Doha International

As I type this, I'm sitting in one of the waiting areas at Doha International Airport, en route for Kathmandu, Nepal. The connection is dial-up slow, but there's just enough bandwidth to post this without biting my toenails in frustration. Plus it's free! None of that BT-wifi-Cloudzone payment in blood extortionism of Heathrow... The duty free (pictured) is quite the thing, not on the scale of Dubai, of which much is always said in praise. But I've just spotted my Christmas treat for myself - a Nokia phone I had my eye on is being sold for about $400 here, yet I was planning on forking out 300 of Her Majesty's finest gold coins (I know it's an alloy, but Her Majesty's finest copper, zinc, and nickel alloy coins isn't as romantic, does it?) Plus there are few other treats. Fiddy's first unreleased album was called, "Power of the dollar", it's time for a reissue, methinks.

At Heathrow, I felt a pang of anger towards Richard Reid, he of shoe bomber fame. Because of him we all have to strip in public, or at least take our shoes off, grrrr. And I wasn't wearing my finest "made in Israel" Marksy and Sparksy sock, but some ordinary, frayed pieces of cloth and elastic masquerading as socks. My foot fashion credibility has been pegged down a notch or two.

I should be landing in the Himalayan kingdom at about midday local time. For the first time in my travels, I'm do not know what to expect. I can only think Gurkhas, Sherpas, and Prachanda. But the world is immense, and if there's anything I know, it's that I know nothing. The plan is to know less of nothing. Go on, hound me for not making sense. If you dare.