Travelling to London from Dubai airport on a journey that could only be described as hellish – 14 hours stranded at Dubai International Airport without a bar, and only with free wireless internet, Burger King (ugh!) and cigarettes (I don’t smoke) to get me through – was educational for two reasons: I learnt the limits to which my patience could be tried and also the filthy habits and general bad behaviour of the transient, which I shall detail in a subsequent post. Since arriving in Old Blighty a week ago, I’ve managed to:

a)       have a run-in with a friend’s stroppy landlord when I became lost in the stairwell of her rabbit warren of a townhouse at an ungodly hour;

b)      get punched in the head by a group of heathens while navigating my way from north to east (hence why the posts were thin on the ground as I was contending with a head injury);

c)       retain my ridiculously high cheekbones despite aforementioned chav’s act;

d)      single-handedly keep every wine and beer producer in the world in business;

e)       wear five of the nine suit jackets I packed;

f)        jump a brick wall;

g)       break two pairs of the seven shoes I brought with me (one pair directly related to the point above);

h)      gain courage and ride a bicycle after flying over the handlebars of said death-trap more than fifteen years ago;

i)         consistently avoid responding to my e-mail;

j)         unwittingly gatecrash a rooftop party;

k)       develop a tan worthy of someone of much darker ethnicity;

l)         befriend the locals over games of dirty word Scrabble at the pub;

m)    see Sister Act: The Musical (and love it!);

n)      eat mushy peas;

o)      give my phone number to strangers only twice;

p)      inadvertently flash the neighbourhood of Shoreditch on two separate occasions due to one wardrobe malfunction and one case of open drapes;

q)       remain unaware of the intricacies of London’s geography despite having an A to Z and Google Maps at my disposal (ever heard of a grid formation à la Manhattan?!);

r)        hang out with my sister (your Agony Aunt) on two different continents;

s)       not set foot into a single art gallery due to my overwhelming workload;

t)        refrain from shopping (quelle horreur!);

u)       only take photos of Odd Bins (in homage to Patsy Stone’s home), Trisha Goddard on the television and a urinal;

v)       cut back on caffeine consumption on account of all coffee being akin to effluent (with few exceptions);

w)     rediscover the joys that are Soda Stream soda fountains along with my childhood;

x)       consequently have stomach cramps for three days due to excess consumption of carbonated water;

y)       develop a ‘Kylie McKidman’ international hybrid of an accent worthy of any expatriate Australian; and

z)       speak to a small handful of agents and publishers.

The reason for my post is as such: I am currently on the Isle to palm off find an agent and publisher for my opus (a 400-page scandalous affair about fashion and debauchery in New York) and to turn this little puppy into a publication of its own (what an inspired idea, I hear you say!). If you like my meandering diatribes, and know someone literary who might also, please comment below and I can contact you directly. Call it crowd sourcing, critical mass or something equally as wanky; however, I’m sure amongst one of you beautiful people lies my Prints Charming. Get it? Don’t worry, I just puked in my mouth a little too.

Love always, your Agony Uncle x

I do believe there’s more for you to read: