An Ideal Husband

Hey all,

After K left I had some decisions to make – namely whether I pushed my flight back for a week, tried to find a job, then pushed it back a bit more once I knew I had some income – which was what I wanted to do.  Got in touch with the travel agent to rebook my flight, but it turned out that the next available slot was not till mid March – the London to China leg was no drama, but there is so much traffic between Australia and China that this leg is booked up forever.   Due to the state of my finances and my reluctance to become a prostitute, this was a bit of a problem – if I took the punt on staying another two months here so I could work for a bit, then get to Ireland, then come home, and did not in fact get a job, then I was going to find myself with no food and nowhere to live pretty quickly.

Here began several days of agonised soul searching.  I was hoping that K would help my by becoming all hysterical and demanding, insisting that as we are now engaged (just thought I would slip that in there) I should come home immediately, that it was not fair on a girl to have a fiance continually faffing about in other countries in some kind of pointless and indefinite manner.  If she had done this then I would have been able to become all outraged and, shouting something down the phone like, “Stop trying to control me and ruin my life!!!!” I could have booked for another couple of months in a fit of pique without having to think about it too much.  Unfortunately K refused to oblige, simply kept coming out with things along the lines of, “I will support you whatever you do,” and, “I believe in you,” and “whatever you decide I am sure it will be fine,” and so on, which was shockingly thoughtless of her and left me in the frightful position of having to make a decision without the useful aid of anger, resentment and an easy snap judgement.

Finally I decided to take the punt, and sent off an email to the travel agent to say go ahead.  Decision made, I of course laid awake until 7AM the next morning agonising over it (and being bothered by Polish snorer above me (I changed dorms the next day to a dorm that I still have to myself, joy)).  Got a reply to email saying agent was out of the office for the next three days.  Sent an email to emergency email saying go ahead.  No response.  Finally got in touch with travel agent, asked him to get back to me with exactly how much it was going to cost.  Checked email in morning, no response.  Sent somewhat terse email to agent asking for a hurry up.  Received somewhat terse response saying that he had requested information from airline but they were not getting back to him.  The next day, now well inside the 48 window prior to the flight when rebooking is not allowed and still without any information still on whether it was possible or how much it was going to cost me, I sent an email saying don't worry about it.

Which means, as I write this, that I will be getting on a plane to come home tomorrow to the flaccid arms of a Nanny State that will probably contrive to fine me for something at least twice between the airport and K's place, and where it will no doubt soon be illegal to enjoy a cigar even if you are outdoors and 100 metres away from another human being...

Photos.  1.  The Rack, ie, me making a decision.  2.  Writing blog posts in the lounge in hotel in London.

Cheers, B.

Paris, again

Hey all,

took the Eurostar train back to Paris, which was in most ways a lot easier than getting the plane – take the train right there, get on another train, get off in Paris – only problem was that I kind of thought it would be like a plane security wise, in other words you could have a knife in your check in luggage, but that turned out not to be the case – was a big annoying drama when they saw the knife that I had carried from Australia and used all around Corsica and Sardinia etc – they unpacked all my stuff, went through all of it with gleeful slowness while I started to get visibly annoyed about the whole thing – oddly, they confiscated that knife but let me take the pocket knife I bought in Corsica.  When I asked if there was any way that I could pick it up when I came back to London, they said no, and it was going to take longer than we had before the train left to get the knife to the secure items area, so I just said, whatever, take it.

Then, taking weird to a whole new level, they gave the knife to K, but said that I wasn't allowed to have it (?), which I really don't understand, but wasn't going to complain about.  Because a villainous murderer would never think to say to his girlfriend. “Hey – give me back the weapon.”   Again, it seemed to make a difference that we were Australian, which they did mention; Australians being cretinous individuals who carry knives in a harmless Man-vs-Wild kind of way but aren't really that much of a drama otherwise.  Also don't understand why the hiking poles, which are long and extensible metal rods with tungsten spikes on the end of them don't seem to be an issue at all.

We were staying at Woodstock this time as Perfect was booked for the night, and as colorful as Woodstock looks from the outside it really did feel like we were on the wrong side of town inside the place – some polite staff, some flat out rude staff, and just a bit of a dodgy vibe all round – we stared longingly out the window at Perfect.

We tried to get in to Saint Chapelle, which was closed, then Notre Dame, which wasn't, then ambled more or less back in the direction of the hotel, getting cheap and fairly generic Asian food in a deserted restaurant, which might not have been a great move, as I spent the next 24 hours or so in one of those gastro things where you fall asleep for about half and hour, wake up and try not to throw up for about half an hour, and then to it again and again.  The following day K had to spend her last day in Paris all on her lonesome, again, just as she had her first.  She had a fun day, took lots of photos, but I will let her tell you about it if she gets around to it – also she looked after me, again – at this point she was becoming well practised at doing so.

Following day I could walk, at any rate, and accompanied K to the airport, where we said goodbye, which I found pretty hard – harder than when I left the country six months ago, when I was heading off.  When someone leaves they leave a hole in your life – when you leave you are going to a new place and everything is different and exciting or at least challenging and the people you leave remain a constant in your life, something you can rely on.  That's my theory anyway – it is always harder to be the one that is being left at the gate.

I waited around, got a flight back to London.

Photos.  1. Notre Dame.  2.  Inside.  3.  Really quite creepy statue.  4.  A mosaic graffiti artist I have always wanted to see in the wild.  5.  A church at night.  6.  We looked longingly at Perfect Hostel across the street....

Cheers, B.

London

Hey all,

Our five days in London together was, for both of us, probably the highlight of our trip together in terms of me being well and K being fully relaxed from work at the same time.  It is, for an Australian, a strange place to be – I even recognise obscure street names from novels I have read – a weird feeling of being home but not home.  The same kind of weird feeling of familiarity in the Portrait Gallery, which we both enjoyed – have an odd sense of knowing these people, some directly related to us (Cook, Banks, etc), but all the others definitely part of the history we grew up with, of what makes us who we are.  The paintings of all the Tudors were especially nice, as was a long relaxed conversation the two of us had over coffee in the cafe at the gallery, looking over the skyline of London.

Our hotel was pretty tricky to find when we arrived, although it shouldn't have been, and we asked directions a few times until finally the people at the posh expensive Strand told us where the cheap Strand was, something which apparently happens a lot.  A very central hotel to be at, right in the middle of the West End and all the theatres, which is why we chose the place – you can see where the Lion King is playing from the window of the lounge.

We wandered around quite a bit through gardens, along the river, to the palace, into one of those neat polite contemporary art places that sell neat polite books talking about taking down governments with the REVOLUTION, but given K's career, go to the theatre is what we mainly did.  We saw War Horse, which was intense and emotional, and had these frighteningly alive huge puppets of horses – it was incredible how alive all the puppets felt – the script, if you stopped to think about it, what a bit nothing, but the whole thing was so alive and impressive that you didn't really stop to think about it.  Also saw Woman In Black, which has been running here for over two decades, which was entertaining but not mind blowing, and then Wilde's An Ideal Husband, which was the highlight for me, very very funny and sharp and well done in every way.

We caught up a couple of times with a young director/producer who used to be on of K's students, who is doing very well for himself in London – has a couple of theatres of his own and seems to exist in this kind of 24/7 buzz of activity – we saw two of his plays, one called SUBS which was a fun evening, and the preview for another one about a prostitute in Barcelona, where K was asked by her friend to have a chat with the director to give some advice, and I sat there somewhat entranced watching her in her element, talking intently to the director about how to improve the show and being listened to with something like awe.  Also had dinner with K's contact a couple of times in cheap and delicious out of the way places – all in all a very enjoyable five nights, and I think all inspiring for K.

Had a bit of an adventure walking home one night when discovered a child – possibly a girl – running up and down the footpath screaming hysterically.  K went and comforted her and discovered it had lost it mother.  Two other women arrived and the child was soon being

A.  Comforted by K
B.  Talked to very firmly by no nonsense middle aged woman who looks like she is about to shake the child and/or slap its face until it regains its senses.
C.  Looked at by a young lady who kind of floated about and frankly seemed a bit ornamental in the entire drama, but did claim to know where the child had last seen its mother.

Unnoticed, I went to the police station across the road, and informed them that there was some hysterical lost kid screaming on the footpath.  The policewoman looked shocked, panicky, asked me if he was ok.  I pointed out that it might not be a he, that it was possibly a girl, but that whatever it was, it had lost its mother.  The policewoman, in a panic, thanked me and asked me if I could bring it back to the station.  Which is a bit weird, given that I hadn't had a shave in nearly three months and while not looking quite like a sex-pest was certainly not looking like someone that any mother I have ever met would want escorting their lost hysterical child anywhere.  I went back to retrieve child.  Child and two women are gone.  K standing there alone, looking a bit panicky herself as I had just up and disappeared.  Back to police station – I go in, say that kid has gone – police by this stage in frantic panic – there are about 8 of them in their perspex box looking all discombobulated.  I say kid has gone.  Taken back somewhere by two strange women to look for mother.  I say I don't know where.  Go outside, where K is holding cigar that I have been smoking entire time and don't want to leave on windowsill again, send K in to fill in the coppers.  She goes in.  Now so many panicky cops behindt perspex window that the ones at the front are being squashed.  Apparently one of them faints and is only barely dragged out to safety.  K fills in the details.  Finally we leave.  And finally, one of the cops comes out of locked perspex compartment and chases us down on street to say thank you and tell us that they have finally sent some actual police out of the building in the direction of the place where the women were allegedly taking the hysterical kid to look for its no doubt hysterical mother.

This would never happen on The Bill.  Also:  these people just won the Ashes.

Photos.  1.  The view from our hotel at night.  2.  An incredibly porny sculpture on a sign just near here.  3.  To a funeral parlour (??).  4.  Street at night.  5.  Nelson's tower.  6.  A clock.  7.  Creepy portrait of Henry VIII.  8.  View from cafe in portrait gallery.

Cheers, B.

Things We Did In Venice

Hey all,

Caught up on sleep – on the third day I was confident I was actually better and would not need the super expensive back up antibiotics the doctor in Florence had given me a script for in case the second and third courses he had already prescribed failed to take.

Went to a chamber orchestra concert where we heard, amongst other things, Corelli, who I have always wanted to listen to live, and which included a cellist who had so much, um, brio, that he looked like he might be on crack and also broke a string, fortunately in the encore.  It was in a lovely old church and was really very good, despite us both nearly being turned off by the program for the evening: “the talent, creativity and genius of the artists united here forever by destiny … the soundtrack to the everyday life which proudly unfolded in a glorification of itself … a meeting between music and the other muses to successfully create that moment of perfection born from the symbiosis of two elements which seem made for each other.”  OMG.  Extraordinary.  I would be nervous to write all of that word for word even as satire.

Went to the Gallerie dell'Accademia di Venezia, which was close to our hotel.  Looked at lots of pictures.  Went to an exhibition of musical instruments.  Went to a special exhibition of Bosch at the Palazzo Grimani, after walking around most of the afternoon looking for the place and going to the wrong Grimani on the map – it was interesting, though only had three paintings and seemed put together by a wildly bitter curator who hated the world – see photo.  Also, K kept setting off the alarms by getting too close to the paintings, until she finally learned to keep her distance, at which point another couple set of an alarm, then scampered, and the security woman charged back in and looked at K in an accusing manner, standing there in her bright red coat looking sheepish, squealing, “It wasn't me this time, I promise!”  Security girl obliged us by turning alarm off for a few minutes so we could get right up close and personal with the paintings, which was nice of her.

Went for a long, very cold, but lovely round trip on the Line 1 waterbus along the grand canal – the cheapskates gondola ride.  Wisely asked for the sit down prices for coffee and tea in St. Marks square before sitting down and ordering them off the reasonably priced stand up menu, then decided that well north of 20 bucks was too much money for two hot drinks so went somewhere else.

Visited the hotel where K stayed with her parents when a teenager.  I realise that she is perhaps slumming it a little bit by travelling with me...

I hear Australian accents behind us and I nearly turn around to have a bullshit but don't – when I point this out to K she turns and has Vince Colosimo, Rebecca Hall and child sighting.

I have another dog turd moment that, according to K, “nearly pushed you over the edge,” which is a grossly slanderous exaggeration.

Went to the Doge's Palace.  Went to heaps of churches.  Wandered about a lot.  Had a lot of nice food.  Took a lot of photos.  Ate green biscuits which were awful.  Walked over lots of bridges.  Enjoyed each other's company very much.  It was snowing when we got to the airport to fly to London, which caused us a bit of panic, but fortunately it stopped.

Photos.  1.  The Grand Canal.  2.  A shot of a distant church at night.  3.  K, being what the Lonely Planet, attempting to be blasé but in fact just being odious, describes as an “art wonk.”  4.  Just in case you don't know what to do in the toilet.  5.  A chastity belt.  Click on it and have a close look, I dare you.  This will give you nightmares.  6.  The church in St Marks square is stunning inside.  7.  I looked closely – I am certain neither of these were fake.  8.  K, about to set off the alarm.  Again.  9.  Amazingly catty introduction to the Bosch exhibition.

Cheers, B.

Venice Part 1

Hey all,

We enjoyed our first class train trip to Venice very much, and it really is quite amazing in that you walk out of the train station and there it is – the grand canal.  For all that I was not personally wild about going to Venice, and if K had not wanted to would probably not have, I am so glad that we did.  It really is as beautiful as everyone says it is – magical, even though it was the middle of the night and I was still pretty ill.

Unfortunately getting from the train station to the hotel was a little less magical.  It was the middle of the night.  We went to the wrong water bus stop.  We waited.  Were told to go to another one by the attendant on the waterbus that showed up.  We went to the wrong one.  Repeat.  Missed the last regular service.  Figured out the night service to get.  Went to wrong stop.  Waited.  Told again to go somewhere else.  Waited.  Did not actually get on water bus until about quarter to one, by which stage even K had, after either our forth or sixth set of incorrect instructions, thrown what is for K a massive tantrum, and said, and I quote, “F***ing Hell!”  Which pleased me no end as in this particular relationship the volatility does not usually come from her...

The water bus ride in the middle of the night was, eventually, quite lovely, and although we didn't have a map I used the magic usb stick and google maps to get some clue where the hotel was in relation to our stop, and we eventually found it, which was a fair effort, given that some of the “streets” we walked through to get there are so narrow that they would not even qualify as legal gaps between buildings in Australia.  Arriving, we asked the guy at the hotel if he had a map – he was shocked that we had found the place in the middle of the night without one, impressed, even a little fearful – we were obviously in touch with the occult.

A nice little hotel – not even that expensive.  Admittedly the drain in the shower did not work, and we had to get in and out quickly before water flowed out on to the floor, and admittedly the “panoramic” views turned out to be panoramic in the sense that, if you stood on a chair, the window afforded you a 180 degree panorama of a scruffy looking building, but still.

We slept in and woke to what K describes as “lovely silence and panoramic views.”  The silence I didn't really notice until K pointed it out, but it is a wonderfully quite place, especially at night – there are no cars, none at all, none of that random background noise we just take for granted.

Photos.  1.  First view of Venice at night.  2.  Our hotel street, at night.  3.  Our hotel street, during the day.  4 and 5.  Inside our hotel.  6.  American Express sign in Venice.  Mosaic, of course.  7.  The kind of streets we had to negotiate in the middle of the night without a map to find hotel.

Cheers, B.

Florence, Again.

Hey all,

Spent the first day in Florence wandering around and just kind of checking the place out – plenty of time for us to do all the sights together, I thought – also bought a new backpack, which means I am on to my third – the second one had fallen to bits to the point that the even the knots that I was using to tie the broken harness onto the main bag had ripped out and by now, in addition to the top pocket being ripped open, the harness was being held by being tied on to one of the handles, and if that ripped out then I had nothing left to tie anything together with at all and it would no longer be a bag but just a cloth thing with some buckles hanging off it.  You'd expect more for 60 bucks on a dock in Livorno...

Also went to the Bronzino exhibition again which K enjoyed as I'd thought she might.  Pleasant day and not too busy – Florence is not a big Christmas destination – most people go home for Christmas and it is not that big a place.  We went to the sung vespers that night at the monastery in the middle of the city that I have mentioned before.

Next day, Christmas, I awoke in a poisonously bad mood for no good reason – we went to church where the minister gave the entire service in a mixture of Italian and English – she had not known Italian four months before getting the job –  and then lunch with the minister and a number of other people – including the American sculptor of the statue of St. Mark that is pictured – and the reason for my mood started to become clear as I was coming down with a heavy flu.  Was a nice lunch though, and good to spend Christmas day with some people – we all went for a walk after what felt like about a 20 course meal that went until it was dark, then K and I went home.

Boxing day I was too sick to get out of bed.  The day after that, the same.  Also the day after that.  Following day we went for dinner at a restaurant across the road from the hotel, which was my big outing, and then collapsed back into bed.  A bit foggy on the order of events that followed, but we had to move hostels at some point because it turns out that Florence is a big place for New Years, so we went to a hostel a fair way out from the centre where I had stayed before – K and I watched the fireworks as the new year rolled in from the window of the toilet of that hostel – I know how to treat a girl right...

In the last couple of days there K tracked down an English speaking doctor as I just wasn't getting better and I got antibiotics for what had turned into bronchitis, and did improve enough to do some things with her in the last two days – go to the big Palace near the Uffizi, which was a very grand building and also had that Damien Hirst platinum and diamond skull, apparently the most expensive art-work ever made (although according to a documentary I saw he kind of bought it himself in a round about way in order to keep his values high), which I wanted to see, despite thinking that he is less artist than flat out con-artist; the Medici chapel, and the Uffizi itself – where we had to queue for nearly three hours to get in...

We nearly ended up in trouble getting a train from Florence to Venice because they were all booked (would be no drama at all, I assured K) and had to get first class tickets for a late train and even then couldn't sit together – but the late train turned out to be good as it was only that afternoon that I finally managed to track down Model Agent who had gone MIA due to romantic week with someone in the country – so we saw her just before leaving and I retrieved all my stuff.

Anyway, sorry if this post is a bit dull – it was a pretty dull week for me and it wasn't until we had been in Venice for a couple of days that I stopped needing to go to bed and have a snooze every thirty seconds...  Have asked K to write a post about her week in Florence – in between looking after me, listening to me whinge and being kept awake all night by my coughing, apparently she had a nice time – but I will let her tell you about that herself.

Pictures.  1.  Christmas dinner.  2.  Florence on the evening of Christmas day – K under the orange umbrella.  3.  Outside the minister's house – K and another girl shadowy figures at the bottom – took this photo because that plaque you can see by the light fitting on the wall is the height the waters reached during the big flood.  4.  Underneath the statue of Dante is the figure of K, trudging back towards me – this was my first big outing day and I had to sit down because, pathetically, I did not have the energy to make it across the Piazza.  5.  K, on New Years Eve, living the dream with splendid boyfriend taking photos of fireworks through window of toilet in hostel.  6.  Marble statue of Mark, mentioned above.  7.  View from the window of Uffizi which I took because it is a nice one that shows the Medici's private walkway going all the way over the top of the Ponte Vecchio.  8.  My last shot of Florence.

Cheers, B

Train

Hey all,

Up again the next morning, back to the train station where we waited to get on to the train to Florence.  This turned out to be a drama – it was the evening of December 23rd – it was like a fight to the death getting on to the train – people shouting, passing luggage through windows, shoving, running here and there – and after we had finally got a cabin and collapsed in a shocked and exhausted kind of way were were shouted at by some man to move – it turned out that although our tickets did not have reserved seats, most of the people on the train did...  Getting off that carriage and back on to the platform was even trickier than getting on to it – K managed to squeeze out but I had both backpacks at this point and no one would move.  In the end I gave up trying to be polite about it and just kind of shoved through, leaving smeared bits of Italians dripping from the walls behind me – at this point I didn't really mind – the more carnage the better.

After asking directions several times we finally found one of the carriages which did not need reserved seating.  I still had both packs so K squeezed in to see if she could find some seats.  Despite the fact that the corridor was full of people sitting on their luggage she managed to find a cabin with two spare seats.  I eventually struggled my way in and then started four hours of grotesque rudeness from the four low-browed ill-bred thugs who were already there.  A lot of malevolent glaring, general intimidation tactics and I would assume rude comments in Italian.  K sat in the corner, both annoyed at them and a little nervous at some of their antics, like when one of them, who had been sprawling all over my seat, got fed up with me “accidentally” elbowing him and jumped to his feet and stood in the doorway, legs spread, arms crossed, and just stood there and glared at me.  I didn't really mind at the time, figured he could glare all he wanted to so long as he got off my seat (besides which, he had BO, so didn't mind glaring if it was from a distance), but it was all a little sinister with the four of them, two just lurking, the other two being actively menacing, and I did at one stage make a point of slowly making a sandwich with evil looking Corsican knife...

Later we googled the final destination of the train, found out that it was the middle of Sicily.  I realised there might have been A Reason none of the Italians got in that cabin despite there being two spare seats and a whole lot of people piled up in the corridor.  Suddenly a lot less sanguine about consequences of elbowing one of them repeatedly; and the bit of theatre with the Corsican knife felt maybe a bit stupid...

But we did make it, in the end, to Florence, without getting stabbed or beaten to death, found our hotel, and then walked around Florence in the middle of the night, which was lovely – we hopped over the rails of the bridge below the Ponte Vecchio, sat there on the big angled pylon which holds it up, and just admired the view for a while – something I have wanted to do with K since I first got here months ago.

Went to bed, happy to be somewhere in central Florence where we would be staying for four days (it later turned into nearly about 10 because I was too sick to travel).  Both needed to catch our breath a bit - looking back agree that France was a blast and we did get to see a lot, but that much travel that quickly is harder work than you would think.

Photos.  1.  K using magic stick internet in the station at Milan before train nightmare began.  2.  A terrible photo, but I put it in cause it was a nice moment – sitting there on the bridge above flood waters with K,  having been in the middle of France in a hired car only a couple of days ago, then by car, bus, train, plane, train and a lot of walking, finally getting to Florence having survived passengers on train....

Cheers, B

Journey Through France, Part 4: To Milan

Hey all,

Final couple of days in France and then into Italy went by in a bit of a blur of travel – we got up early from the roadside motel outside Foix, headed back towards Blois via Auch, which was a beautiful town where we had lunch by the river and where I was scarred me for life and K much amused (see “Karma,” below).  Was a very long drive back to Blois and quite stressful in large part because the French don't seem to bother much with reflectors on their roads so you are kind of more or less just hoping you are still on them at times.

The hotel we stayed at this time in Blois, when we finally got there, was absolutely charming – exactly what you want out of a 1 star dump – the room easily had more character than any other place we had stayed in, the spiral staircase so tight and steep that it was difficult to get up with the packs, and a window that opened out onto a roof of unknown material and quality which looked out over the town.  Was desperate to climb on to it and smoke a cigar but K had sensible things to say about that regarding the high probability of becoming dead and/or crippled, not to mention being left with a huge bill.  Anyway, we both loved it, and it would have made a nice base to go to some of the earlier places if we had discovered it sooner, as opposed to driving like lunatics all day in one direction, then realising we missed what we wanted to see, driving like lunatics all the way back again, and then back again, the following day.  Next time...

Back to Chartres the following morning, returned the car, breathed sigh of relief when the inspector did not notice the broken hubcab from one of the instances of me forgetting about the right hand side of the car – breathed a sigh of a different kind when the bill came through for all the excess ks we had done due to habit of getting lost, then jumped on a bus in the snow back to the train station and back to Paris.  Found our hotel and the wandered down through Bastille in the evening, went to Notre Dame and then found a restaurant where K had a meal which she describes as the best of her entire trip.

Got up early the next morning, train to the airport, flight to Milan, train from airport to Milan itself, found our hotel (which we initially thought was the wrong place as it seemed very glamorous and upmarket but turned out to be the right place which made us both very happy), then headed off for a wander around Milan – recharged magic internet stick now that I was back in Italy, which came with a free bag of t-shirts which was kind of cool – sat in a lovely little obscure church for a while, went to Duomo (Gothic cathedral - not a dome) there which even by the standards of Italian churches is freakishly enormous – almost too big, too impressive – and also wandered around the central commercial district for a while where we saw the work of the crazy artist I had met in Florence in a shop window (I recognised it as his, Model Agent later confirmed that I was right).

Breathless yet?  We were.

Back to hotel via crowded hectic supermarket where I officially started to twitch out completely and have vague memories of K saying (slowly, clearly, in soothing tones), “Just stand there dear. Take a deep breath.  I'll go and find the muesli and come and get you.”

Photos.  1.  The room in the cute hotel in Blois.  2.  The view out the window.  Was not allowed to climb on to roof :( 3.  The stairwell.  4.  If you look closely you can see a hunchback.  5.  Crazy artist's work in Milan – I took a photo of this in his studio in Florence.  6.  More of the same.  7.  Creepy statue of a flayed alive saint in Milan Duomo.  8.  Inside the cathedral at Milan.

Cheers, B