Where the stleets have no names

Mum took me to the airport with plenty of time to spare - I think we were both still reeling from the Tallinn debacle - and I was one of the first to arrive at check-in, which we had to wait for an hour to open. he and Tammi saw me off at Heathrow`s Wailing Gate, although we were far more dignified in our goodbyes, if bemused and slightly embarrassed grinning is dignified. In the Departures Lounge I scoped out possible other teachers and lurked in O`Neills nursing my last warm red wine where I wafted my guide to Tokyo (thank you Jermaine!) around in case any fellow travellers should fancy a chat. The handsome lone traveller next to me didn`t take the bait.

Ian was right about the excess baggage the Japanese squeeze onto the flight with them. If I`d realised I could have packed a whole other wardrobe, but I think I`ll cope without. It`s less to bring home.

On the flight we got to watch our own take off on the same small screens as those whose wheels hadn`t come down for landing the previous week and drank lots of chilled red wine. The inflight film was Fever Pitch (Perfect Catch in England), which I loved if only for the Standells accompanying the credits, but I couldn`t work the remote so saw it in weird chunks and pauses, then had a fabulous salmon teriyaki (which everything has tasted of since) and fell asleep to Everybody Loves Raymond. I was sat next to a fellow teacher, Dave, who has been to Chile and Spain. I am one of the few TEFL virgins joining Shane.

Breakfast was a vile nude sausage and spinach omelette laced with mushrooms, which was awful to wake up to, but we could see Russia`s vast and unspoiled landscapes from the window: she is awesome. The earth fell away from the coast into miles of open ocean, before we finally flew over Japan. It`s very green and has a patchwork of fields dotted between the mountains. As you move over more inhabited areas there are golof courses and red and white pylons it`s how I imagine Britain looked in the 60s and 70s. A very annoying boy ruined our arrival by constantly referring to his previous three years in Japan. Other people had also been here before, but didn`t feel a need to boast so awfully. I hope I don`t have to spend too much time near him (unlikely as he asked where we all lived and then informed us how far out of central Tokyo we all were).

James went missing going through customs, and we`ve since written him off as having gotten deported for carrying weed, although he may have just gone to the toilet. We were taken past paddy fields into Nippori and out to Omiya to our hotel. The rooms are very functional, even coming with their own torch should there be an earthquake. The bathrooms are the size of a small cupboard and you have to set the headboard to wake you up in the morning. A unisex kimono-style dressing gown was begging to be stolen until I tried it on and saw how unflattering it was. The tiny Happy White toothpaste tastes like Germolene and sweets.

I`m in the hotel with Stephen, an Irish guy who has taught in Thailand, Karen, who has taught in Spain and Kent, and Erica, who has spent two years in China. Karen and I will soon be living in what was once Passion Villas, whereas Stephen is in some far-flung outreach and Erica is nearly in Tokyo proper. Another Steve, this one Scottish, lives further out than any of us, but we force him to meet us as he has a degree in Japanese. Whenever he isn`t around we can only eat in restaurants with pictures on the menus. It`s amazing how retarding not knowing Japanese is. I need to learn quickly. The trains are a mission, even those with romanjii translations still require a ticket. We`ve eaten very well already, although I am feeling I could grow sick of Japanese food soon, thank god for the ubiquitous Italians. It is quite a treat having Noodle Noodle style dumplings for lunch for less than 2 each day though!

The hotel isn`t far from the strip joints of Omiya, but Stephen hasn`t been invited in as he`s been with us. He must be bored of them after Thailand anyway. Every other shop is a pachinka, packed with grown men pumping their cash into slot machines like it`s normal. The sex industry has no shame. Porn is advertised on trains and I turned on the hotel room TV and inadvertantly found two fully-clothed schoolgirls performing some sort of vetinary examination on one another. I do hope it doesn`t show up on my bill, after all, they weren`t naked, so it would hardly be fair.

I attempted to buy some hair straighteners yesterday, an impossible dream in a land where girls dream of perms and some streets aren`t even numbered. I was sent to a hardware store that stocked golf clubs, Burberry steering wheel covers and pedigree dogs. They were amazingly cute, but it was too cruel. I may get a Saturday job there. Last night we attempted to meet up in Tokyo, but Shinjuku almost beat us and we met Stephen so late3 we had to get something to eat and head back to Omiya. We bought some beers at a 7-11 and took them to my room, drinking and talking about terrorism into the small hours. It`s made me feel more at home and got everyone over the experience of registering for their alien registration card and tackling the trains. Still haven`t been felt up by a commuter. Going to get back on them and see what happens tomorrow. It is odd seeing all the brunettes gathered in one place, like an anti-Hollyoaks: the village of the saved (I did get chatting to an American missionary at breakfast, so maybe that`s true).

Breakfast this morning was accompanied by a muzak track from Les Miserables (On My Own, in fac). Training began today, although only gently reminding us of the basics of TEFL and then sending us out to observe. It is odd how the daunting new job is now the main thing that`s familiar to me, but I`m more excited about starting work again now. The older pupils are very obliging and the young ones adorable, if rather naughty.

Bleary-eyed girl

Considering how drunk I was last night, and how little sleep I've had, I feel remarkably well today. Vague, but upbeat. Last night's leaving do was much more in keeping with my general style. None of this sober at midnight business, oh no.

I spent my last afternoon at work dreading my leaving presentation - I had previously threatened to never leave work just so I could avoid such an ordeal. Mike's speech was lovely and I'm surprised it didn't set me off crying, but I held it together. I'm really glad he got to do it and that we worked together, even if only briefly. He's a lovely man and a fantastic boss. He also made sure he had a photo of us together, which was very sweet (and which I'll need a copy of to replace the one of us both looking the worse for wear at the Christmas do).

Lots of lovely people came out, with the more sensible ones leaving before I got too drunk and started grabbing people and squealing that I'd miss them. Although that does sound like the actions of a drunk woman, it's genuine and I would have done, with perhaps less gusto, without the wines and gins. I will miss the people from the TTA very much. Four years is a long time to spend in a job and you get very close to the people you see every day. I've made some good friends there. Hopefully I will manage to stay in touch with most people, but you know when you leave jobs that it's never 100%, which is a real shame.

Today seemed to be overwhelmed by travelling, mainly because I was weighed down with an over-packed case, two oversized handbags and and half a dozen magazines I half-inched from Smiths for my flight. I am as addicted to Kate Moss's spiralling drug habits as she [allegedly] is to crack.

Charlie has just treated me to an Indian as he couldn't make my leaving do on Saturday. The idea of being out to dinner with him amused me, so I suggested a meal instead of a trip to the snooker club. Also, there is a pool tournament held on Thursdays 'and there's no way I could handle snooker'. It was nice hearing about how phat his college is and how fit the birds are (the ones on his course are rank, but there's loads of fit ones in hairdressing and beauty). We worked out the average of how many girls he'd been with on his holiday to Crete (seven a day, but he took two days off, so 35 for the week). He's probably the most handsome dinner date I'll have for a while.

Gone in 126,227,704 seconds

After four years, my last day at the TTA, although now it is the TDA, has come. How things change with time.

I managed to get myself a small lie-in as I'm ill so officially entitled to a few days off, but wanted to make sure I saw everyone before I left. My four year reign has now come to an end. It's quite odd. Coming into work was like preparing for a nerve-wracking birthday. I'm excited, but it would be quite nice to forego the embarrassing leaving presentation (if that actually happens: if I don't get one, I will be a little bit gutted).

Sabrina and I went out to lunch, our last TTA lunch ever. Two last meals in two days. Hopefully it won't be too long before we're all having sushi together in a different hemisphere. I've been dishing out the items in my desk: Sabrina gets the pot plant and Scott a set of crockery. Now her hayfever will remind Sabrina of me, while Scott, rather fittingly, will remember me whenever he eats.

Everyone else will just have to remember the drunken mess I will undoubtedly get myself into tonight.

In other news, two British troops have sparked a tank-supported jail break after being arrested for killing an Iraqi policeman. It is hard to comprehend how John Reid can expect the indigenous peoples of Iraq to respect the rule of law when our forces are unable to.

Welcome to the world

On Sunday, Evaline 'Effie' Arkiss Farrer was born, weighing 7lb 5 oz.

Isn't she beautiful?

Bitter blow

I went to Gillian and Julian's for a last supper last night. It was nice to say goodbye without delving into dustbins for cast-off handbags or being in a curiously unnatural state of sobriety. Sadly it meant more tears, Johnson and Johnson should have been on hand.

I managed to get back to Watford and put the rest of my worldly goods into my sister's loft before choking my way through the night. I may have developed an allergy to cats. I certainly feel like I have furballs and the sensation gets stronger whenever I'm near Willow and Ivy. There's a slow realisation that Stussy and Millie provoked a similar reaction in the past, but I'm in denial: What will become of my plans for growing old in a town house in Hampstead and two Siamese cats if they set off asphysixic reactions?

I had to repack my ocean mail case so I wasn't smuggling illegal quantities of contact lenses into the Land of the Rising Sun and protectionist optomistrists. It's now in the hands of Portland House post room. I hope the fact that I filled in the accompanying documents incorrectly doesn't go against me or its safe arrival... Tomorrow I have to post the remainder of my possessions via Royal Mail. It's going to cost me a small fortune to deliver my smalls, but I don't want to frequent the Japanese Evans if I can help it and my massive Western back will make it a necessity if I'm to shop abroad.

Hello sailor, goodbye Streatham

Jo, a fully qualified yachtswoman, came to visit on Thursday. Myself and Captain Borshell could, if we wished, hire a yacht and she could sail me wherever I'd like to go. There's something unnerving in that idea! We treated ourselves to a trip to Sainsbury's Market and tried out some olives and cheeses, although the lazy woman manning the counter seemed diametrically opposed to fans of dairy and tried to fob us off with a shave of rind instead of an actual taste of German soft blue cheese. Very Atkins and so last year. We persisted and tried some very nice cumin Gouda, which was interesting, but I don't mind if I never taste it again. We got through almost five bottles of wine, a large fish and chips and various cheese and crackers before passing out on the sofa mid-way through Election.

Friday was horrible. I missed my final jabs as the nurse spent over 50 minutes dressing someone else's wounds. It wasn't awful, but it wasted precious time I could have spent with Jo and Matthew Wright. I didn't want to get on the train as we'd have to part at the other end. Neither of us could afford to reschedule her flight so she could stay another day so it was very hard having to say goodbye for a possible three years. I do hope we manage to scrape together an airfare between us.

Friday evening turned into quite a session. I nursed my hangover with a pikey Chinese takeaway and waited up for Assaf to come home with Alan and a couple of beers. He was much later than I expected, so I ended up staying up until 4am to make the most of our limited time together. Somewhere around 1am, a very drunk Rachael joined in and we discussed our preferred dictators (I'm firmly in the Stalin camp, whereas Alan thinks Lenin is all right).

Saturday I dragged myself out of bed to finish the remained of my packing so Jon could take it to Watford. Just as he arrived, I had a massive panic as I couldn't find my passport. I opened the door to him and ran back into the living room to toss the contents of my suitcase around the living room. I then remembered that it is safely ensconced in the Japanese Embassy being stamped with my visa.

Saturday was my leaving do, I had a very good turnout, including a handbag thief I hadn't even thought to invite and a doubly-booked birthday party who took over half the space (and made me look very popular with boys with deceptive haircuts). From the Royal George, we went to Bar 101 and then on to a wine-serving kebab house for a civilised meal (well, panini and house white at 4am). Nowhere else was open: London is rubbish. I am glad that Tokyo will offer me the pleasure of a late-night drink, even if it does mean sleeping in an internet cafe until the morning trains start. I was uncharacteristically sober for the entire evening in spite of 14 gins, two sambuccas and some wine (who do I think I am? Charlotte Church?), although I'd talked myself hoarse by 10pm and was contemplating hiding in the toilets to get my breath back. It's nice to actually remember all the people who made the effort to come rather than blacking out and waking up on a random sofa somewhere.

Sunday I said goodbye to Streatham and adieu to Rachael, Assaf and Alan. We had an outaugural breakfast at the Common Cafe and Rachael took me to Clapham so I wouldn't have to carry my dressmaker's dummy from platform to platform. I'm now having a final few days with my sister, which is lovely - her spare bed is amazing, it's like being in a small, expensive hotel, but with cats! Purrrfect! We had a final gloriously enormous Sunday roast and I said goodbye to Daniel, until he comes to visit next year, which was very sad. It's dawning on me just how much I'll miss everyone. Even if they are still all here when I get back, it's hard saying goodbye to such good people.

Litter makes me shiver

Helen and I went for tapas on Tuesday (we thoroughly recommend la Tasca on Maiden Street - the tapas were lovely and inspired me to attempt my own patatas bravas last night) and met Bek, her sister Sam and housemate (and Birthday Girl) Rachel for a drink afterwards. It was lovely seeing everyone, especially Helen as we usually only have an annual get-together, but I think this is the third time this year! Unfortunately, the smoky atmosphere aggravated my consumptive cough and I slept for exactly seven minutes so had to take yesterday off work when I really have too much to be getting on with.

I spent the day dozing on the sofa, spending quality time with my great mates Trisha Goddard and Matthew Wright (and he isn't he just?), reading Frankenstein and watching Nuts in May. Later Rachael came home and we enjoyed a night of quality reality programming and I nursed my tetanus bruise.

I saw an analogue diarist on the train this morning. I was tempted to tell him to get a blog, or a life. His writing was so mundane. He really ought to be recording his many ailments and remedies, like I do with my sniffly cold and vaccination record.

Farewell address

I finally have my Japanese address. I am going to be living in Passion Omiya in the OMD district. Perhaps I'll be greeted by Echo and the Bunnymen... Bob Dylan played there in 2001, so there's potential for some entertainment. I'll be sharing the building with another female teacher and who knows what else. Hopefully she won't be too square.

Yesterday I applied for my visa, Friday I have the last of my jabs, arranged for my case to be picked up and I've very nearly packed. All I have to do now is sit back and wait. Oh, and fret and fret like a rabbit in a foxhole.

I've just been told that Saitama City is the Croydon of Tokyo. Some would see a divine justice in my being posted there...

Reach out and touch me

I tried to make it to the trendy bars in the port area, but strolling down desolate, cobbled streets and imagining the return journey in the dark, made me turn back. Instead, I decided to treat myself to a visit to the Depeche Mode bar.

The bar was a small, white cave playing, obviously, DM on rotation. I ordered a drink and sat down with my magazine, only to be accosted by a local telling me, somewhat aggressively, that it was a gay bar and was I gay? I said no, so he pulled up a stool and proceeded to bore me with his misery at being Estonian while looking me directly in the thighs. He did take a break when he threw my lighter on the floor and, after picking it up, informed me he'd only done it to get a better look at my chest. I struggled to explain why it was offensive that he should stare so obviously, but there was more than a language barrier getting in my way. Finally, after telling me he had a wife and two children and asking me to kiss him (he looked like an Australian metalhead, so alas it was a no), he sinisterly said he might see me in another bar and left me alone. A spineless inebriate who could barely hold his head above the bar then took his seat and tried to paw at me, so I took the only escape possible and headed for Molly Malone's.

It was a real home-coming in the pub: a rowdy group of blokes from Gloucestershire were celebrating someone's 40th in typical English fashion, downing shots of whiskey and pretending to bang each other's heads into the table (for poor Howey, the pretence ended and his forehead split open - predictable, but very funny). An ageing Brit called Tony came and introduced himself to me and invited me to join in the round, but I declined. When I told him my name, the said that he'd had an interesting relationship with a girl called Zoe: she shagged his brains out. I said it was nothing to do with the name.

Tony then introduced me to Tommo, the birthday boy, and two of his younger friends, Matt and Darren. Another friend, Mo, then got them in a headlock under each arm and asked me to pick left or right and refused to give up until I gave an answer (I'd already chosen, but didn't feel it was fair on Darren to announce it so publicly, so Mo had to be dragged away).

To state my preference, I played a seductive game of pool with Matt, which he valiantly defaulted so we won a game each and then we went onto a cheesy, sleazy basement club called Amigos. It was under the Viru hotel and was full of dwarfish men with bought blondes. The lounge band played Status Quo covers. Has the Wall really come down?

After that, I spent the rest of my time with the Wurzels, as they called themselves. They were incredibly funny, although not always intentionally, and generally quite sweet, once I'd overlooked the fact that they were cheating on their wives and girlfriends by exploiting (and being robbed by) the local prostitutes. Darren had a tattoo of Arron on his arm. I thought he might have a child at home, but he actually had a run-in with a dyslexic tattooist. They all asked me my surname, checking that I wasn't an Estonian whore (Matt was surprised at my grasp of English), and Des, not knowing what to say to a girl he wasn't sleeping with, asked me what car I drove. Matt told me Darren worked in a bowling alley picking up skittles for £3.20 an hour and they both seemed to think I believed this, although I knew he was a bouncer (a far superior role), and thought it had stitched up his chances. He got teased relentlessly whenever anything needed picking up thereafter. His joke that I came from Essex didn't stick quite so well.

George was a sweet, caring, drunken calamity of a man. He was the oldest of the group and took me under his wing, making sure I wasn't neglected or without a drink. He was quite affronted when I offered to get a round in, but then pleased that I was the first woman to ever buy him a drink. Bunny had a short run of bad luck too: not seeing me, he made an obscene gesture to Matt to check if he'd got lucky, only for me to suddenly pop up and say 'you didn't see me here, did you?'. He went redder than an Arsenal shirt. He also passed a comment on the size of my feet when I'd be let in on the group's slang. It had nothing to do with shoes.

Not wanting to outstay my welcome, on Thursday I said I'd be visiting some museums. No one could fathom what I would do or see there: Estonian stuff wasn't a good enough explanation. Instead I stayed with them, drinking, learning about cricket and teasing young Matt about his mistaken affiliation to Manchester United. Bunny and I had a bit of a Smiths sing-song and revelled in the wonder of Morrissey and Arsenal. Matt and Darren busted my excuse of wanting a light to start a conversation when I got out my own lighter, not realising I wanted them to know. Matt was quite pleased to have been chatted up by the only English girl in Estonia; I was quite pleased to have met someone whose relative had been on Trisha (as the world's laziest man).

Bunny and Howey were challenged to a drinking contest by a foolish Irish midget. On their rounds, Bunny and Howey had water and gave the boy gin or vodka. I tried to intervene and stitch them up, but the barmaid wouldn't have it (she was still holding a grudge as Darren had stopped flirting with her when I arrived). The midget then fell out the door and split his head on stone steps. Howey leapt into the ambulance and warned him he shouldn't go drinking with the Wurzels. Given the state of them both the following morning at the airport, it was advice they both would have done well to follow.

That night we all went to a club called Hollywood, which was better than it sounded. It was set in an old cinema, so was enormous, full of great sweeping staircases and girls with yellow hair and clothes that weren't even accidentally fashionable. Matt and I even managed to have a small argument: I did the full girlfriend thing in only 48 hours.

The love affair finally ended at the airport; Brief Encounter with a minibus and ten cider-swilling Dr Harveys. It was a shame to say goodbye to them all (even with Matt romantically pushing a 2 EEK note in my direction - all of 50p - never has a boy been more amused by himself). I had quite a different holiday to the one I was expecting, from Saga to 18-30 so much more fun. Hopefully their next sex tour will be somewhere nearer to Japan. I could do with some loutish behaviour to lighten those long, dark Tokyo nights.

Saturday I went to Bek's and drank wine with her and Rachel. I introduced them to microwave popcorn and we leapt around to the Futureheads before trawling through Bek's photo collection. The next day, I saw a real Pearly Queen on the tube and finally watched Lost in Translation.

Today I had a phonecall from Racial. It was lovely to hear her voice and she filled me in on live in Japan: the blokes are leonards looking for submissive girlfriends, but the female teachers are reasonable enough. I will benefit greatly from Shane's Commonwealth-only employment policy.

Baltic delight

There are only old people in Tallinn. Sitting in Town Hall Square, supping beer, I realised that the arrival of Chitty's Childcatcher in a prisoncart-cum-ice-cream-van would not have been out of place: where are all the children? I have seen one baby and that was in the arms of a tourist. It was probably hurried into a toy maker's basement by Benny Hill as soon as I passed. Tallinn also has a disporportionate number of dog shit bins: there is only one dog, as far as I've seen. I wonder if the two features are related...

This morning started quite badly. I sat with the Australians and another couple (both from Dundee, but one originally from Germany with a very confused accent) and listened to them gripe about the price of petrol and how much they hate London. The couple from Dundee are at least living elsewhere and also looking to buy in Tartu, while the Australians sit and grumble, pushing up London rents for those who want to live there. They also bonded over travel snobbery, mocking those who work in supermarkets and similarly unrewarding jobs, though if everyone wanted to travel, who would drive the train to get there? This drove me from the table fairly quickly, but I could still hear their ignorance through my door so quickly caught the bendy bus into town.

I took advantage of my 'Tallinn Card' free guided tour of the city and got shown the highlights by coach before revisiting the Upper Old Town on foot. The city is crazily paved with architecture: the different areas are so varied it is almost like walking through an over-sized theme park, especially when you are confronted with the poor locals who are forced into traditional dress to serve you.

The tour guide was a microcosm of Estonian bitterness at the Soviets, bordering on, but managing to check, out and out racism towards all Russians. There was more social, than political, commentary, which made it more interesting, but we did occasionally pass building where other groups were being instructed while we were told about the levels of unemployment in Tallinn: only 6%, although 90% of those are Russians; this figure is blamed on them no longer being employed in car export industries, since Russia became bitter at Estonia's demands for independence, but it might also be that the Estonian's only employ their own and stick all the Russians in near-derelict ghettos.

The tour finished very near 'the only Estonian restaurant in Tallinn', so I pitched up there and tucked in. Unfortunately, when hunger and greed collide, the stomach can barely keep up, but we did our best. I picked an extremely salty, cold, jellied Baltic herring with a potato, which tasted like it might have been microwaved. It also came with half an egg and a jar of mayonnaise emptied over the top. The second dish was more successful; an absurdly portioned knuckle of pork (think whole hip) with oven-baked potatoes in cream with sauercraut, which was amazing. The pork knuckle stopped a small tourist in her tracks it was so big. It also did wonders for trade as passers-by starred at my meal and then went inside the restaurant themselves (sensibly opting for a table off the street). The best part of the meal by far was the musical accompaniment: a range of songs covered by an Estonian artist, among my favourites were Congratulations, Proud Mary and Fairy Tale of New York.

On the tour I decided I would like to revisit Peter the Great's summer retreat and try to get to the beach at Pirita. The tram ride to Kadriorg was Soviet in the extreme; the little vehicle creaked and groaned all the way and the passengers all wore out-dated leisurewear and various brown suits. Deodorant is not yet in fashion. The gardens around Kadriorg Palace were stunning, sculpted into the height of baroque fashion and leading into a more natural park that led towards the sea. Some houses go back before the 1930s and are made of wood or gingerbread, one of the two. The Palace itself is now used to house the Art Museum's foreign exhibits, though building itself is the most impressive.

Is it ghoulish to revel in a country's vanquished past?

The beach was fabulous and I can see why Peter the Great made Tallinn his summer retreat: the sand was soft and clean and the sea clear as glass. I paddled where the tsarist nobility paddled, although the water was Baltic...

I also paid a quick visit to the Estonian branch of the Art Museum, which didn't match the foreign one in any way. Estonians can't paint, although their sculptures are striking (the cubists weren't bad either). They also can't spell, as one painting of 'beach' showed a mass of trees.

Tonight I am checking out the port area (if I can get away from the PC). I've already spotted some groups of English lads to latch on to, should I be desperate for company. They stand out as they are young and have modern (e.g. non-functional) hairstyles. There are no young English women here; except me, if 28 still counts.

Töuring Tällinn

Well, I made it to Tallinn with time to spare (if you don't count me losing 24 hours). It's small, but nicely formed. It has the tatty, run-down charm of most second world cities; it's impossible to tell where roads end and paths begin, which is a danger to an unroadworthy moron like me. The cars are a contradiction of modernity and clapped-out bangers, we passed one on the way from the airport spewing steam at an undeserving tram. The young Estonians are fashionable and you can often only tell the local girls from the visitors by their Slavic profiles and unwelcoming sneers.

My little cottage has been reallocated to more punctual guests, but I can use the next-door neighbour's sauna or ask the new residents to make way for me. The hostel is some random man's house, he's just decided to let out the downstairs' rooms. It would seem odd if he didn't look so much like Julian, which I find unreasonably reassuring, as was the empty cat's bowl. If it's very hungry, I may entice it into my room later with offers of Estonian meats. Also, on a positive note, the internet connection is set up just outside my room, so there is no excuse for inefficient blogging, however, I can't work out how to use the 'at' key, so emails are currently beyond me.

Decided to walk into central Tallinn to discover the place and nearly got lost. The city combines the mediaeval architecture of places like Stockholm and Venice (it even smells the same in parts) with grim Communist prefabs: kind of like a neglected fairytale. However, you can't accuse Estonians of being behind the times. All the kiosks boast the latest craze: sudoku. At least I know I needn't get bored...

After a few hours checking out the Old Town's exteriors (and joyiously discovering a 99 EEK store), I finally managed to brave a bar and was confronted by a menu set out exclsively in Estonia, something I hadn't bargained on. The only remotely guessable dish involved mushrooms, which I consider a mild form of poison and won't eat. Just as I was welling up the courage to order something in stuttering Estonian, an Australian stood next to me brazenly ordered a pint of Beamish in English. I suddenly realised, the bar's entire patronry spoke English. I ordered an enormous cheese and salami pancake and a pint. The food was amazing; the pancake was crammed with dill pickles and came with a fabulously creamy Dijon-ish sauce to smother it with. I will come home looking like Blunderwoman if this is how the Estonians eat.

I strolled around some cathedrals and churches (the Orthodox put the Catholics to shame when it comes to lush baroque interiors) and while stopping to admire a view of the port, I spotted a young guy who spoke English, so pretended I had no map to spark a conversation. He was a San Franscican called Adrian who is spending his summer touring Europe and has seen more of it in two months than I have in a lifetime. We quickly parted and I stopped for a coffee, but had to leave when I started gagging on the sickly sweet smoke from someone's waterpipe: a big hit with the local young 'uns. I decided to find the bus stop home so I could then plan how drunk I might get (I've already spotted a few English stag dos that I could wile away some time with, and the Oirish pubs to find them in, should I get desperately lonely) and ran into Adrian again.

This time I was more sensible and asked if he'd like to go for a drink, he did and we enjoyed speaking in English (of a kind) over coffee and beer. He had to go off to the port to try to sell a free ticket he'd been given for a ferry to Helsinki and then came back to meet me in an African bar nearby. While I was waiting for him I got seig heiled by some neo-Nazis and chatted up by the Nigerian chef. We spent another pint together before parting company. As we had little more than geography and a desire for company in common, we left it at that, although as I ran into him so many times today, I can quite imagine, of all the people in the world, he'll be the one on the other bunk when I finally make it onto the Trans-Siberian Express. I am not sure if I would be pleased or not; he had a lovely face, but was dull and over-privileged.

Got home and found the brazen Australians are staying in my hostel. Tried to say hello, but am being ignored. Bang goes the idea of making friends over breakfast. They are constantly checking my typing to see if the dining area/internet cafe is free: it's not yet.

Have just noticed that I might be able to get a transfer to Russia for 14 euros. Am going to look into it, not that I would use any Russian. I've forgotten most of what I once knew and have spent most of today sharking out cute English-speaking boys and asking Estonians if they understand my native tongue.

Girl interrupted, delayed, rescheduled

Poor planning, pouring rain and the steely, unbending resolve of EasyJet's check-in staff meant I missed my flight to Tallinn (OK, so we also got lost around the long-stay car park, but I was already 1 minute behind schedule at that point with no hope of boarding anything). I've got another flight for tomorrow, same time, less stress and only £25 for the transfer fee (a snip compared to RyanAir's £40).

I used to be a very paranoid person who would fret constantly about being late for anything (a hangover of a childhood phobia developed from being sent into almost every daily assembly 10 minutes late so the entire pupil population of Place Farm could turn and see me stumbling to my place) and consequently turn up a day early. Somehow, in my wilderness years, I've become far too casual. I do hope I re-learn this skill before the 25th.

At least it means another day with the cats.

Tihase lassie

I seem to be developing a general weakness. My first jabs gave me a rush of nausea and general wrongness, along with a feeling of being punched very hard in either arm. Could there be a better way to spend £184...? My weak arms had to lug a large shipment of bedding, backgammon and books to my mum's on Friday. I had to skip Karen's leaving do (my arrival would have likely sparked several security alerts and had a thief been bothered to make off with anything I'd left unattended, I would have lost all my worldly goods), but managed to go via Smiths and pick up some magazines for the flight, being somewhat dishonest with the Evening Standard honesty box.

Bek and I took the dogs for a walk, with Billy nearly going for a ginger child on a bicycle. I'm not sure her mother was convinced that it was an aversion to the purple leopard print trim on the bike and not that Lhasas have become the next Devil's dog that prompted the snarling.

Today Charlie is godfather, although he'll be more Enfield than Brando.

Have a heinously early flight to Tallinn, but it will be worth it. I'm really looking forward to hiding away in my little cottage. I have four days alone with my own thoughts, which Karen has warned me may not be wise given the enormous upheaval I'm facing. Her trip to Croatia gave her more than enough time to fret about her move to Taiwan on Tuesday (How quickly has that come round?!). I had already been worrying about that, but I'm hoping to lose myself in the sauna:

http://www.tihase.ee/saun.htm

There's also the possibility of a beach. I just hope I packed my passport...

Optical delusion

I paid a visit to my irreplaceably lovely optician this morning and had to explain away my red eyes. He's worried I have an unhealthy eye (aside from generally being big and blind), so insisted I get a second opinion from a stern woman who told me I am developing an allergy to my contact lens solution. Only saline can save me now.

The lovely optician, who regularly tells me I'm a star for completing the simplest tasks and looks a bit like Omar Sharif in a bad toupee, spent a lot of time explaining the problem with my eye, unfortunately he has a very strong accent so I couldn't actually understand what he was saying, but it was very nice of him to try. I had been thinking of asking and medical types rarely share their specialist information so freely. However, I am condemned to specs for a week while my eye heals. Fortunately I can hide in Tallinn where no one will see me, aside from shiploads of stags, their attendants and the native Estonians.

Last night I saw a few of the other CELTAs and said one of my first goodbyes, to Matt, although I only vaguely remember the goodbye - sorry Matt! I was distracted by tequila and the 12-year-old bar manager. Anouki has sworn (pinky swears hold a lot of weight, apparently) to join me in Tokyo. If she doesn't, there will be trouble (although far less in Asia, I expect). Got back to Streatham and bopped all the way home, waking up poor Assaf with my screetching rendition of 'Superstar'. I don't think I'll ever be one of those.