Beneath the surface 4

October 29th.

The travel photography awards was a classic ‘Felicity’ evening. I was given two different times for the awards ceremony. One was at seven, the other seven thirty. I arrived at seven thirty considering that was the most sensible time to start an awards ceremony. Unfortunately that logic resulted in me being locked out of the ceremony and having to bang on the window like a complete nutter. I still don’t quite understand how they managed to miss the fact that their winner was not present.
Once inside I kept smirking to myself; yet another ‘Felicity’ scenario had taken place. Further into the evening the winners and their partners were invited for dinner with the Editors. One particular winner’s girlfriend repeatedly stated she was renown for her photographic work, although she had not won anything in the competition. The thing was she just kept going on and on. ‘I blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bla bla bla this…I blah blah blah…. That.
Boring!
I wondered whether I could rebound some bread from a fork into her mouth. I usually carry gaffer tape (for photographic purposes) but that might have been too obvious to gag her in public. Instead I glanced at the editors who used various foods to conceal their yawns.
At one point the editor of one of the classier newspapers caught me rolling my eyes and coughed into her wine. I didn’t mean to but bla bla girl’s behaviour was so desperate. If you intend nut nuzzle / arse invade make sure you do it with style and finesse and wear a snorkel. Anyway further into the evening I met the editor of a cruise magazine who kindly gave me his card. ‘You are about to depart on a ship aren’t you? Please keep in contact and send me some wonderful pictures as you travel, we may even publish some.’
Perfect! Yes!!!! Woooppppp! Another door opened!

On the way back to my hotel I was kindly escorted in the correct direction by another travel editor.
‘Don’t you find it annoying how people just try and sell themselves to you?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it,’ she responded.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That would get on my nerves. I would probably build an obstacle course or something and make them complete that before they talked to me. Then at least I would feel like I was getting something out of it.’
‘So why didn’t you try and sell yourself?’ she asked curiously.
‘I believe my work sells itself and I am about to go around the world on a ship. And more than anything I prefer to be chased!’
We came to the cross roads, ‘Felicity send me your stories,’ she said handing me her card.
I smiled to myself, she meant my photo stories, not my random incidents or adventures. It seemed a door had opened and I was about to travel the world. Life was good!

October 30th

Not being able to drink at the awards was a bonus - I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. Usually when I drink my alter-ego believes she is Lara Croft and feels the distinct urge to explore and climb. On a number of occasions I have convinced a number of people to go garden hopping with me. When three of them were trapped in a garden with high walls and a Rotweiler you soon learn that garden hopping isn’t for everyone.
Today I had to complete my medical to join the ship. With about half an hour until I had to be at the medical I realised the surgery required a copy of my passport as evidence of identity. And where was my passport? Of course it was at the Vietnamese embassy where I couldn’t get hold of it until Wednesday. Brilliant! Another disaster to solve. If I didn’t have the passport I didn’t get the medical. What could I do? I laid down on my hotel bed and scanned my mind for times I had sent copies of my passport to various photo agencies as proof of identity. I needed to find an Internet café.
Frantically I paced Russell square until I realised I had walked past one Internet café three times. Surely if you are an internet café it would be a great idea to advise people of this by simply writing a sign and hanging it outside. Once at the computer I trawled through thousands of e-mails. Nothing. I should have given up… No! One last try. I fed the keyword ‘passport’ into the search and there it was: one e-mail attachment with a copy of my passport details. I printed it off and ran at great speed to Russell Square station where a group of French people were trying to work out how to use the ticket machine. Approximately twenty Londoners fumed behind them. The Frenchies grew angry at each other and gesticulated whilst swearing in French. I had twenty minutes to get to my medical. Brilliant! If was late the medical would be cancelled and I would have wasted three hundred and fifty pounds. Why was I getting stressed?
In the end the Frenchies gave up and the rest of the line stormed the ticket machine. I arrived at the private medical practice on time and upon arrival was kindly handed a pot to urinate in. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Once inside the cubicle I lined up the container and it was then mid-flow that the fire alarm sounded.
‘Please evacuate the building,’ shouted someone with an authoritive tone.
A full scale evacuation took place but I had one major question: what did I do with the canister of urine? I could hardly run the stairs with it in my hand. I had nothing to disguise the pot with either. It wasn’t as if I was going to risk putting it in my pocket. In the end I placed the canister on a shelf and headed out the door. Who would honestly steal someone else’s pot of we?
In the evacuation point, I met a Spanish girl, ‘this happened to me once before. I was wearing pyjamas and had to leave my apartment,’ she said.
‘Thank God you didn’t sleep naked,’ I responded.
‘One man did, he had to stand outside the building covering himself. It was February.’
Shrinkage.

After climbing numerous flights of stairs back to the fourth floor practice I was called into the doctor’s office. I was given a small, brown, flannel bath robe to wear. It barely covered me and certainly did not meet in my middle.
‘Please free you arm from the robe,’ said the doctor brandishing a blood pressure gage.
Easier said than done. I kindly obliged, but in trying to hide my embarrassment I cleverly transformed the robe into a straight jacket. The doctor eyed me in a way that suggested that I was possibly on the edge of genius, probably the edge at the furthest point.
‘You have high blood pressure. Are you stressed?’
Why would I be stressed? Peeing in a cup and having to evacuate, pulling off miracles with passports, accepting awards and achieving miraculous phenomenon in the shortest time available. Who could be possibly be stressed at that? Maybe next they could set me the task of walking on water whilst wearing lead.