Monday, June 15, 2009

Stockholm - Home

The first thing you notice about Stockholm is how expensive everything is: eighty pence for a piss at the train station, four quid to store your bags in a locker, three pounds for a twenty-minute bus journey. Rain blew across the capital like waves out at sea, the luggage weighed us down and our money was fast disappearing. We decided to head straight for the hostel, a converted Jumbo Jet parked opposite the Radisson Hotel three minutes from Arlanda Airport.

I woke up next morning with a head still swimming in vodka, two flights and twelve hours left before arriving in Newcastle. The London flight was almost full, the men next to me carrying on a conversation about rugby and motorways. "I haven't been up the M1 since we played the Tigers last year." "Really?" "Yeah, the M40 is a much better run." "It's not a relaxing journey the M1, is it?" After three hours in Heathrow's Terminal Five I finally made it to the last leg. At half past ten I was sitting on the Metro at Newcastle, out of change, pondering how many organs I'd need to sell in order to buy a return ticket.

The first thing you notice about Britain is how expensive everything is...

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