. Perhaps Jeanette le Carre. A certain amount of filtering a reshaping may be necessary to turn this into a proper pot boiler. For instance I'm not entirely sure where the following utterance would fit in a book about spies and derring do: "maybe Italian woman have some kind of deal with the goddess of beauty - they front load their attractiveness in life so they look amazing up to the age of 40 and then it all goes to pot..." We don't normally travel carrying pictures of controversial organisations. It's just I'm currently reading a book called "Inside Wikileaks" which unsurprisingly features a picture of JA on the back cover. This purchase was a result of carrying out the "69 test" on a number of possible airport book possibilities. The idea is you read the 69th page of a book by which point the author should have got properly going. So you judge a book not by the cover but by how it seems to be panning out when underway. Not sure if it holds water but the Wikileaks book is properly interesting. Certainly more so than another book on the shelves called "How to make money from property" which features a serious looking man on the cover who may well have hemorrhoids (looking at the expression in his eyes). Performing the 69 test on said book netted the following sentence: "You can increase the square footage of...." Not something I wanted to study in depth in Sicily I felt.

This morning Lisette and I went to an English church in Taormina, Sicily where we are staying. There was a Scottish couple there who were renewing their wedding vows having been married for 40 years. Lisette wept tears of joy. Fantastic stuff. Afterwards we sat outside and drank wine and fanta with the (generally elderly) congregation who were an assortment of English, Scottish and New Yorkers (whose family came from Sicily). It's interesting how different cultures approach belief differently. The previous night we'd seen the other end of the spectrum in the form of a very ornate church procession through the centre of Taormina. The focus of which was a statue of Mary which had been more decorated in earrings and jewels than you would have thought plausible. Left us thinking: Holy Mary Mother of God... you look a little like B.A. Baracus....

"Lately I've been seeing things... Belly button piercings" - Black Treacle, Arctic Monkeys I can't remember if someone told me to first do this or whether I worked it for myself. Either way I've now established a useful tradition when going away. Before I leave I buy an album on which I've never heard any of the tracks but which I have high hopes of liking. I take it with me and only allow myself to listen to it when I've reached wherever we're travelling to. That way whenever I subsequently listen to the music it always takes me back to where I first heard it. So the first Arctic Monkeys album reminds me of buses in Equador, the final Streets album reminds me of Chiang Mai in Thailand. The second Arctic Monkeys album reminds me of Venice and the third Arctic Monkeys album reminds me of Sri Lanka. My latest fix is the latest Arctic Monkeys album. (they've given me good memories in the past so I'll trust them again) love John and Lisette PS Lisette is loving being the only natural blonde on this citrus isle :-)

We were halfway up the mountainside and panting like dogs in a hot summertime when Ek, our whippet-thin guide, turned to me, patted me on the belly and said "when due?" before dissolving in peals of laughter on the ground. Didn't know much English, our Ek, but he knew that. Aside from taking abuse from the natives I'm happy to report that things have improved since our Sliding Doors escapades (or "Down the Wrong Leg of the Trousers of Time"). Lisette and I have made our way across the briny sea from Phuket to Koh Lanta where life is looking up. :-) Lanta attracts a very different demographic to Phuket. Essentially it's rammed to bursting with Nordic families - all with very young babies. The reason, or so I gather from chatting to a Finnish guy and his Swedish wife (with baby strapped to her belly), is that paternity leave is quite staggeringly generous in Sweden - in fact I thought he said "480 days" but it was a noisy bus and that does seem unlikely. Either way the net result is that Swedes tend to up sticks and come down to Koh Lanta for a couple of months when a new baby has been born. I told him that paternity leave was 2 weeks in the UK. He grinned. As well as the Swedes it seems every English rasta in the world is also living in Koh Lanta and singing "Redemption Song". Lost count of the number of times I have heard "Old pirates, yes, they rob I; Sold I to the merchant ships..." sung in a cod reggae accent with a home-counties lilt. One love Surrey. Fight the Babylon. Lisette's thinking of getting braids as a tribute.

Our first night on Lanta was spent at a very kid friendly hotel which was lovely but not really "us" in the sense that we were clearly in a peer group on our own. Also the room had one "feature" that they hadn't told us about. At 5 am there was a faint popping and crackling noise followed by a *very* loud "Allahu Akbar, Ash-had al-la ilaha illa llah..." Following the blind panic of coming to surrounded by deafening exhultations we realised that our room was placed next to the minaret of the mosque behind the hotel. (Which, being the ever observant and well researched travellers we are, we had completely failed to clock.)

The next day we decided to head South, partly seeking a quieter start to the day, partly looking for a residence where we felt didn't feel like we were there under false pretences. (Not good if you're feeling the need to wrap up spare clothes in a sheet swaddling-style to carry around with you so fit in.) Ever seeking a little local expertise we sought the opinion of, I guess, a "Lantan" and asked to be directed to a more "backpacker-y" type place. She considered carefully and directed us to a beach called Klong Nin. Following her lead we rocked up to a the bungalows she'd directed us too: "Is this definitely it - looks like the last place?" "That's the name she gave us. Rooms look about the same. Still quite heavy on the screaming baby front...." "Tonka toys floating in the pool; check. Can't really see any difference..." "Oh look, drugs!" Yes, sure enough, this residence was to all intents and purposes identical to the last, the conspicuous difference was that this place retailed narcotics. It wasn't shy about it either, it wasn't the case of a darkened room out of which people would furtively dart concealing contraband about their person. No. This stuff featured on the menu. Right next to the Margarita there was the "Mushroom Shake", and next to that the "Bhang Lassi". The list went on. Pondering matters a little further we have come to the conclusion that the term "backpacker" has become something of a euphemism in Lanta. If you say "backpacker" what they hear is "show us your class b's and c's". One of life's little learning exercises. Love John and Lisette

So. There's this film called Sliding Doors. In it there is a crucial moment at which point Gwyneth Paltrows life is divided into 2 possible alternate realities. In one she makes it past the sliding doors and onto the tube train where she goes home and catches her errant boyfriend with another woman. In the other universe the doors shut, she misses the train and consequently doesn't find out about her cheating fella. Happily nothing in a similar vein to be reported from Thailand apart from the idea of a life (or in this case 2 lives) diverging at a given point. Lisette and I were in Chiang Mai and having just finished our cookery course we were getting itchy feet. We got talking to this retired American guy who'd just been to Luang Prabang in Laos and couldn't stop talking about it - all French Asian and dead pretty lanterns and the like. Bakeries. So we thought we'd give it a crack. Love a bakery we do. Off to the travel agents with our cunning plan to fly East to LP and then a couple of days later South to Krabi (back in Thailand). However the cost of doing this was prohibitive. And the lady running the travel agent dangled the alternative possibility of just flying South to Phuket - near Krabi we were told. At this point in one reality a more adventurous John and Lisette said "Hang the cost, it's Luang Prabang for the likes of us!" In this reality J+L said "Hmmm... bit expensive... we can go another time... let's just go to Phuket instead - it'll be fine". (Besides I'd chatted with Matt Bridger before I'd left and he'd raved about Phuket, but told me to stear clear of Koh Lanta.)

We landed in Phuket the next day (pro-nounced "Pu-ket" though I fear my sentiments toward the place now match an entirely different pronunciation) and it wasn't at all as Matt had advertised. Something did not feel right. It started when we got in the taxi and asked to be taken to the hotel we had booked. The driver looked about as wired as they come and once we'd given him the hotel address he processed to drive us into the middle of nowhere - to a sort of Thai industrial park. Door slams. Driver strides into strange office and tag teams a woman inside who rushes out and wrenches open the car door. "Where you staying?" "Um - we've got a reservation thanks" "You no stay there - we get you cheap price" "We're fine" "What you doing tomorrow?" "Fine" "How long you staying?" Behind her, in the office, our taxi driver could be seen swigging deeply on bottle of beer and looking on.

We eventually reached our hotel. In silence. We checked in and found ourselves in a hot concrete cell with hole in the wall which was covered with mesh in place of a window. It was lit by a fluorescent light. Through the mesh hole in the wall could be heard the strains of a very violent film. We headed outside the hotel to examine Phuket. Next to the hotel was the "Pink Lady Cafe". There was the "Happiness Shop" which had pictures in the window of young slender Thai ladies embracing Western men of an older and more... corpulent... nature. Rubbish was strewn throughout the streets. Decay was everywhere. It was at this point that I remembered that I figured that Matt actually probably recommended Koh Lanta and said "avoid Phuket" and Lisette thought that she might have been here before 10 years ago and had some unpleasant experiences too.

If you are ever taken by the desire to see what extreme tourism can do to a place then Phukets your bag baby. Never, I think, has a land been more pillaged, ravaged and left for dead by the desire to milk this cash cow until it bleeds. There was nothing left of any merit that we could see. Lisette and I understandably decided to skip town and since it seemed likely we had a recommendation for Koh Lanta we decided to head that way. Transport links aren't great between Phuket and Koh Lanta but suppose if you've gone to one place what are the chances you'd actually want to move to the other place? Surely you'd only go to each destination deliberately. I bet the transport links between Israel and Palestine are no great shakes either. Anyway, we arranged passage on a series of boats and shook the Phuket dust off our sandals. We've rationalised too. Although the John and Lisette that went to Luang Prabang in the alternate reality had a really great time, we think it's pretty probable they contracted malaria and died too. Well perhaps not - but telling ourselves that is slightly more preferable than facing the reality that we should have bought a guidebook published this millenium. Oh and maybe I should have listened more closely to Matt too. Love John and Lisette

... read the sign on the restaurant wall. Not the sort of thing you'd see at home. It turns out that Thai people have a very strong affection for the orange robed Buddhist monks that roam the streets and pretty much venerate them. Monks don't queue as a general rule of thumb, they have reserved areas in airports and are given the best seats on planes and, that weren't enough, they are given money by the locals on the street. The upshot of this is the modern day occurrence of fake monks; tribute monks if you will. People who purport to be monks (shave their heads and wear orange) so they can experience the benefits. Hence the government is now warning tourists not to be taken in. But apart from saying "Beware Fake Monks" they haven't really provided any guide on how to pick them out. Lisette suggests keeping eyes open for monks ordering steak, smoking and swigging beer but we've had no takers on that front so far. Sneaky monks. (Or genuine - we don't know anymore) Did think we had one possibility at the airport earlier; saw a guy with a noticeably recently shaved head and wearing brown robes. Either he wasn't trying when out buying his robes or possibly when back at home and not faking a monk he put his then-orange robes in the washing machine on a "darks" load - with unfortunate consequences....

In Chiang Mai Lisette and I signed up to do a cookery course which I can heartily recommend. The course was held in a school inside the city walls of Chiang Mai and was lots of fun. We visited the local market, cooked 7 or so dishes (including the mandatory but always appreciated Pad Thai) and had the very pleasant company of a very international group of folk cooking with us; Swedish (looking glamourous as you'd expect) / Dutch / French (not the most talkative or friendly sorts but I best not cast aspersions on the national characteristics of Lisette's mother Annie) and so on. Funny how the presence of international sorts can have affect your own accent. Quite without meaning to I realised that was going a bit "Gor blimey guv'nor, I'm a cockernee sparra" which I attempted to remedy by speaking "proper-like" and ended up sounding like the ba$tard son of Elizabeth II and Dick Van Dyke. Strange. Also had it brought home to me once more that the expressions on my face bear little or no relevance to my actual thoughts. It's my fathers fault. I've inherited his cro-magnon / Klingon forehead which lends me a sterner visage than I would otherwise have hoped. I'm thinking happier thoughts than you imagine I promise! The cooking course was punctuated by many breaks during which the group would eat what we had just prepared and chat. During one of these breaks I observed to the group that it was interesting that with such a diverse collection of souls representing many different cultures that, by and large, all people present spoke English but spoke it with a pronounced American accent. I meant nothing particular by this; just an observation of the influence that America has on the world. However, I can only presume that I was projecting a deep sadness about the end of the British Empire that I certainly did not feel. There was a pause and then the Dutch girl in front of me leaned forward, patted my hand, and assured me that she felt that Britain would "rise again once more". Startled. Does my face secretly proclaim "Oh how I wish England had the Colonies again?" Perhaps. How to rectify?

Something odd: have noticed lots of Japanese girls touring around done up to the nines and with a boyfriend in tow loaded down with photographic equipment. The entire basis of the relationship seems to be that the lad will take photographs of the lass against various glorious backdrops whilst she looks thoroughly unsatisfied and mournful. Not sure if the mournful thing is part of the look or maybe the mournfulness demonstrates the girls sadness that she cannot afford her own official photographer and so is having to make do...

Lisette and I are no longer in Chiang Mai and are best described as being "in difficultly". We'll spare you the details just now but hopefully things should improve soon we hope.... We'll see....

love John and Lisette

So the flames licked up the side of the building and smoke billowed like billy-o. The people up and down the street turned, pointed and stared and the restaurant where Lisette and I had eaten our first meal in Bangkok was consumed by fire. Yup, Lisette and I are on holiday and appear to be blazing a trail in a more literal sense than usual. We are currently resident in Bangkok and making plans to head North to Chiang Mai.

I love my wife.

This hopefully doesn't come as a surprise to you but the fact was brought home at the start of the trip with a more emotional than usual departure to foreign climes. It started with Lisette and I attempting to board the Thai Airways flight to Bangkok in Terminal 3, Heathrow. We should actually have been attempting to board the British Airways flight - the bouncer (for want of a better term) set us straight on this by replying to our "Can we board please" with "That'll be a negative sir". "Negative" - I could have done with just "no" and he could have saved himself 2 syllables. Anyhow, we then clocked that our flight was leaving from the other side of the airport and so we performed a 10 minute sprint before boarding our British Airways flight panting like mad things.

This understandably didn't exactly endear us to our neighbours as when looking to recruit someone who'll sit by your side for 12 hours people are generally on the lookout for folk that don't appear to be sweating profusely or nearing death from asphyxiation. That said our arrival thus achieved, Lisette and I were soon separated as the in-flight entertainment was dead in our seats and so I was hived off to another part of the plane where equipment worked. (Lisette is a better sleeper than I and so voted to kip instead.) In my new seat I discovered I had the undoubted pleasure of sitting next to Mr Banks out of Mary Poppins before MP had done her good work on him and got him singing "Let's go fly a kite". This fellow read the Financial Times, cover to cover, for 9 hours... Fine paper, wont hear a word said against it - love Lucy Kellaway - but 9 hours? Come on!

Anyway, since I was on my tod I decided to watch a film. I opted for "Never Let Me Go" which is an odd amalagm of romance, something else and science-fiction. Fantastic film. Didn't know much about it before hand but basically it's unrequited love, requited love and then - well I won't spoil it. But it affected me. Deeply. By the closing credits I was a shaking, dribbling, snotty wreck of a man. Weeping uncontrollably and heaving with emotion. Mr Banks looked quite worried by this turn of events and I caught him taking the occasional concerned look at me over the top of his paper.

I couldn't help it. I commend this film to you. Watch it. It's the kind of film that leaves you grateful for the blessings you have and grateful that you are loved and have someone to love. I'm still affected now I think.

This morning we ventured out with Lisette's "Rough Guide to Thailand" which was published in 1997. This makes it practically an antique and nearly nothing in it is true anymore. There's the occasional sentence in it which gives it away; phrases like "tsunami's have never troubled Thailand" and "here be dragons".

We made our way across town in a taxi (and Steve if you're reading this you'll be delighted to know that the cabbie was a Liverpool supporter :-)

• pretty much the only English word he knew besides "Premiership") and visited the Christ Church Bangkok. There is something wonderful about being on the other side of the world and meeting people who look nothing like you but with whom you have something in common. The church was somewhat surprisingly led by lovely man of Essex called Peter Cook (no relation to Dudley Moore). They put on a lunch in the building next door afterwards and so Lisette and I headed along. Fiery. But very good. Got chatting to a Thai lady next to us called Sarah who was lovely and turned out to be much older than we had imagined. I'm thinking that Thai woman probably age quite well.

When we returned to where we're staying near the Kho San Road we found that the restaurant we ate at and then watched burn down was now alas a blackened shell. However, time was not standing still and the workers weren't either. Much like ants repairing a decimated anthill, they were busy cleaning it out and preparing for the renovation already. Wish them well.

We're now heading off to dinner - we'll pop back tomorrow and see if the building's still standing. Curious and vaguely concerned to see if we are leaving arson in our wake.

love John and Lisette

PS Ever wondered how Cheryl Cole was actually managing to make a living with her music post Girls Aloud? (Surely I can't be the only one pondering that) Well I have the answer - it's the Thai's! They love her! Can't move for renditions of her debut single as a solo artist. Though Thai is a tonal language and the locals seem to struggle with an English consonant. So it's a bit "Figh', Figh', Figh', Figh for this lo'e" if you follow me.

Hi all, Have had eyes opened to the seedy underbelly of France. Am shocked and appalled. Lisette and I had moved on from Ambois to Blois (about 20 minutes up river) and were exploring the local market. Very scenic, rotisseries full of chicken being roasted, stalls carrying great wedges of nasally powerful cheese. Interesting soap, you know the like. The marketplace was crawling with people and as we stood taking it in I felt a slight prod behind me. When I turned around I realised a French woman on a bike (say early-40s) had just run into me. I moved aside and watched her cycle on through the marketplace colliding with people as she went. Perhaps unsurprisingly, not everyone took this well. An old man (80+ if he was a day) who was on the receiving end of one of her collisions with the masses took umbrage. He bellowed something French at her and waving his arms chased after the woman through the marketplace in the style of a zombie in Dawn of the Dead. She, for her part, was as interested in this as the rest of us and stopped on her bike to watch the strange not quite undead man scampering in her direction. What happened next was unexpected. The man reached the woman and without pausing for breath (which zombies probably dont need anyway) he struck her full in the face. There followed that sort of stunned silence that follows a shock to the normal social cohesion. You could see men throughout the crowd all involuntarily taking a step forwards - all presumably having reached the conclusion that this not good and it was indeed their duty to do something. You could see on our faces the conumdrum being furiously turned over - it's an old man, we can't hit him, but he hit her, that wasn't right, he might hit her again, we must do something... But what? Whilst we pondered the social niceties of restraining an old (but clearly not enfeebled) man, the woman on the bike took her chance to react. She leapt off the bike and in one massively unexpected moment executed an elegant drop kick on the old man. Doing the proper Bruce Lee on her opponent. The man staggered backwards and once again you could see the cogs whirring throughout the crowd: That woman has just kicked an old man, that's not right, but he did hit her, so I guess that's fair, mind you two wrongs dont make a right, someone should do something... Still not sure what though... I fancy that in the end people would have stepped forward and restrained both parties but in the end it proved unnecessary. The man decided that discretion was the better part of valour and started retreating with great haste. The woman started shouting something about the police and pulled out her phone so she could take a picture of her assailant. The man was last seen retreating backwards whilst shouting and being pursed by the woman taking snap after snap. It was like a very surreal and aggressive photo shoot.

Happy to report that I am now a well man. Lisette on the other hand has completely caught what I have and is suffering. Fortunately we've now made it down to Ken and Annies in Moraira (Spain) and so Lisette is being well cared for... See you soon, John and Lisette

It happened last night as we were approaching dinnertime. I'd felt the odd twinge throughout the day but nothing serious. Come 6pm last night matters took a turn for the worse though as I was overcome with a massive pain which caused me to collapse doubled up in agony. Fortunately we were at the hotel when this happened and so I could stumble to the bedroom and crash. Never had pain like on the stomach front. Felt I was gifted a small insight into veil of tears that comes with childbirth. Lisette was my saviour of the moment, heading out to acquire a multitude of pills from the local pharmacy which were quaffed with much urgency. Following 12 hours of bed-rest I'm pleased to report that I'm feeling much more normal. Nevertheless, there have been changes on the gastronomic front prompted by this. No more with le steak frite and creme brulèe. No more with the mounds of cheese and butter. No more l'escargot (though it was only Lisette and Una who were brave enough to dabble in this). Instead we have switched to what I suppose we best call the "Patisserie-diet". Important to have a system. We'll consume anything that can be obtained in a patisserie. Generally this means a croissant or a cafè au lait (or tasse de thé if you're Lisette). Granted this is not a massive step up in terms of how good the food is for us (pastries alas not yet counting towards your 5-a-day). However, in terms of food volumes I'd say we're coming on in leaps and bounds.

During my time abroad I have taken the opportunity to cultivate a goodly crop of whiskers. Had some notion of returning home hirsute and resembling a character out of Dickens, John Jasper perhaps or Bill Sikes. Really felt I was making good progress as I examined my countenance in the mirror this morning. However my self-image was somewhat punctured by Lisette's comment of "I know who you look like: David Bellamy". Two steps forward and three steps back then. I'm not still shaving though.

This morning I tried something different. Looking out as the sun rose above the Loire while we breakfasted I wrote a poem! Is very short, almost a haiku really - it's very simple and it describes the events of the wife's preceding half hour. Here goes: Market, Rillette + Baguette: Lisette... Granted it's not quite "step aside John Betjeman" quality but I remain quite pleased. To illustrate the poem I include a picture of Lisette "in the moment":

Today Lisette and I rented bikes and cycled from Amboise to see the chateaux in Chenonceaux. The bike was rented from a shop that was 50% cycle shop and 50% wine cellar. Not clear if the guy that owns it was looking to serve the same market with both products - feel that could be a poor business plan on the road safety front... The chateaux was mighty impressive - and I believe it may have been used as the basis for Hergès Captain Haddocks mansion? Day concluded at the "Bigot Patisserie". No sign of Nick Griffin, presume that "Bigot" has some innocent English translation. Either that or the shop is owned by Jean-Marie Le Pen. Bon Soir, John and Lisette PS Saw a comic book this morning entitled "Sarkozy et Les Femmes" on the front of which was a sleazy looking dwarf-sized representation of the French President surrounded by women towering over him. Don't reckon the French think much of their political masters.