A sharp intake of breath

*cough*

Sorry about that. I've been doing it a lot recently. But look on the bright side. I am now an expert on coughs and coughing.

No, really. Ask me about coughs. I'll happily wow you with my insane levels of expectorant-related knowledge. It's the sort of thing you pick up when you've been doing anything for five weeks, I suppose.

*cough*

I mean, it's not as if I wanted to be a coughing guru. Back in mid-September, which is when I must have signed a contract to become a full-time cougher, I never thought I'd still be making a noise like a bull sea lion all this time later.

It's not just the technique side of things. I now have lots of cough theory floating around my head, too. After all, when it's 3.30am and you've taken yourself downstairs - on the not unreasonable basis that at least one person in the house should sleep - there's not much else to do than to read up on the subject. The Wikipedia entry on coughing is a good place to start. It'll be my specialist subject on Mastermind.

*cough*

I know what causes a cough itself, the various mechanisms involved, even a rather natty colour-code you can employ on the end product.

I'm sorry, were you enjoying your soup just now? I guess Coughology isn't for everyone.

Even Katie has become a bit of an expert. She can tell when there's another one on the way, and tenses up appropriately. There's the sharp intake of breath, the cross-eyed look, then a bark like an overweight German Shepherd that rattles the window frames, lifts the curtains and dislodges small ornaments.

She's a lucky girl, and no mistake.

*cough*

My poor work colleagues are beginning to suffer, I'm sure. In an open-plan working environment, there's nothing worse than The One With The Cough. It's the middle of the flu season anyway, so the office is already doing a passable impression of a Victorian home for consumptives. But my respiratory system provides the rumbling undertone. Why I haven't been quietly poisoned in a team meeting is anyone's guess.

*cough*

Frustratingly, and despite the combined efforts of several doctors, we haven't yet pinpointed a cause that can be combated. I am a latter-day enigma as far as modern medicine is concerned. We know what it definitely isn't (before you start putting two and two together), but other than that we're all a little stumped.


And here's a tip - never use the Internet to self-diagnose. So far, I've travelled the sputum highway from viral bronchitis to beri-beri, with a detour to Collapsed Lungsville along the way. It's a good job I wasn't sleeping anyway.

*cough*

Cough medicine, by the way, is worse than useless, which should be obvious to anyone with a passing knowledge of human biology. How can something that you swallow sort your breathing apparatus out? Taking cough mixture is pretty much the same as pouring bleach down your drains and expecting it to clear your chimney.

As a direct result of my consumption of gloopy, syrupy Covonia over the last month, I reckon I can look forward to diabetes in my near future. I also know the difference between a non-productive and a productive cough:

• Non-productive cough - dry, tickly, wheezy. Red face, bulging eyes. Ladies, form a queue.
• Productive cough - completes that report you needed to do for work, while hanging out the washing and putting next week's shopping-list together.

*cough*

I've tried steam. I've tried menthol vapours. I've tried swearing very loudly. Actually, Katie has helped with that last one. Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those blokes who has a cough? There always used to be one man in every room that fitted the description, back when everyone smoked. Perhaps that's going to be my lot in life?

Oh well. It's a living, I suppose.

*cough*

Onwards and upwards

I think I might have had a bit of an epiphany. Don't worry, It didn't hurt.

Last year, as those few followers who are still here might know, I wrote a novel in a month. Well, I say 'wrote a novel.' In truth, the word 'month' is probably the only accurate part of that sentence. What I actually did was to put some 62,000 words together that roughly followed a half-plot. I did manage to do it all in November, though.

Since then, people have asked me what I intend to do next. When can we read it, they ask? When's it coming out? What the hell do you think you're playing at, Sawyer?

Actually, I get asked that last one a lot. I used to be asked it long before the novel, if I'm being honest.

But despite all this interest, I didn't want to face the draft novel and look at what I'd written. I was uncertain about climbing back on that particular horse. First of all, I was pretty certain it would be ugly. After all, no-one can write a novel in a month that you would actually want to read. Trust me on this. And the second reason was one of scale. Although 62,000 is actually a relatively low word count for a modern novel, it's still a big chunk of writing to re-work. And you've done the fun, creative part already. Where do you start?

Well, my answer to that final question was simply not to start at all. I let the thing fester on my hard drive. (And on a USB stick, my other hard drive, my Dropbox folder - at least I back things up). I looked at it briefly in January this year, shuddered and put it away again.

There were always things to do. Unfortunately, none of those things looked like 'writing a second draft'. Instead, quite a few of those things bore a resemblance to 'pratting around on Twitter'. Trying to come up with witty and amusing 140-character messages - and getting instant feedback - was attractive. When I realised I couldn't do it, watching others succeed was almost as much fun.

But it wasn't writing. Not really. That was beginning to slow down. The short stories, articles, blog posts - they began to dry up. And with every passing week it became easier to carry on doing nothing. I decided not to bother continuing my writing class. And all the time, the 62,000-word elephant in the room loomed large. Which, by all accounts, elephants are wont to do. I couldn't really start anything new. After all, when people asked me what I was doing, I could say I was editing my novel, couldn't I? Even though I plainly wasn't.

A good friend of mine also wrote a novel last November. Since then she's re-written it, self-published the thing, sold some copies and got great feedback. She's now done a sequel and is about to start a separate trilogy. Every time I read an update from her I felt like a neglectful parent.

Then a few things happened. We lost my grandmother not long ago, and the funeral brought together brothers and cousins. These are people who are not easily misdirected, so when they asked me the same questions, they weren't convinced by the whole 'I'm still editing it' line. I think more than one person told me to stop sitting on my thumbs and just publish the bloody thing.

I should add that we weren't having this conversation during the service.

I sat down a few days later and wrote a new short story based on my grandparents - I posted it here last month and people said nice things about it.

I ended up renewing my writing classes for another year. Having the need to submit a new piece every week might help to get the writing muscles going once more.

Last week we went away to a remote Welsh village. There was no broadband - in fact, hardly even a phone signal. So I took a pen. A loose-leaf pad. And the printed draft of a novel I wrote at break-neck speed last November. Look - here's the proof:

Writers using illicit substances is such a cliche, isn't it? In my case, it was a cuppa and Sudafed nasal spray. I'm like a latter-day Hunter S. Thompson, aren't I?

So this is what I did. I read my novel and made notes as I went. I noted how long each 'scene' was, as if it was a screenplay. What worked well, what didn't. I saw what was overdone, what could be cut and what was missing. Which characters needed more work and where the plot holes were (and there were some doozies, let me tell you).

After that work, I actually had a plan and a to-do list. It might not seem wildly, romantically creative, but I'm no longer scared of my draft. I came home yesterday with my notes, several new character studies and a completely new beginning to the first chapter. I'm motivated to get cracking with this book.



The funny thing is, it's not even as if it's some great ground-breaking piece of literary greatness. It's just a silly story. It's not intended to change your life. So perhaps I can just stop stressing, yes? Anyway, hopefully you'll have something else to read soon.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Gardener's Tale, part two

The Gardener leant on the handle of his fork and drew a hand across his brow. He liked the fact that he was busy these days. It was a good thing; the results of his labours were clear to see. But he couldn't help thinking that something was missing.

The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him look up. The Gatekeeper was approaching.

"Good morning, Gatekeeper. I hope you like the garden. I'm just planning some bulbs for the spring. Should be a blaze of colour."

The Gatekeeper seemed pre-occupied."Gardener, I need to talk to you," he said, the beginnings of a stern expression forming on his face.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No. Well, not really. The garden is beautiful. It's much better than I could have hoped. How long have you been here?"

"It's difficult to tell, Gatekeeper. But this will be fifth time I've done a winter planting-out, if that helps."

"You've truly put your heart and soul into this. But I can tell that there is something you're missing."

The Gardener looked down at the neatly-mowed lawn. His words came slowly."You're right, Gatekeeper. I love this little patch, and you've been very generous. But sometimes I wish I could share all of this..."

"I think I know what you mean," said the Gatekeeper. He was thinking. Then he raised his head and looked the Gardener in the eyes. He spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I think it's time, you know."

Months later and the garden was a blaze of colour. Each bed was planned to perfection, every pot a riot of colour. The Gatekeeper was unsurprised; this was another triumph for the Gardener. But he could tell that there was something extra at play.

The Gardener's dwelling, now that was a different matter altogether. The Gatekeeper hadn't really noticed this place before, but he found himself drawn to it now. It had been somehow transformed. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but it was a home now, not just a place for living in.

The Gatekeeper was sitting on a long sofa. French windows opened out into the garden, a gentle breeze moving the apple tree branches to and fro. He could hear the trickling of a water-course, while the smell of baking wafted in from the kitchen. It was almost as if the garden and the house complemented each other. He looked around. There was an armchair next to the fireplace, knitting patterns and balls of wool strewn across it. Quite the largest aspidistra he had ever seen nestled in a blue and white pot in the corner, while a herd of small china hedgehogs marched steadily across the mantelpiece.

"Another cup of tea, Gatekeeper?" asked the Gardener's wife from the small kitchen.

"No thank you madam." Secretly he was hoping that another jar of pickled onions was coming his way, but he didn't want to press matters. "Are you settling in well?"

She bustled in through the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel."Oh yes," she said, "I've never been so busy." She motioned to the garden. "He thinks he knows it all, but every now and then he needs a little supervision. Plus his cardigans were were getting a little worn at the elbows. There's always something that needs doing." She chuckled to herself.

"The garden does look lovely."

"Oh, I know. All the colours. Reds, blues, yellows. I never thought I'd be able to see them like this again. It's been wonderful, you know. Just how I rememebred it."

The Gatekeeper leant back and regarded the Gardener's wife. "You know, madam, in my line of work I get to meet lots of people. Scientists, mathematicians, people of logic. If you were to ask them what one plus one comes to, they'd say it was two. But seeing you and the Gardener together, I'm not so sure any more."

Her eyes shone brightly as she replied. "Yes. Sometimes, one and one are worth more than that."

"Just one question, though. Why have you got the number 198 on the front door?"

She grinned. "Ah. I can explain that. You might think you know everything there is to know about paradise, Gatekeeper. But me and Alf, we'd been perfecting this for quite a while."

"That makes sense," said the Gatekeeper. He noticed her looking intently at him. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to figure out if you're a 42-inch waist or a 44-inch. I've got this spare wool, you see, Gatekeeper. I think you'd look quite smashing in a nice cable-knit."

In loving memory of Edith Sawyer, 1917-2012. Enjoy the colours, Nan. Hoping you and Granddad are planning the spring bulbs together once again.

To see the first part of this story, click here.

Don't say it

Well, that was a silly thing for me to do, wasn't it? And I've done some daft things in my time.

There was the time I went on holiday - my first holiday away with SheWhoMustBeObeyed. We were young, we were thinner. Certain things were to anticipated from our first time away together. I don't think I need to draw you a diagram, dear reader. I sat in the sun on day one, casually ignoring the commonly-held belief that Suncream Is A Good Thing. I then spent the next five days yelling, "Don't touch me!"  Which wasn't what either of us wanted to hear. That was daft.

I've done stupid things with illicit substances. I know, you're shocked. But it was only a half-pound of stilton cheese. I was hungry, it was 11pm. That night I slept the sleep of the damned as my arteries furred up. I dreamed I was being stalked by flying monkeys. That, too, was daft.

But none of this daftness (is that even a word?) ranks alongside the sheer rank stupidity of what I did last night. More to the point, what I said. Admittedly, we'd had a busy day. With the help of the in-laws, we'd cleared the garden, managing to fill the second of two skips. (By the way, if you ring the company that supplies these and say: "I'd like to have a skip in my driveway at the weekend," they will reply, "You go ahead, sir.")

I've digressed, sorry. Anyway. We had removed enough bamboo to feed a whoop of pandas. Or a flange, I forget which. We gazed upon the newly-cleared garden, features reappearing like those lost cities of the Amazon, all ziggurats and stepped pyramids. I half expected to find an ancient Japanese soldier in there, still unaware that WW2 was over.

Look, we'd worked hard, ok? And as I wiped the sweat from my brow I said these fateful words to Katie:

"Tomorrow, we're going to have a nice, restful day."

She did not respond. Or at least, if she did, her voice was drowned out by the fridge freezer in our kitchen. It said:

"Daggadadaggadadaggadadaggadadaggadadaggadadaggadadaggada."

 Which, as songs go, is a lousy lyric. Although the rhythm wasn't bad, I'll admit.

"Does it normally make that noise?"

"Yes," I replied. "It's the mating call of a Samsung upright fridge freezer. We're privileged to hear this, you know. David Attenborough would give his eye teeth for this."

I received a look.

"Look," I said. "It's a pain in the neck but it still seems to be working. Let me have a look at it in the morning." I then spent an hour or so looking on the internet about rattly refrigeration devices. Because this is what we do these days instead of calling a professional engineer who might actually have the faintest clue.

This morning, I had intended to be one where I moved slowly around the house in loose-fitting garments, drinking expensive coffee and reading classic novellas. Like those blokes in the furniture ads do. So it was with no small disappointment that I found myself instead on my hands and knees, waving a screwdriver meaningfully at some precision Korean domestic engineering.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" asked Katie nervously.

"No, but some very clever people on the Internet seemed to know what the problem was. This panel only has four screws on it. The rattling seems to be coming from behind it. And there are only four screws." I felt that point needed repeating.

Unfortunately the four screws were not the only gatekeepers to the noise-maker behind. The panel wouldn't shift and, for once, I decided not to employ the brute-force-and-ignorance-approach. This was clearly a job for someone whose toolkit consisted of more than one screwdriver, a mallet and tube of NoMoreNails. I sheepishly replaced the screws and went to switch the fridge freezer back on.

It hummed back into life, giving us a few seconds of daggadagga. Then it stopped and switched itself off. No refrigeration, no freezing. Which, to be honest, is pretty much all you ask for from a fridge freezer. Arcane symbols appeared on the front panel. Katie's eyebrow raised. I instantly considered emigration, but realised I wouldn't get to my passport in the bedside table in time.

"Well, look on the bright side," I said. "At least the noise has stopped."

So that's how I spent the remainder of my planned sybaritic Sunday - calling various refrigeration engineers. The general consensus appeared to be that some sensors had iced up and my switching it off had sent the unit's little electronic brain into default safe mode.

Apparently this happens to space probes all the time. Which is nice, but Voyager 2 doesn't have to look after half a dozen Muller Fruit Corners, does it?

Unfortunately, I soon found out that 'rapid callout' and '24/7 service' actually means, "we might be able to squeeze you in next Thursday. If the planets are in alignment. And our pet rabbit has had its litter. And we can be arsed." Which is quaint and old-fashioned and lovely but won't preserve my cauliflower cheese. Which is why I then trolled over to the afore-mentioned in-laws, black bag in hand, with my perishables.

The in-laws have one of these American-style fridge freezers and it is a joy to behold. I guess they're called 'American-style' because you could accomodate one of the smaller states in one of them, no problems. In fact, I swear I saw Rhode Island in there, behind the radishes.

They're good people, my in-laws. Nevertheless, I reckon we'll never see that unopened Carte d'Or icecream again.

Then to our friends Karen and Chris to borrow their mini-fridge. This is one of those items that is normally used for drinks, which explains why it  has the logo of the English Football Team on its front and sides; inebriation being the only fit state for watching our national game.

I brought it back, huffing and puffing because it was big and awkwardly-shaped and it looked to the neighbours as if we were having a drinks party but we weren't and I had to drink half a litre of milk so we could prop the carton up at an angle without it spilling and I'm not sure that did my cholesterol any good come to think of it and I hadn't even opened any novellas up yet.

So. How was your day?

Faster, higher, stronger

Well, this is rather unusual.

I fully expected to be cynical about the actual running, jumping, pedalling and throwing bit of the Olympics. I didn't think I'd be spending much time actually watching the sporting part of the whole shebang.

I liked the opening ceremony. I think I've made my position clear in that respect. But I really thought that once Danny Boyle's influence was out of the way, it would be a succession of vaguely sweaty people doing unnatural things in front of cameras.

Yes, I realise how that sounds and you should be ashamed of yourself. Behave.

I am not a sporting person. As befitting someone with my unique shape, I don't take part. But I'm not normally to be found watching it on the idiot lantern either. That's always been the case for me. I know very little about sport. When the topic comes up in a pub quiz I always groan inwardly and hope the next round will be pop music. Or types of cheese. Or the Reform Act. Or just about anything.

So why have I spent much of the last ten days with the BBC's coverage of the Games on almost constant rotation? How is it that I now know more about cycling events - the strategy and equipment - than is strictly healthy? That can't be right. Up until last weekend I cold barely tell one end of a bike from another. Now I'm some sort of expert. It's all Keirins and Omniums (Omnia?) now. You'll never get me on one of those things - partly because I don't think there's that much lycra in the Western world - but still.

It's not just the cycling. As I watched Mo Farah setting off on his 10,000 metre run last Saturday I was to be heard talking about pace and stride technique like a calorifically-enhanced Brendan Foster. And I'm not alone. We're all commentators these days.

We watched the skeet shooting last week. I didn't know what a skeet was, nor why you'd want to shoot it. But I was rapt in amazement. A group of colleagues discussed the equestrian dressage event the other day as if it was a natural thing for normal folk to be talking about. I mean, that's basically reverse-parking a horse, isn't it? But a five-minute conversation ensued.

Most nights I've had the TV on in the background and let these extraordinary people into my living room. It's almost, but not quite, inspiring me to take up some form of regular exercise. I know. I'm as surprised as you are.

In common with most other Britons, the only way I was ever going to win a medal would be if they introduced Cynicism as an Olympic discipline. We all thought the sporting bit of the Games was going to be a little underwhelming, to be honest. That is the British way, after all. But I think our natural scepticism has dissipated, at least for the time being.

Our uncharacteristic sporting success may be a factor. Serial plucky underachievement is our default setting - all this high-performance is very odd. Or perhaps we're all thinking: "Sod it, the money's been spent, we might as well enjoy it."

I don't know what's causing it. But I suspect normal service will resume at some point. Let's get ready to be maudlin and disaffected once more.

Isle of plenty

It's sometimes a little tricky being British. Not in a life-threatening way. On the grand scale of things, we don't have too many problems to deal with; we're not being visited by tornadoes on a weekly basis and plagues of locusts seem to be rare. But we're difficult to label, hard to describe.

Oh, we've all seen the stereotypes - diffident, slow to show emotion, a little stand-offish. We all drink tea, and when we're not doing that we gulp down warm beer out of very large glasses. Actually, there's a grain of truth in that last one, but my point stands. Britain, and the whole concept of being British, is a hard concept to pin down.

That's why I was anticipating last night's Olympic opening ceremony with a touch of concern. After all, events like this are supposed to show the country and its people at their best. But what angle to take?

Britain has a lot of history. This is a truth universally known - after a year of studying British history at school we were still looking at Roman roads with another 2,000-odd years of castles, battles, errant clergymen and stovepipe hats ahead of us. The opening ceremony could have tried to cover this vast swathe of events, but with only a couple of hours to fit it in, it would have needed fast-forwarding. The Reformation of the Churches and Henry VIII on roller skates? I don't think so.

What creative director Danny Boyle, of Trainspotting and Slumdog Millionaire fame, did instead was to look not at Britain as a rather rainy island in the North Atlantic, but as a collection of people. People who came together and ended up giving something back to the world.

We saw a picture of the country in its rural idyll, rapidly transformed by the pandemonium of the Industrial Revolution. Individual people - those who had the spark of an idea - working together to improve their lot. Of course it was broad brush stuff. There was no Marx and Engels discussing the avarice of Victorian factory owners to counterbalance Branagh's Shakespeare-quoting Brunel. But the social aspect wasn't missed.

At the first Olympics where every country finally had female athletes in attendance, there was a nod to the Suffragette movement. The appearance of the Empire Windrush marked the major incoming of West Indian immigrants in 1948, just one aspect of the constant influx we've seen since the Romans. Our greatest post-war achievement, the introduction of universal healthcare for all, got an affectionate nod. And then the rapid growth in digital communication - transforming our lives in ways far beyond Brunel's imagination - with the eventual unveiling of Tim Berners-Lee, inventor of the World Wide Web. He waived all commercial rights to the Web and let everyone dig in, free of charge. That blows my mind.

God, that all sounds horribly worthy doesn't it? A rich tapestry, but not one you'd hang on your wall.

Luckily, Boyle remembered the one thing that binds us Brits. We like to take the piss. We can laugh, most often at ourselves. So we saw the Queen - the actual flipping Queen! - take part in a sketch with Daniel Craig, plummeting out of a helicopter with a Union Jack parachute. Mr Bean gatecrashed the famous Chariots of Fire beach scene. Gregory's Girl rubbed shoulders with Michael Fish.

And running through all of this was the music. Sometimes irreverent, anarchic, angular, sometimes throwaway, always there to move you. Elgar's Nimrod at the beginning brought a lump to my throat. Pink Floyd's Eclipse at the end, after the most fantastic Olympic cauldron lighting, had me pretty much blubbing.

Although being British, I tried to hold it in. I think I said "Well, that's quite lovely."

Last night proved to me that you can be proud of your country without the macho, chest-thumping nonsense that sometimes comes as part of the bargain. I don't think I'm the only one, either. We're a world-weary lot, normally, but the conversations I've seen since last night - online and in the real world - suggests that many of us have suspended our cynicism for the time being. A non-cynical British person? That just doesn't happen. It's a modern-day miracle.  

In short, Danny Boyle didn't just get Britain. He got us. It was a love letter back to the country. It might be baffling to outsiders. It might not translate into foreign languages. That's perhaps the British way.

Here's the thing, though. I said at the start of this, we're not easy to pigeon-hole, us Britons. We come from hundreds of different places, originally. We're a mongrel nation. We certainly don't all look alike. And we're not perfect. You might not always like us, although we're hard to ignore. We like to grumble. It's a little difficult living here sometimes. Things don't always work. Historically, our country hasn't always got everything right.

But from now on, if someone asks me about what it's like to be in Britain in the 21st century, I can simply show them last night's ceremony. After all, it's not about castles and kings these days. It's about people. It's about ideas. It's about dreams.

Hints and tips for Olympic visitors

Apparently there's a whole list of words I'm not allowed to use when discussing the London 2012 Olympics, in case I annoy the sponsors. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I can even mention the words 'London', '2012' or 'Olympics'. Which might make this post a little tricky.

After all, I want to give helpful advice for those planning on visiting our capital city to watch the Games. Let's just hope I don't upset those purveyors of fizzy brown sugar-water and McRandom animal protein burgers encased in bread whose logos seem to be all over the bloody place.

So you're coming to London? Some things you should know:

1. Despite being a highly-urbanised world city, London has its fair share of wildlife. For instance, locals may tell you about the gangs of badgers that roam the streets after night. Don't be fooled by the creature's reputation for docility. The London Urban Badger is known for its short temper. They go for mobile phones in particular, which is puzzling as everyone knows that badgers have no love for cellular communications, preferring instead to convey information through the medium of modern interpretative dance. Just keep your phones safe and look out for furry little jazz-hands.
2. Before the badgers moved in, foxes were highly-regarded by many Londoners due to their natural homing instincts. In the 1920's a network of uniformed City Guides operated in the city, using foxes to offer navigation tips to passers-by. This died out in 1956, but even now you can mark yourself out as being 'in the know' when asking a local for direction. Once he's finished, stare straight in his eyes and intone, "Wear the fox hat!" as loudly as possible.
3. Jellied eels have not been eaten seriously by Londoners since the days of Hogarth.  It's one of those dishes that are rolled out to fool tourists. Every city has one. See Deep Fried Mars Bar, Chicken Phall, Ulster Fry, etc.
4. On the subject of food, do try the most typical of London dishes, the doner kebab. Containing a delicate mix of spices, sauces and something that once might have been meat, all wrapped up in a pitta bread, this represents the high point of fine dining. Make sure you order plenty of salad, but do not eat it. You're supposed to leave this part on the pavement as an offering to the Badger God.
5. Do not make eye contact with people on the Tube. A Canadian tourist did it once on the Circle Line in 1978, by all accounts. Henry Kissinger got involved, there were questions in Parliament, but in the end it was hushed up and Londoners don't like to talk about it these days. 
6. The British sense of humour tends to be a little robust to some visitors. We are fond of gentle banter, or as we call it, 'taking the piss'. British people like to take the piss out of ourselves, the weather, situations, politics, culture and people from other places. If you can take the piss out of us, we'll probably join in. We take the piss out of people who can't take the piss out of themselves. We're helpful like that. 
7. If a local says to you, "You're taking the piss!" that might not be a good thing. I didn't say this was easy.
8. It's a little-known fact that London was invaded by giant but invisible aliens in 1860. Estimates place them at being somewhere around 100 feet tall, but to prevent public panic (or, given this was Victorian England, an outbreak of tutting), their existence was only made clear to the government, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. The aliens worshipped Albert as their god, leaving offerings around the city in the form of ten foot tall red monoliths. The locals hollowed these out, put in windows and converted them into telephone boxes. We don't know what happened to the aliens. Come to that, we don't know what's happened to the telephone boxes, either.   
9. Those people who mime at Covent Garden? No, beats the hell out of us, too.
10. Take some additional time to look around and you'll see that not all of the UK is the same as London. It's tempting to think that with such a dominant capital city the rest of the country suffers by comparison. Nothing could be farther from the truth. For instance, I understand Northumberland now gets mains electricity two days per week and those of us in Birmingham are certainly looking forward to receiving our supply of rudimentary hand-tools next month. Who says there's been no trickle-down from the Olympics?