We’ve just taken off from Skavsta and are still climbing. My MP3 player is blaring out Radiohead’s Lucky. For a moment I thought about playing it on the laptop’s ”loud”speakers but I guess it would’ve been quite inconsiderate towards the other passengers, who might not all share my sophisticated sense of humour.

JP tarjoaa ystävällisesti unitilaa Tampereelta, vaikka on juuri muuttamassa vallan toiselle puolen kaupunkia. Helpottaa kovasti elämää tämä. Toisekseen on huomattava, että Mansessa itää rallikuskeja, joiden mielestä paras harjoittelumahdollisuus on kaupungin keskusta puolenyön aikaan.

Beep. Beep. It’s the alarm clock, meaning that the hour has struck seven. Get up, get dressed, carry the bags downstairs, make some coffee, each some toast, bid farewell to Tom. Walk to the bus stop, get off at the railway station, buy a ticket to London, notice that the train couldn’t be any fuller, sweat the first litre. Then drag the 30-odd kilos that are your bags to the coach station, sit down for a while, sleep all the way till Stansted, arrive an hour before takeoff, realize they’re calling for your flight and run like hell. Sweat another litre, pay four pounds for a meager tuna sandwich, order pyttipanna and chicken nuggets in Swedish at the Skavsta airport, pay as much for the meal as for the tickets to Finland. Write this entry.

Right now we’re onboard an Oxford Tube express coach to Victoria train station. I finally managed to contact Tom with whom we’ll be staying with. The weather’s fine, we got no money and too much luggage. Sounds like a perfect recipe for a three-day stay in London, doesn’t it?

So this is what Oxfordshire looks like. Rolling hills (I presume that’s what they’re called), houses that are many centuries old (the one we’re staying at is older than anything – anything – in Joensuu, for example) and gardens. And in the gardens there are lots of lovely old ladies who serve tea and scones.

And oh yes, the village has a proper milkman!

I know it all sounds terribly cliched, and in a way it is too, but it is still oh so lovely. We’re staying with Mike, an old friend of my mom’s, and his daughter Katy. The house apparently dates from the 17^th century, which is quite frankly almost unbelievable. Fellow Finns can surely appreciate this amazement, as nothing in our noble country predates Kekkonen.

The last night in Cardiff was fine. We went to a restaurant called Giovanni (or Gepetto or some other ultra-typical Italian name), ate some very tasty dishes, stopped in a pub for drinks and then headed to UGC for the British premiere of Matrix Reloaded.

The plan was perfect: after the night out, we’d finish packing on Friday evening and catch a bus the next morning to the coach station, from whence we’d be whisked off to Cheltenham, where Mike and Katy would pick us up.

And like all best laid plans this one bombed too. First problem: We needed cash to pay the final bills but all our liquidities were in the form of a deposit cheque that we were supposed to get on Friday evening. Note the tense, ”were supposed”.

What happened instead was that our agent showed up on Saturday morning at ten (remember that the coach was leaving at 11.30) with a cheque. Which you cannot cash in on Saturdays. Which meant I had no money with which to pay for the loads of DVDs, books and CDs I had to send to Finland by post. Which meant we were neck deep up shit creek.

Then we were supposed to catch the coach. A great idea it was indeed, but it was made rather hard to accomplish because there were no seats left. A quick reappraisal was made and here we are, sitting on the train from Cardiff to Bristol, trying to catch the coach from there. Let’s see what happens.