At three o'clock in the morning, with no air-con....

Sim - Whats the matter!? You keep tossing and turning.

Girlpants - It's too hot - I can't sleep.

Sim - (Grrr!) If I fan you for a little while, do you think it will help?

Girlpants - The fan? Maybe not, but the breeze from your bingo wings will.

After my return to the UK, I had to forage through a backlog of mail (snail and electronic). Tonight, I quickly opened up todays mail and what I thought was a rejection letter.

Again.

That would make it number 19.

But nay - I have an interview! Lil'old moi! Hurrah! FInally...with a laboratory none the less! Next Tuesday. Early. Now I just have to find an interview outfit... or see if any of my old work trousers fit my arse. One, two, three... breathe in!

Last night, Girlpants and I were redeemed of sproglet watching due to molar maneuvers. As they came out before we left, we decided to see either the Man of Steel or M. Depp at his best, making the most of Orange Wednesdays before they become extinct.

Lately, there have been reports that British movies and cinema attendance has risen, and with it, profits. Bravo for British cinema - a return to the golden era of Ealing Studios. But given the prices we had to dish out yesterday, the rise in British attendance is surprising, as Girlpants turned blue when paying for tickets. And then looked up at the price board and declined muchies and chocolate.

Let's see - even with my slowly expiring student card (£4.80) and one adult (£6.45) and the £1 booking fee, that's already £12.25 for tickets alone. Plus popcorn (£4.50 medium bucket) and two medium drinks (2 x £2.45) and the night out costs £21.65. Whilst we're in the sticks, even I feel for Londoners at £12.50 for an adult and £9.50 for students, totalling £23.00 without the munchies!

Given the prices demanded from their captive audiences, I did feel that the elderly lady et al bringing a pizzabox into the theatre and then arguing for 15 minutes over her right to eat had a point, however, she also blatently took the piss and held us up. Lucky for me (and Girlpants belly), I had my ever present bottle of water and box of tic-tacs at the ready. Only two calories and 20p a box, bloody bargain!

Can of worms open at the ready - this one of moi-self and Dr Clarke was found on Girlpants INC 2006 website

Oh dear.

After a few hours on a train that seamlessly left exactly on time... again! and Girlpants and I are back in the dwelling we call home. No fish died in our absence, the plants are still green and the cats are not longer speaking to us.

Maybe it was due to the heat, the burrs in their tails or the mere fact we didn't sit them down and explain that mummy and daddy were pissing off on holiday and no, the fur-balls had to stay home as if they came in the case, there would be no room for cheap booze. But right now, the ungrateful little buggers are on the stairs, backs to us with the occasional glare behind them in either an attempt to burn out our retinas or to check if the fresh food is out yet. Personally, I think the cats have it easy. They eat, sleep and are out all hours, without us nagging them about it or bringing up the fact that both were pregnant before they were one year old. Once a year, they're rammed into their own individual cat boxes to have their temperatures checked, a couple of vaccinations between the ears and bionic chips checked. To make up for such indignities, approximately twice a week, I scoop them up give them the love and attention which I know they really want.

Maybe that last one isn't such a good example, but the fact remains that these cats are loved. There I was, sweating in Belgium, being force fed wine by Girlpants and traipsing around the cities, earning blisters on the soles of my feet in the process, and meanwhile, they were bitching to the neighbours, begging at their doors as if we had left them with nothing. As if we had left them with no tuna, no babysitters, no meat, no Britta filtered water nor the run of the house - naddah!

We're on the losing end here methinks, as I think these two will do anything to scrounge for food or attention.

Little tarts!

They'll forgive us in a day or so.

So that was Brussels - it was hot, sticky and there was a decided lack of wireless internet that Girlpants could pirate from the room. It's taken a couple of hours to recover from the shakes, but now I am behind ye olde laptop, life is complete.

By heck - I think I may be an addict!

Brussels was beautiful  but quick - we only had a bit and a day there. The (last) day, we were stuck in a park, cordoned off by the military for a parade celebrating the inauguration of Leopold I in 1831, whilst in the heat, Girlpants & I were desperately trying to begin our daily quoffing of cold liquid nectar. The first bit has us meeting up with Q and that woman wot got me (ahem! okay - I got us...) drunk that time on Dartmoor for some vino and local cruisine. The poor thing had been pining for Branstons and a solitary piece of chedder, and so in a mad flurry before we made it to Waterloo, I popped into the local shop at Paddington and bought a little bit of home to take to Zed.

I say a little bit - those local Sainsburys aren't as cracked up as their bigger rellies. After five minutes of seraching, I had managed to find the two biggest pieces of cheese out of the sorry excuses they had. All of 0.253kgs each. Whilst I was not amused in a Queenie kinda way, I was less more so when Girlpants leaned over and placed one back.

Girlpants - You don't know if it will travel for five days in trés chaud Belgium.

Famous last words. Poor Zed - her wails of anguish could be heard from Gent to Leige as we tried to break the news that the chedder had melted, whilst we and Q tried to help her anguish with by ordering her a very cold beer, and then supping & sipping wine until late evening. Despite our little cool bag, the heat which had helped me slowly sweat the weight off had also done severe damage to the westcountry mature that had travelled so far.

The pickle survived.

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!