2002-07-20 - 2:18 p.m.

I'm still in sunny and funny Montreal, but any more comedy and I'm going to vomit up my own pancreas, I think. Lesson of the day: Never attend a Howie Mandel "Gala" show.

(flashback)

Heathrow terminal three is apparently made up of all the worst bits of the other terminals that were hastily removed for a royal visit or something years ago and then never moved back. Among the tat-hawking emporia, you half expect to stumble across a kebab stand, or a children's petting zoo. It wouldn't be surprising if the Bureaux de Change were staffed by swarthy, stubbly, corpulent men in old leather jackets who just pulled out sweaty wads of notes from their pockets when you changed money. Food is near impossible to get. The woman at the baguette shop was either dead set on being as unhelpful as humanly possible, or had some strange congenital cognitive disorder involving the inability to recognise sandwich fillings, my order for an egg and tomato bagutte (out of their choice of THREE varietes) completely throwing her for several minutes.

(tbc...coming up, the Garofalo saga)