Bangkok
It’s Friday morning and my last day in Bangkok. As I take the first luxurious toke of Mr Rothman's finest tobacco on the steps of my hotel a baby elephant walks past with its handler. Nobody pays any attention except a couple of fat American woman in desperately tight Lycra who instantly recognise a kindred spirit. Of much more interest to the locals is a lovely Cocker Spaniel puppy which yelps and howls with joy as its street vendor owner, an enormous laughing Thai woman, rolls around the pavement. They are playing and licking each other’s faces with complete abandon while tourists dodge and skip the flying limbs.

Opposite the hotel is a 24-hour supermarket which sells everything from scrawny ducks to Chateau Latour. Above is a nightclub called the Elvis and Tom Jones Bar with life-size neon figures of the two heroes and promises of live performances every night.

At breakfast the Bangkok morning paper announces that bank interest rates have been cut by a quarter of a percent to 1.25% so I’m off to talk to them about my mortgage.

London
Nobody here expects much from the weather and London is not about to disappoint as we swoop down through thick clouds and drizzle to Heathrow. Ah here is my host at the barrier. An enthusiastic driver with a lack of direction only rivalled by the lost tribes of Africa.
We finally arrive at our Islington offices to find two Irish navvies re-cobbling the lane outside. A hundred yards of new sewer pipes have been laid. It’s not a famous street – just any old narrow alley between two commercial buildings. Why not just tarseal it? No the two men take each of the ancient cobble stones pilled along the side of the alleyway, hand trim them, fit and tamp them down.

While unloading our car I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation:
"Was a fine evening we had last night Patrick"
"And where was I then Sean"
"You was with me yer fookin’ daft bastard"

It’s a mild, grey, damp Sunday afternoon and Londoners are starting to come out onto the streets. I’m staying at a West End hotel just off Charring Cross Road. This is home to London’s publishing and music industries. What could be better than a Sunday afternoon at Borders bookshop? The staff don’t mind if you read any of the books, magazines or newspapers while sitting in the armchairs dotted around this fabulous store. I’ve found some great Sunday reading and as I approach the counter an old lady dashes in front of me. She picks up a paper from the row of appalling Sunday tabloids and tells the queue

"I knew it – I told my Jack the bastard was queer"

as some hapless politician is cruelly exposed in 3 inch letters on the front of The Daily Gossip.

Sunday night with BBC 1 - Oh my God! – It’s bloody Rolf Harris on the art of Toulouse Lautrec. Only the Poms would put up with such a sanctimonious plonker.

Monday morning, the sun is shining, and I’m shoulder to shoulder with thousands of excited people of all nationalities going to the World Travel Market exhibition. As we set up our stand a copper comes up and confidentially tells me:

"Listen son - you ‘ear anyfing what don’t seem right – give us the nod and we’ll be right on the job."

With this piece of cryptic advice he hands me an exhibition handbook.
I can only assume he’s talking about the threat of bombs and fire and yes there on page 1:

"In case of fire the following announcement will be made:
"Attention please, attention please, Mr Goodfellow report to the security suite."
"When the fire procedure is cancelled we will make the following announcement:
"Attention please, attention please, Mr Goodfellow is cancelled"

Well that seems clear enough and I’m sure all the Chinese, Latvians, Russians, Iranians, Tanzanians and Peruvians here will have no trouble following those instructions.

Then on page 2:
"If you receive a telephoned bomb threat here are some steps you should follow:
1. Remain calm
2. Try to discover the bomb’s location
3. What it looks like
4. When will it explode?
5. Ask did the caller plant the Bomb
6. Ask the caller why he planted the Bomb"

Later the loudspeaker system howls out a heavily distorted version of God Save the Queen and the following announcement:

"There will now be a two minute silence for those who have fallen in war"

The Croatian gentleman with me leans forward and whispers
"which war does she talk about – hah?"

At my hotel I turn on the telly to watch the news. The top story is David Beckham’s broken a fingernail. His manicurist believes it could keep him out of the game for up to 6 weeks. This is followed by a live telecast of a Robbie Williams concert. The problem is that we are all fed such a solid diet of visual musical dross that we’ve forgotten the basics – talent, passion, craftsmanship and singing in tune.

Sunday Morning in London and time for a bit of a wander and a drop-a-Kulcha. Down Tottenham Court Road the pavements are a sea of bobbing brollies. Across Piccadilly Circus and Eros is looking a little bedraggled today. On to Burlington House for a Kandinsky exhibition.
I reel out of the Royal Academy of Arts after a full frontal assault by the grand master of colour. Bolstered by a cuppa I’ve decided to go another around with Vasily at the Somerset House Courtauld Collection.

As I trudge back to my hotel my umbrella’s blown inside out and my shoes are squelching but who cares - "Cos I love London so".