As I may or may not have mentioned (I'm too lazy to check), Souf-Eas' London is perhaps the least scrupulous part of the city. And my home borough of Lewisham, which lies within Souf-Eas' London, is less scrupulous still. I can only conclude that the reason the Lewisham Metropolitan Police website has not been updated since August - the most recent entry details an explosion - is because they are so busy that their net geeks have been deployed onto the streets to fight crime.

Fortunately - and I'm partly telling the truth and partly being a pretentious git - my street appears to be an anomaly. The mildly ostentatiously-named Cressingham Road lies innocently just off the Lewisham High Street. Lined with quaint Victorian-era houses, rather than 60s-era council flats, Cressingham Road is home to families, both young and old, each taking part in a geographical game of Russian Roulette by living in this neck of the woods. Okay, so I exaggerate for dramatic effect. But still, I thought our sanctuary was safe.

I was getting ready for bed on Saturday night at around 2:00am (why was I up that late? None of your business, and quit interrupting my story!) when I spotted three suspicious-looking chaps looking, as you would expect, suspicious. They were standing on the opposite side of the street wearing thick jackets, dark beanies and other miscellaneous accessories that personify criminal activity. À la Hitchcock's Rear Window, I switched off my lamp, mentally ignoring the fact that the intensity of the street light outside made me clearly visible anyway, and settled in to watch what I assumed - and guiltily hoped - were some kind of nefarious goings-on.

"What could it be?" I pondered, intently spying on three people essentially doing nothing at all (albeit at two in the morning outside my house). "It could be some kind of drug deal... Those big jackets could easily contain several kilograms of Colombian pure," I thought to myself in my best Don Johnson voice.

"Perhaps it's an arms deal," I mused, rather exotically. "I'm sure they usually happen on the borders of ex-Soviet countries, but Lewisham may well be as dangerous. But not Cressingham Road, surely! Perhaps they're lost? Should I offer them directions?" I glanced over at my pocket London street directory, which is roughly the size of Michael Crichton's new novel. "No, in the time it takes me to locate a pen and paper with which to transcribe my instructions, I may have missed whatever is transpiring."

I shifted my eyes back down toward the three chaps, who hadn't moved. I could only surmise they were deciding which volcano to hollow out as part of their grand scheme of world domination.

"Maybe I should call the police," I wondered. "I'm sure they could provide these gentlemen with sufficient advice to ensure they reach their desired destination."

As if by psychic command, a police wagon arrived on the scene. I settled back into my chair, wishing I had been cooking popcorn, rather than trying to find my own street within the hundreds of pages of street maps in my directory.

A police officer got out of the van and looked toward the men, one of whom lowered his beanie over his eyes, presumably in an effort to remove his identity entirely. Only, instead of approaching these brutes and having some sort of Mexican standoff, the officer moved to the back of the van and opened the doors.

Then, in a twist of unprecedented beauty, two of the men grabbed the third and hurled him into the back of the vehicle. The doors were slammed shut and the police officer jumped back in the front seat and drove off. The two remaining men hopped into a nearby hatchback and followed.

"A sting! Right in my street!" I thought excitedly. "It's like C.S.I.: Souf-Eas' London!"

My street's not the crime-free haven I once thought it was, but if two out of every three suspicious-looking people in Cressingham Road are police officers, I like those odds!

Token message to prove my existence continues, despite a recent bout of horrid feverish conditions, which I put down to the suddenly very cold, very bleak, very windy, and, well, very British weather. That and, potentially, some odd Moroccan food I ate at the office Christmas party on Friday.

Still, like the trooper I am, I'm back at work and back in action. Sort of. My brain still feels like it's trying to burst its way out of the front of my skull, despite the certainly-illegal amount of ibuprofen and paracetamol I've consumed. Feels like it's a million degrees in here as well, even though everyone around me is wearing no fewer than 17 layers of clothes. I think I saw the postman come in wearing one of those furry Russian hats. Could just be the ibuprofen, though.

Anyway, what can I say about this past month? Ummm, been following the Ashes, anyone? Of course you have! Everyone here will deny the sporting event is even occuring, but the BBC's commentary beautifully chronicles the nation's rapid descent into
misery (examples: "This has been completely and utterly limp by England, they're playing with all the intensity of my drunk aunt playing Cluedo at Christmas" and "If you started getting too down, just think to yourself, 'at least we didn't produce Stefan Dennis'. That always gives me a little lift."). God bless the British wit for turning even the most mundane of sports into a Python-esque farce.

Been out to a number of surprisingly odd bars and clubs. A few weeks ago, the work crew decided to mosey on down to The Jolly Gardeners, which is not far from work, for a spot of karaoke (if you must ask, Hound Dog... amongst others). The next week, we somehow wound up at the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club for a spot of cabaret. Brassy big band music, '30s-era costumes, the whole shebang! And of course the Morrocan restaurant, complete with belly dancing. There's so much more to London nightlife than improbably-named pubs!

Unsure of my Christmas plans, at present. There's a chance I'll be spending it in Germany, which would be lovely. I know that frozen water will in no way compensate for 21 years' of love and care from my family, but I'm a big kid and the prospect of a white Christmas excites me to no end! Still, I have my reservations, such as the fact that everyone will be speaking a language I'm utterly unfamiliar with (my knowledge of the German language extends to the numbers 1 through 12 (excluding 11) and how to say "out of the way", which is surprisingly handy, but could be considered unfriendly when what I really want to say is "Merry Christmas").

Suppose the big question everyone's been asked me of late is, "What's the weather like over there?". Well, I've already (begrudgingly) answered that, but you all seem to also be asking me about any potential plans to come home; presumably so that, in the event I imply I won't return for some time, you can pillage all my personal belongings. In any case, I'll provide you with a conveniently vague answer: I'm not too sure! Right now, I'm missing Tim Tams, Kurrawa Surf Life Saving Club, Powderfinger, Pacific Fair (for some reason), some of the cast of Neighbours and sunlight in general. Yet I do so love it here; the other day my flatmate practically begged me to stay (I assume she likes the brand of dishwashing detergent I buy, or something). So yes, I'll keep you on tenterhooks for the moment... hands off my stuff!