Postcards from the Nigel.

 These set squares are a nightmare. 

 Anyone for butter?

 Aries head. 

 Canal Street. 

 Windows to the soul. 

 Honey I shrunk my pants. 

 Well done my son, the table cloth is all yours. 

 Spanish Brazilian. 

 Sunday carving. 

 Sigourney? Sigourney?

 Sea? Sure.

 Boaty McBoat Face. 

 Sea Foam. 

 Eye Talion Stallion. 

 Cray Twins. 

 2 thousand and Sistine. 

 D'oh mmmm.

 Zip but no dress?

Post (Tait) Modern. 

The passenger from hell

The Spanish couple on our London to Seatle leg were seriously fed up to find that he was in 8A and she was in 8B but that there was an aisle between them and to add insult to injury the aisles didn't even line up. This meant that she was sitting next to some other unsuspecting fella but she did not let that deter her. She bent his ear from the moment his backside hit his seat leather. I fell asleep to her waxing lyrically about British pork and woke an hour later to find her still in full throttle - her victim looking somewhat the worse for wear. Her husband on the other hand, banged away at his slaptop and made it his mission to get his pound of flesh from the hostess. Red wine, peanuts, crackers and whisky were ferried by the lorry load though I noticed that pork scratchings were noticeably absent.

Sliding doors.

He definitely fancied himself living here. 

Pie eyed.

English pubs have yet to discover paleo - 2 heart attacks later...

Tongue tied.

I've got London licked. 

Stone me.

Too many sticky fingers.
The Saatchi Gallery show off how The Rolling Stones lived in their early days. 

Goal.

After the rejections of the night, we stumbled into a pub to watch the football. There we were treated like locals, ie ignored, sworn at, joked about and jostled. The perfect end to a perfect night.

Bad Genes.

We further embarrassed ourselves later that night at the Chiltern Firehouse when Nigel reached into his new denims for a 'note' to say "ta very much mate" for that excellent service. Without looking he handed the fella the tenner only to be met with a very black look. We both looked down and realised he'd given him the receipt for the jeans instead. He gave us the once over and realised we must be Australian.

Putting on the Ritz.

Our first night in London and we suffered the absolute ignominy of being thrown out of the Ritz bar for not having 'proper' shoes on. I was wearing my new metallic Golden Goose shoes. You pay an arm and a leg for these to look like you've been wearing them for 25 years while you've cleaned chimney's for a living - we're talking seriously distressed. Nigel was even more so when he realised they weren't joking and we really did have to leave. "But these cost 2 'undred pand" - he spluttered in his best Cockney accent. Unfortunately for us the Ritz butler didn't give a raspberry tart.

Cheers.

Just time to ruin one last table cloth before we leave Rome. 

Tread carefully.

On the 13th June 2007, a man who'd had several Chiantis tried to drive his Toyota Celica down the Spanish steps. He didn't hurt anyone but several of the 200 year old steps were chipped and scuffed. Steps have now been taken to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Roman Holiday.

Waiting for Gregory Peck to turn up. 

Nigelangelo.

Definitely no photography allowed in the Sistine Chapel.

Cardinal sin.

At the Vatican we became mightily interested in the purchase of a bust of Julius Caesar when we realised it was going for the lowly price of 245 yourOhs. The lady of the Vatican shop and her mate Antonio were strangely doubtful of the sale and put many obstacles in our way. Their first offer was for us to order one online, when we didn't immediately bite at that. They said, we'd never get it in a suitcase - to which we said - we'd take it as hand luggage - Nigel is used to carrying heavy foreign bodies through customs (usually his own after a very long holiday) but this suggestion was also met with narrowed eyed suspicion by the Italians. There then ensued a stream of conversation between them, two or three telephone calls and many dark looks thrown at us until it became clear to us that the 'busts' for sale were not actually kept in the shop. To be fair this only became clear when a fella the size of a house came running in, swearing and sweating bullets with Julius in a crate on his shoulder. We both took one look at the size of the crate and realised we'd never get that on board - Dreamliner or no Dreamliner. As we ran shame faced down the Vatican exit plug hole, we saw Julius being unceremoniously carted back to the Vatican dungeons. Our guilt and disappointment was short lived as we emerged into the sunshine to see if we could find a really good Caesar salad instead.

2000 and Sistine.

Heaven was there as long as you were prepared to go through hell. 

When in Rome.

Rome. Cafe Greco. Tiramisu. Old masters all around you. But... Much better to see what Kim Kardashian is up to. 

Trifling matter.

Best tiramisu in the whole world - Cafe Greco - Rome. Though you have to be super careful of all the cocoa on top or it can kill you (via choking). 

Changing lanes.

We nearly met our maker today on the outskirts of Rome - pity we're not Catlicks as that would at least be auspicious. The Italians drive like they're all in a Ferrari on a race track even if they're in a Fiat Bambina on a side street. Anyway we were on the autostrada going like the clappers (120kms) in the middle lane, which meant them in the fast lane were going like the clappers times ten. One car roared passed and Nigel was moved to say "they're going at least 200kms" and let's face it, he would know all about that, because one time he was driving home and was stopped by the PO-leece. They'd clocked him at 198kms which meant straight to the courthouse. As befitting his strategic self, he wrote a fabulous letter in advance, which not only got him off with a mere warning but as they called his case up and the speed he was going was read out, all of the bored clerks who'd not raised a hair at the GBH case prior ,were all moved to look up and see who it was that had managed to get that kind of speed out of a Peugeot. Anyway yesterday he needed all his Ayrton Senna skills as without warning a car transporter with about 20 Fiat Bambinas on it, decided it wanted to be in our lane immediately and in the fast lane beside us was an Audi with a bad case of diarrhoea hellbent on getting to the gabinetto ASAP. What this meant was for an agonisingly long time, we were forced to drive in the middle of the two lanes - me with my eyes closed and clutching Nigel's driving arm for all I was worth. There were blasting horns all around but miraculously we got out of it without a scratch (well only a tiny one on Nigel's arm).

Hey Fatti tum tum.

Our very own Fatti Furbo.

Gimme anuver one.

Out on the tiles.