And yesterday, we saw our house, and what once was a construction site, now looks like the beginnings of a really lovely home. So there's no floors, no toilets, no heating (it's 4 ºC, who needs heat?) and no kitchen, but the windows, doors and shutters are in, and it all looks beautiful.

I was explaining the concept of 'paying through your nose' -- we failed to establish an Italian equivalent -- to my would-be mother in law whilst we scrutinised the workmanship; the solid wood that makes up the entire roof, the local white slate that covers the Stairs, the balconies and the terrace, the window frames and fantastic shutter mechanisms, they're all on a different level to the ones we tend to see in new British homes. And they cost less. And they're installed with an engineer's precision. This is all most thrilling to one so anal.

And now we're choosing paints - the man and I seem to have fairly similar views, and while we're not going overboard, there'll be a little adventure there to see that things aren't too staid.

It all makes the planning and stress seem that much more worthwhile; just the encouragement that we needed.

Time to get up...

The last few weeks have been even busier than before, including lots of archipelago hopping on overnight boats (one came with a typhoon, which was... novel), travelling on top of cargo on trucks and, of course, climbing mountains -- just as well since I'm here to do just that.

Amongst all that, our happy trio has discovered three new species of plant, and rediscovered one not seen since 1908. That discovery involved imprisonment for three days, but since this was voluntary and a prerequisite to finding the plant in question, it was borne with much joy. That's what happens when a plant grows in the grounds (by "grounds", we're talking many thousands of hectares and about five mountains) of a prison colony for murderers and violent criminals -- bureaucracy and fear of the inmates keeps the sensible botanists out. The mad ones turn up eventually and have a ball.

Did you know that there's a dish eaten all over the country that consists of partially developed duck embryos? Yup, yup, incubate that fertilised duck egg till it has a heart beat, bones and small feathers, then nuke it. The unsuspecting tourist peels the egg to find a baby, egg-shaped bird, wrinkles his nose a little, dips it in salt, and presto, scrummilicious! It's even tastier than hu-hu grubs and fried maggots. I really will eat anything. It's called balut - see it for yourself.

Inspired by my own words, I'm off for a fluffy little snack.

In the last 20 hours, I've been caught up in a massive landslide - the mountain gave way on the road ahead of us and literally buried the route under 10 metres of heavy soil and splintered tree ferns; we negotiated a passenger and luggage exchange with a vehicle on the other side of the slip, unloaded and hiked over the landfall in the rain (it felt so epic!) - and then, as we continued down to Batangas for our ferry, a woman on the bus went into short-lived labour.

Our immediate diversion to hospital was pretty pointless, as the baby popped out in one bloody mess in all of five minutes (lucky woman), covering the aisle in blood. Apart from the roaring engine and constant emergency honking by the driver, there was total silence till the baby cried, then much relief all round as mother and baby were carried off the bus in a stretcher, health intact.

And now, off to climb a mountain that is supposed to be arduous to even Everest hikers because of the mad up and down terrain (fortunately, not so cold). I hope it's exaggerated, though there was a death up there not so long ago, which just goes to show that you have to be diligent at all times.

Before doing this, we visit the town mayor to get his blessings (permission) for the ascent.

There's a certain hint of adventure here; happy homo I are.

Anon!

This is just a brief one to say hello from the Philippines! A 10 hour bus ride brought me here, and another one lies ahead at the end of the day. Next stop, Mindoro!

Incidentally, not a durian in sight.

Relationships have failed over less, but a relationship that can't withstand attacks of attrition by a tropical fruit probably isn't worth holding on to.

We remain stalwart in our struggle against fruity pericarps and odious pulps. Enough said.

Davide tells me from an adjacent terminal that London is cold and rainy (16 C). It's rainy here too, albeit 34 C and likely to be sunny again in the next half hour. Har har har. Not really, there are moments when I miss the cool, dry air of the UK - the humidity does get to you after a while.

We're stuck here for an hour or two whilst we wait for our flight to the capital across the water. It will be nice to get to KL and have a hot shower and get some real laundry done. River water and hand soap just doesn't get blood, stench and grime out like dedicated washing machines do.

Uh-oh, little kiddie wants the computer. Who am I to deny?

Adios!

Being here has been a stark reminder of all that I've left behind in moving to Europe, and I feel a real ache in my side when I think about where I'm allowing life to take me (id est, not here). Anyway, no crises unfolding, just an observation. The people out here mightn't be quite so glam, or sophisticated, as those back home, but they seem to be a damn sight happier, despite having to live under often difficult circumstances with little support. Of course, Kuala Lumpur is a different kettle of fish entirely, but I'm not over there just yet - it'll be a real trip back to yesteryear when I am.

Anyway, back to the wilds tomorrow, so just taking this opportunity to do some "ekspress" laundry and netting.

Jumpa lagi!

Just back to the mainland of Borneo from our trip to Lankayan; it was plain incredible, unforgettable bliss. Having lived in Malaysia for over a decade and visited some pretty fantastic places, this island, among beachy type destinations, is one of the most ridiculously picturesque and tranquil spots I've ever encountered.

The SCUBA diving was fantastic, and even then, the house reef was so full of life that snorkeling was enough to get a glimpse of turtles, black tip sharks, lion fish, anemones, mandarins, gobies, shoals of scad, a great barracuda (massive beastie) and puffers. I could verily adapt to life on an island.

Now, all this relaxing goodness is to be offset by almost ten days in pouring rain atop the montane forests of the mainland. Plants and bugs time.

Ciao ciao!

My former stomping grounds have more internet cafés than Seattle does Starbucks outlets, so one or two updates could be forthcoming from any of the unmarked (but frequent) stops on the itinerary below.

And that's that. Which leaves me to ask that you people take care of yourselves; I can't look after your interests from 7200 miles away.

Bye bye!

It wasn't the highlight of my week, but seems fitting a party to the strange syndrome of behaviours offered up to me by my body these four days gone by. Mild disorientation, sensorily unique headaches, neck pain, considerable body heat and a couple of aggressive mood swings in the testosterone-driven raging-silverback-gorilla sort of direction.

Transparent walls aside -- apparently this marriage of biology and silicous oxides runs in the female line of my family -- these are the mild symptoms of mild brain inflammation caused by a vaccine, and the thought that there's two more shots of this intravenous liniment to go isn't the most exciting thing in my Universe.

Still, if the antibodies are already on the go, then tomorrow's shot will either result in few further symptoms, or complete anaphylaxis. While occasional drama spices up the daily run, I hold out for the more probable scenario.

I've decided that things will be back to normal today, though the likelihood of my body agreeing with my stubborn mind makes the temptation of staying in bed, in the buff, all day long, the most attractive recourse possible. Alas, stuff beckons.

Oh, but it was strange.

Out in the sunshine, walking father Thames in the fresh air and awash with summery vibes, there were moments when I wanted to curl up and cry on the pavement for no good reason, punctuated by my own amusement at the fact that this sudden volatility of mind so isn't me.

Then anger and frustration, and wanting to smash my knuckles into the piles of broken rock and glass on the beaches at Battersea to put my mind elsewhere, toward a crimson decoy, something tangible. Preservation algorithms threw slag at the low tide instead, a limitless volume for transiently limitless feeling.

Then on the street, miles down the road, I chanced upon a proverbial angel, and my inconstant choler, as capricious and fickle as she was potent, fled with her burgundy skirts hitched above her ankles in the face of his genial smile and allusive embrace.

Once in a while, friends will pitch up at just the right time and place to crush a demon, unaffected in manner, straightforward and sincere, unaware of how you feel and utterly resplendent for it.

And whether or not you let them know it, they become heroes.

It's kind of nuts, really, to try to fathom just how many people that actually is. It mightn't be all that high a figure in the grand scheme of things vis. Chongqing with 31M, Mumbai with 13M, Sao Paolo with 11M, or Seoul with 10M, but it's pretty staggering all the same. We're just a smidgen behind New York, though in terms of community, I get the distinct impression from my Atlantic-straddling friends that it's a lot less easy to feel isolated in London than it is in New York.

Give me a sense of community any day.

Yesterday, I undertook the everyday task of walking from London Bridge all the way west along the river to Wimbledon. This took about four hours at a friendly pace, since the river route is quite a bit longer than the direct one, but it was incredible fun, and perhaps all the more so for being alone. Not to suggest that I didn't want the company -- I really did -- but it was nice to get in some me-time with my favourite Big City, and my how she roared in the hot Spring sunshine.

There was talk and laughter, food and drink, some of the best street musicians I've ever heard in this city, and even a whole lot of gaïety to boot. According to Google Earth, the walk home was a respectable 16.7 kilometres (10.4 miles), and during that time I passed at least four gay couples holding hands, and handful of less obvious candidates too.

I guess the warm-gooeyness must have got to me, because a pair of men took me to task on my smile -- they evidently misconstrued it as my thinking that they were an amusing sight to see, a pair of men holding hands.

"No," I said, "I'm really very jealous - I think it's totally lovely, but the hand I usually hold is stuck behind an office desk today!"

"Don't mind him; he's just a bit militant", one apologised.

And fair enough; some people do smirk, and for various reasons, but most of the looks all of these guys were getting seemed to be positive.

It's always a reaffirming thing to see. Even if it was only because they were all plain gorgeous.

A case in point is my incipient requirement for anti-malarials, in this case, Malarone. In the United Kingdom, £35 to £40 for a box of twelve one-per-day tablets. On the continent proper, they get off a little easier at €45. When the nurse told me this, I told her exactly who the drugs were produced by.

"How did you know it was GSK?"

"Oh, just a wild guess" - Glaxo charge the earth and the moon in the UK. I'd like to think that it's because they need to offset the reduced costs of their products in countries where people haven't the means to pay sky-high prices, but that's really not true.

So rather than pay over £120 for the course I require, I paid £32 in total.
By buying Malarone in Kuala Lumpur.

Six recommended vaccinations, £7.50 total. Great, hit me - all done and dusted.
Japanese Encephalitis B, £140 pounds on its own, and rabies only slightly less. I'll import them too, thank you very much.

If it wasn't illegal to import medicines and prophylactics on a commercial scale, I'd have my career path sorted once and for all.

It's early yet, but the boy has been fidgeting since 5am, so we're up and readying to leave. A lazy day of window shopping, being seen by a few landmarks, and brunch with a dear but not-oft seen friend and comrade, Spartacus, and possibly another special chappie just arrived from Chicago.

This is almost as good as sitting in my office in London doing government administration. But obviously not quite.

What irks me about the unfathomably low cost of air travel within continental Europe (fares can be as low as a penny (£0.01), with only tax to be paid) is that it sometimes it puts you in ridiculous situations. For example, I arrive back on Thursday afternoon, go to work on Friday, then depart for the airport on Friday evening upon leaving work only to return to the country I've just arrived back from in order to visit the prospective in-laws. That second trip was booked before the first, but as it transpires, remaining there overnight and then taking a 400 kilometre internal train ride to the other end of the country would have cost more than twice the cost of the flight back to London post-hike. Not to mention the fact that I get in a full day of work at hourly pay, which pays for the flight back and then some. Nuts, me reckons.

There could be worse things to take issue with, I suppose, and provided I survive my solo stint in the non-English speaking, no-tourists-here-sonny, treacherous-if-beautiful and generously orchidaceous mountain wilderness, it'll make a markedly jet-set, tasty, refreshing and hopefully enjoyable change to the norm.

And hey, fuckin'ell, a post!