AM's niece

So another trip home ends and this time with sad news whilst standing on the tarmac at Heathrow waiting to disembark. News that a work colleague has met an untimely end to his presence in Saudi Arabia.

Whilst I didn't know him all that well, I have known him for almost my entire time out here. I'll remember him most as being perpetually enthusiastic, always with a grin on his face, if anything slightly wired and as an obsessive exercise fiend. It was the latter that ultimately resulted in his death, the manner of which, if reports in this mornings' newspapers are true, are quite horrific, though entirely credible. As I sit here on the BMI flight into Riyadh, I have never wanted less to go anywhere in my life, but this post isn't about me or what I want.

Instead, I dedicate this to John, as the most fanatical Manchester United supporter I have ever met, and despite my own affiliations, I hope most fervently that his beloved Red Devils win the Carling Cup this afternoon. Wayne & Co. you owe him that much.

John, you will be missed and along with you, a small part of all of us died. Rest in Peace

Last evening saw the return to print for Abby Lee a.k.a. Zoe Margolis as the 'Girl with a One Track Mind'. Her new book focuses on what happened after The Times chose to out her and destroy the anonymity she had sought to protect when her original book was released.

Choosing to reward her many Twitter, Facebook and blog followers with a semi-private event, around 100 people assembled in an upper room of Canal 125 in London N1. A varied mix of "real* readers", some sitting in a circle on the wooden floor, gathered to hear Zoe read selected passages from her new book 'Girl with a One Track Mind Exposed', following which she took questions and signed advance copies of the book for those present.

As her debut effort had been intended to be a wholly incognito affair, it transpired that the evenings' event was to be Zoe's first time at reading her own work to an audience. She needn't have worried though, as spurred on by the presence of an audience that was clearly on her side, it flowed effortlessly. Taking first a piece recounting a conversation on gender politics, then a guided tour of London man, she warmed to the task with consummate ease. She then moved on to what she saw as the limitations of the Rampant Rabbit, before finishing up with a section from what is the crux of her book, being outed by The Times. At this point, the room was so silent, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop were it not for the sound of Zoe's voice itself, the mood around the room was almost reverential and the applause following the close was as warm as you are likely to encounter anywhere.

Given the opportunity to question Zoe in person, there was little reticence from those in the room and the possibility of a return to the film industry, the 'Zoe Margolis Seal of Approval' and many other topics were covered, before she settled down to a well earned single malt and the signing of many, many books.

As she later commented on Twitter, she returned home "drunk, happy and totally gobsmacked by how nice everyone was"; I would struggle to argue her point having been there. I'm looking forward to reading the book immensely.

*geeks

There are many things one can learn on a train, firstly how easy it is to doze off in the gently swaying carriages, secondly how much more difficult it is to write in a notebook. Sway as they might, they are considerably less stable than an Airbus A320 for example. Lastly, I have learned that canals do indeed have bottoms and that they're not as far down as you'd think.

AM and I are most of the way to London via Virgin. Kind of apt really, as we are on the guest list for the launch of the next book to be released under Zoe Margolis' pseudonym "Abby Lee". At least I think it's a launch; it's certainly a very select event where a small number of people will be able to listen to a reading by Ms. Margolis and also get the opportunity to buy a copy of the book ahead of its official release on 5th March.

Given my normal place of abode, it was something of a chance affair for us to attend. Not having been in the UK during February for over 10 years, I'm assuming that it must have been a piece of divine intervention that has seen a friends wedding coincide with an an event by a sex blogger. Admittedly, I have had Zoe listed on Twitter for months and so know of such things in advance. One email and I'm on the list, two emails and AM can join in too. Does that count as a ménage a trois? The raised eyebrow to my right says perhaps not.

Outside, it's grey and overcast, no bright sunny day this, and the train still sways. An empty line to our left glistens with moisture from the drizzle. We rattle through some tiny outpost so fast, its name cannot be read, followed quickly by a platform that identifies itself as Kings Langley. We can't be too far away now, 25 minutes at most.

Other than an 18:30 event, what to do in London? We have around 6 hours to kill and it's not much warmer down here than it was back in Thornton-Cleveleys, though granted, the Big Smoke can beat the place we call home for choice, even if it doesn't have a beach that I'm aware of.

Harrow & Wealdstone... we're definitely getting closer. The train stations say it, so do the increasing number of walls that have been tagged. From what I can see, the graffiti in London is of a slightly higher quality than back home. I'm hopeful the rest of the day will match.

Time to go, lunch is calling me clearly....

This could be interesting, I received an invitation this afternoon to attend a book launch down in London. It is convenient then, that this morning I arrived back in the UK and am therefore able to attend. This will I think make for an interesting piece of reportage some time during the middle of next week.

Rarely have I had the olfactory experience in an enclosed space, as I have been provided this evening - it's actually gone 04:00 in the morning, but some licence must be allowed at this point. I'm on a plane, I'm always on a plane when I write thus.

On the most rare of evenings, I'm travelling back to the UK with AM by my side, so rare in fact that in the 6+ years she's been with me in Saudi, this may very well be the first time we've journeyed back to the UK together. That much is immaterial to my story this night (see, it's later already)...

We find ourselves behind the subject of the story by a row, he being in 23A, and us in 24A and 24C, with me holding the aisle. To get to the point, there is a problem, a gastro-intestinal problem that is gaseous in nature, and it's not mine. No, this is for Reek-O-Man alone. I'd quote Nursie and use lines like "great and fruitsome flappy woof-woofs", but one's "tiny noseling" believes that Messrs Elton and Curtis were referring to something rather more akin to vanilla and rose petals than I try to describe here. Let's face it, this guy smells like you wouldn't wish to believe. I pity AM, I really do. She has a sense of smell that can out detect the average bloodhound, where I suspect I may have been abducted by aliens who chose me to return me minus all nasal sensory equipment. When I begin to detect there's an aroma in the air, it's already searing steaks on the range for all others in the near vicinity.

The iPod kicks in as it often does at such moments with Chris Rea's "You Must Be Evil" - never has a truer word been uttered. Whether he knows of the offence he causes is unknown, and I won't ask; and of course there is the unwritten rule that says "What goes on plane, stays on plane", but enough already. I can take it no longer... for fucks' sake, get yourself a butt plug or something! Have I spoke too soon? I think he's headed to the bathroom - I'm not following. Not that it matters much, he's left the damned stench behind him anyway. I'm going to sleep, more later...