Thursday is bomb day

You can't avoid it leaving Victoria station. The place is awash with filth, but in a nice way - you get to pat the ponies and play fetch with the sniffer dogs. It's naive how they imagine the bombers will only strike on Thursdays. You could walk a tank out of the station on a Wednesday.

It's still not worrying me. What is worrying me is that I now know I'm leaving on 25th September, but where I'm landing is anybody's guess (I'll have £1,000 on Narita airport, my good man). I won't be told which school I'm in or where my apartment is until two weeks before take-off. At least I have been able to get on with cancelling my phone and gym membership and told HR my intentions.

All this is fine, but I wasted my evening and upset myself by watching a stupid American drama called Lost last night. A plane-load of beautiful people wind up on an island after a crash. I got to witness the plane crash from several angles and character perspectives, which was not a soothing way to celebrate getting my flight date.

Also worrying was the representation of the only Japanese couple on the flight who were embroiled in some awful domestic abuse, where the woman isn't even allowed to speak and the husband had a fit when when the top button of her exceedingly conservative cardigan came undone. I hope this was a hollibry lacist leplesentation of the Japanese and most of the men I meet out there won't want to punch me into subservience.

(As an aside, Lost was a hideous and far-fetched programme with the central character a pure-bred hero of unbelievable proportions - a doctor who can fly - and the other characters slap-dashly painted caricatures: the Englishman is a weak, scared junkie, but he does have clean teeth. They have also been attacked by an unseen monster and a polar bear - I really should get out more, but not until I've cleaned out the fridge tonight...).