All augurs well

Steeped in local brewing tradition, IPA is an ale that proponents put forward as a masterpiece of British beer. One of its founding characteristics was its longevity during transit between the motherland and India. Personally I think it would be neither here nor there if it didn't contain any extra preservatives and went rotten during it's journey. While the local crusties are sipping their India Pale Ale, I stick to the "Wife Beater", as it's known here. Stella Artois, as cosmopolitan legend has it, contains some odd hops which causes the wife to either fall down the stairs or accidentally run in to a clenched fist when their husband returns home from the pub.

Following in the nomadic footsteps of one of my role models - David Carradine from Kung Fu, I've moved yet again to a hotel near to Paddington Station and Hyde Park. This area has the largest Italian and French population outside of mainland Europe - many cafés dot the footpath and some do stay open after 11pm. Clearly they didn't get the memo from the British Department of Interior, which has shrouded English culture on under a policy of metropolitan narcolepsy.

The remainder of London does understand imperial directives and like a slightly-damaged Swiss clock, pubs obediently close to 11pm and stop serving food around 9pm. Covent garden is a pretty area of the city and has an ample selection of restaurants and bars. The Walkabout is a favourite bar for the Ozzys, Kiwis and Boks and on the odd occasion you can find a local. They're usually the well-imbibed gents picking fights with the bouncer.

I'm heading out to a party with Tim tonight in the countryside - a 30th birthday party. I don't think I'll be on the wife beater tonight. Perhaps I'll just stick to the Home Wrecker.