How to Get to London Without Really Trying

As part of my cunning plan, code-named "How to Get To London When You Only Have £2.38 In Your Bank Account", I realised there was no way I could actually pay to park my car at the airport, so I secreted it some distance away and walked the mile or so back to the terminal building, hoping that I would not return from the big smoke on Friday to a fat yellow wheel clamp and a huge fine. I then sought out a quiet corner of the drab, grey, soulless airport lounge to try and get some sleep (it now being the wee small hours).

I actually like airports. They are so alien and artificial as environments that they fascinate me. I've been lucky enough to contribute my fair share to the hole in the ozone (I'm not proud), I like travelling, and I'm used to having to rough it a bit. Often though, you see people who look frazzled, fraught, confused, and a bit overwhelmed by the whole 'terminal' experience.

British airports are not designed to make you feel glad to be in them at three in the morning, and the two little dots towards the left of this photo are an elderly couple stoically waiting for their inhumanely timetabled flight to sunny somewhere. One of the things that blipfoto helps me do is to remember that we all see the world from our own very personal perspective, and much of modern life must be quite intimidating for elderly people. It's all very well for a chubby grub like me to hobo it on an ugly metal contraption for a few hours, but I don't think I'd fancy it in thirty years time.

Incidentally, getting the train was completely out of the question - unless you book it at the same time as putting your unborn child's name down on the list for a nursery place, ticket prices are astronomical - in fact, when commercial spaceflight starts it will probably be cheaper than British Rail.

After a couple of hours sleep where I did my impression of Sid the Sloth trying to get comfortable on his rock in "Ice Age", I presented what was left of me at Jet2's check-in, only to discover that I would have to sell them my first born child, never mind find it childcare, in order to fly with them. I was dealt another blow by EasyJet, when it transpired that their still-affordable flight was beyond reach because, in EasyJet's World of Tomorrow, cheques are so last century they don't accept them any more. Denied!

I began to trudge back to the car, when I thought "Hold it right there, soldier! You love the smell of a challenge in the morning, about face and be a man my son!" Or something like that.

Luckily for me, at the suggestion of a friendly cabbie, I was able to cash a cheque at the foreign exchange bureau, where the cashier was young enough and foolhardy enough to pretend he hadn't read "Jobworth's Big Book of Bubble-Bursting" and help me out. I just hope they didn't drag him away and attach the electrodes. Much to the girl at the EasyJet desk's chagrin, I was able to buy their ticket with cold, hard cash after all. Victory is mine!!

In my effort to travel as light as possible, I left my digital brick at home, so I bumbled about in the departure lounge taking pics with my phone. So much less obtrusive, and I hope that eventually we have much teenier DSLRs so I can take shots at high enough resolutions to be useable beyond the likes of blip.

Uneventful flight (we didn't need our life jackets after all) and the next challenge was how to get from Stansted to central London with virtually no cash (almost everything I had went on the plane ticket). Hurrah, National Express are old-fashioned enough to take cheques, so another hurdle cleared.

Last leg - how to get from Victoria Coach Station to the conference hall - there IS a God, a single bus ticket for £2 and I had just enough. Woohoo!

Was it worth it? Yes, because I got the chance to speak to all the people I wanted to, and the afternoon seminar confirmed a couple of things I needed to know. And hey, I had that lovely feeling I wasn't in the Borders any more (Toto). My cabin fever was relieved.

Hmm, only one last journey to accomplish - from central London to Balham to stay with my friend T (whose new baby was part of the reason I had come down). But now, truly no more pennies, and no way of getting any out of my bank, assuming the cheques had even gone in. Time to improvise (again).

The Post Office won't buy stamps back from you, however nicely you 'axe' them. The nice Asian lady running an 'independent store' (aka tiny kiosk) said her boss at the next store might oblige. In a truly global transaction, I bartered 15 first class stamps for a fiver from the nice Indian bloke running the corner shop. Result.

So, somewhat unconventionally, I arrived at my friend's house before he was even home from work, and met Samuel M, who looks like his Dad even though he's only three months old. Delicious food and a good old blether, the kind you only have with friends you have known more that half a lifetime. And tomorrow? A spot of plumbing!