...ruffles...

On Saturday we went on the London Eye for Penny's special birthday treat and, conincidently, a long held Christmas presents from Emma. Each trip is on the Eye is known as a flight, because, Emma claims, 'It's owned by British Airways', which would suggest BA are a little pre-occupied with reminding people they fly planes; no wonder they're losing £40 gazillion a day. This flight concept and the idea that we're going on a big ferris wheel provided the axes for jokes whilst we queued. Simon had forgotten his passport, I wanted to hang my legs over the edge of the carriage and rock it and where were the oily gypsies hanging off the carriages taking your fifty pences? All the while the meeters and greeters smiled, which is to be applauded.

The flight is a curious sensation. Because you are hermatically sealed in a pod it's difficult to get any sense of height because all the elements that make you aware of your surroundings are trapped on the outside. This seperates you from what you're seeing, like in a film, just with a very poor story, but great cinematography. On balance I prefered being trapped inside than feeling the wind in my hair. It's a great thing to do, and like everyone, I now want to go on it during dusk, night, rain, snow and armageddon to get the full effect.

Afterwards we went to All Bar One opposite the Angel tube, they ran out of bitter, which is surely a sackable offence for the bar manager. If anyone knows their name, let's dob them in. The bitter was a rather manky London Pride anyway, but the problem with having to switch to lager for me, is that the next morning I have a hangover and spend the rest of the day feeling headachey, paranoid and maudling. It only takes one lager to do it to me, I should learn I suppose.

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