I have defected.

Not to the West, I'm already there. I'm North of where I usually am, back in the UK. I took a happy, solitary trip over land and under sea to reach my place of birth - Yorkshire. Consequently I'm blanketed in fog, wrapped up against the cold and having to watch my mouth.

When in Lisbon, I can mutter and grumble with wild abandon. No one knows what I'm saying - which is fine. They can think me crazy providing they don't think me ill-mannered. Here I can't bitch under my breath ... everyone knows exactly what I'm saying. Something I'd forgotten about when I was elbowing my way through the sheeple that were gathered in King Cross Sation, all staring (as a collective) at the arrivals/departure board.

Collectives tend to stand shoulder to shoulder, leaving little room for a small traveller trying to bulldoze their way through pass among their midst as a means of finding the way out. None made it easy for me so several vile expletives issued from my rebellious mouth. Someone challenged my bitchin' so I've kept my rebel lips firmly clamped the last couple of days.

Shortly after leaving Kings Cross, I discovered that I'd been punished for my rotten attitude. Having dragged my suitcase halfway up Pentonville Rd, I finally thought to check out why it was being so damn awkward. The wheels had fallen off. Probably two countries back. Actually, I found one a few hundred yards away. The other? Probably still enjoying a freebie on the Paris metro.

One thing though ... here there be Marmalade. And indoor heating. And queues stuffed with people that simply state their business - and leave.

And not a Portuguese voice to be heard anywhere. And I miss that.

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