I love the continent. I love mainland Europe. It has taken a bit of time to get used to the funny keyboards and laid back lifestyles, but slowly and surely, halfway through the week, I think that I may have got it sussed.

Take yesterday for example - besides wilting in the impossible heat that only a sun-a'holic cat would adore, Girlpants and I managed to shop, pack and head to the station in good time for our train. Cue small family run café next to the train station and two orders of coke and croque monsieur, and 50 minutes later, we had missed two trains and moved onto new drinks. It wasn't until after I had launched into a full minute of ranting about of the time it takes to grill a cheese and ham toastie sarnie, that I realised that this is the life over here. You don't have to rush to catch that all important train as they have bloody good train services over here (unlike the UK) and looking at life, there was more to life than schedules. Relax, eat your meal as each moment counts. In the end, we only got into Antwerpt 30 mins after we had planned, sauntered down to the river, looked around, relaxed in hotel and then went for a curry, which was, lets face it, a daft idea given the heat.

But then again, if you're on the continent, you have the great mainland lifestyle of cold beers sipped in a civil manner, until the wee hours of the morn....

After a walking tour of the city and a beautiful, delicious and romantic meal overshadowed by the town hall, we went back to the hotel bar for a night cap. And were joined by a fellow Brit, who after 20 minutes, thought it would be good to share.

Random Man in hotel bar - My ex-brother in law is in jail for paedophilia.

So, how do you follow that one...??

Eleven o'clock last night, Girlpants and I decided to take a walk around the city. The architecture is beautiful here, people were still around in abundance, laughing in groups whilst sipping their cold cold beers, whilst students cycled past. After walking for around an hour, we settled down for a cold one ourselves, with Girlpants ordering in French whilst overlooking St Pieter's Church. Only to be served by a waiter, who spat out as he left

"Les rosbifs! Connard!"

It doesn't take much to lose the moment.

It's not all that usual to visit foriegn lands without using a plane from our little isle, but due to time constraints and costs, thats exactly what Girlpants and I decided to do this time. Early this morning, we packed our bags, had a good breakfast, even prepared a cold lunch with obligatory bottle of chilled wine for our travels, then made our way to the train station where we bought 2 return tickets to Waterloo, and waited in good time for our train.

Where we were greeted by a packed train. Too many people in too little space as once again, the authorities that be had sold too many tickets for what was clearly a much demanded service. Despite people standing, there were also some tickets on empty booked places (the British never being ones to get in others seats) which made me feel that either they had missed their train or had taken one look and refused to have got on, which I silently thanked them for being bad time keepers as Girlpants and I lent back into their allocated seats. In the midst of the carnage, where holiday makers and backpackers jostled for luggage space around the swarth of surfboards that stuck out of the luggage racks, the train conductor made an announcement, apologising for the service, the global warming within the carriages and the complete lack of staff on the train due a colleagues marriage with free bar the day before, resulting in staff either not turning up at all, or turning up and clearly being unable to drive a train.

This also meant a complete lack of buffet being served to the masses as the chef was helping the conductor check tickets. No sandwiches, snacks or food avaiable on a train that was advertised as family friendly. To compensate, GWR put crates of soft drinks and water out for the thirty masses, which was quickly consumed by chavs and student parties, who stuffed as much free drink into their bags within a ten minute timescale. Over the years, we've made it a rule never to take buffet cars for granted, so Girlpants and I watched this, from the sanctity of anothers seat, quietly drinking our vino and then tucking into our H-D club sandwich.

The price of our smugness was the confiscation of our tickets when we arrived at Paddington, being then told to buy more for our onward journey, followed by the predicable outrage. I sat back in the shade whilst Girlpants went purple and argued his cause, discovering that the happy chef who jovially checked the ticket stubs also forgot to tell us to change at Reading for our onward journey. Fast forward Girlpants grump, a mad rush, then the Bakerloo line, and we finally made it to le Eurostar and aircon. What a change - there was less than a five minute wait to check in and have the bags checked, whilst once again, ye olde underwear set alarm bells and some poor youngster had to check my sweaty armpits for nail files and guns thanks to my underwire bra. A short queue later, and Girlpants was horrifed to find French authorities giving our passports a cusory check before waving us on (Girlpants - "What!? Not even scanned??"). Whilst I saw the irony in the French nation having a foothold in Waterloo, I didn't care because it was efficient. The ticket system was throughly updated so the operators knew exactly how many were on the train, tickets were checked before we even set foot on the escalators which took us directly up to the train platform and carriages and then, the train smoothly left. On the dot. To the second. On time.

When did the British rail system go so wrong? Was is because we were sold out by the man with a handbag? Or do we only think back to the reliable days of Miss Marple and the Railway Children? There's no doubt that in comparison with the Eurostar, the British train loses out. Even the British trainspotters are a dying breed, rarely seen at the end of platforms, as they've given up the ghost. Whilst les toilettes had no toilet paper (thank God for handy tissues), the seats were uncomfortable and there wasn't much space to strech in, compared to the GWR journey, our questions were answered, we knew our connections and we were in Brussels in less than 2.5 hours. Add in plus 40 minutes, we were settling into our Leuven hotel as even the local train left on the dot.

Just give us 20 minutes, we'll be having our first beer. Viva le Eurostar!

So the conference is over. I only managed to get drunk about three times, humiliated myself once and even attended one of the talks. And in the midst of this, I kept my poise and strutted around in heels and a skirt, feeling safe in the notion that I was surrounded by delegates and should I fall, then I would ahve landed softly on one of them.

So we're off to the land of Stella tomorrow - seven days away. Eurostar here we come! Apparently it's hotter there than here, although I won't belive that until I crack an egg on the pavement. At least if it is sauna like conditions, then a little more weight can be sweated off as I lumber in the heat. Usually when you go away, lugging around the bags is good enough for that, however, in the midst of clearing the conference hall and pushing PC's. monitors and paperwork around campus, Numbnut here has managed to pull her right shoulder out. I currently smell like le rosbif, marinated in a deep heat gravy. Pickled in lager.

Professor Lovely was talking about babies yesterday, and looked in my general direction. Even offered a well thumbed ladybird book to help, which after closer examination, was declined, despite his assertions that it helped him on many an occassion.

I put the baby questions down to the fact that we've been married for two years bar one month and now the course is over, the questions are starting. I suppose that I have been looking around at the sproglets around me. What's that tick tock in the background? Could it be the consequential demise of potential babies? The pinging of the fallopian tubes as they lose their elasticity to age? A good friend once referred to pregnancy as a parasite feeding off your body for nine months - and technically she's right. But then I think that I might prefer pregnancy to other options.

Admittedly, I was feeling very clucky a couple of weeks ago, however soon after these thoughts come into my head, I saw a small toddler have a tantrum on Nikki scales, who then turned from red to blue, and when she reached purple, promptly threw up down her mothers top. That kinda thing makes parenthood look appealling.

Am I desperate to have a child? To be honest, I've been told so many different opinions, heard so much medical advice and listened to so many stories both good and horror, that it's getting to the point where I'm not really bothered and in point of fact, I don't really care - if something happens, then I'll go for it. If not, then I'll either do a Jolie or ram a fertility drug in my right buttock and hope for triplets!

And no matter what Girlpants says, the names Fanny, Gertrude and Belzebub will not be in the running!