Saturday, January 31, 2009


OH. MY. GOD. I know I'm being stupidly over dramatic, but why is it so frigging hard to choose a mascara?

'Pah', some of you might say. 'What exactly are your difficulties'?, the other, more concerned and sympathetic are thinking. Well, after this afternoon's events, I've pinned them down to the following:

I feel an intense pressure to make a clever purchasing decision because of my inadequately stumpy half Asian eyelashes

I am indecisive while shopping when hungry

I was shopping in Boots* and under it's evil spell

Seriously, as someone who actually writes this crap for a living, you'd think that I'd be immune to any volume boosting claims. Sadly no. When I'm faced with 6 brands, all having about 4 different varieties of volume and lash intensiveness, I freak out. I examine their claims, I look at brush width and material and lastly, I look at the pictures. I ended up picking about three and then changing my mind. Do I want to intensify my lashes by 200%, hell yes! Do I want curl motion technology? Damn skippy I do. I ended up picking one and congratulating myself on my reasonably quick decision and then went on to pick up a foot scraper I didn't know I needed. See? Evil Boots. On my way to the check out I walked past a near empty mascara display. 'God, those must be popular' I thought. 'I don't remember seeing this magical Max Factor variety that gives you false-like lashes'. My mind skipped back to the last time I wore fake eyelashes, when each blink was a fan forced woosh over my face. Bliss for the stumpy lashed girl.

So I quickly shoved the other one under the shelf and went for the chosen one.

I'm so gullible.

*Boots is a pharmacy here that exerts some kind of power on weak people who go in there to buy one thing and come out with three new nail polish colours and a lip gloss they didn't know they needed.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

27 things

1. Bake some biscuits
2. Visit Turkey
3. Own something expensive
4. Go on a holiday with Luke
5. Read a classic
6. Make a really good curry
7. Go to the ballet
8. See another play
9. See Shakespeare at the Globe
10. Write some letters to people
11. Go to the underground rebel bingo night
12. Go to Chagford
13. Visit the Lake District
14. Visit the Cotswolds
15. Eat in one of the best restaurants in London
16. Do one of the country walks in my London book
17. Do another bedroom art project
18. Try and see a deer at Richmond park
19. Have a summer picnic
20. Find out how hard it is to apply for a visa for the US
21. Be a good bridesmaid
22. Go to Essex
23. Go to a quiz night
24. Try to (ha!) get better at drawing
25. Enrol in a writing class
26. Try to get an article published in Frankie
27. Do the Jack the Ripper tour (random last one, I know)

Have you guys done yours?

Monday, January 26, 2009

So far..

This year is weird. I'm finding it hard to start the year and I can't work out why. I don't exactly know what I'm waiting for. Some may say it's because I went home and I'm feeling unsettled. But I'm not. Really, I'm not. Life is great at the moment.


Last year I said to myself I was going to make the most of everything, and I did. It was the year of weekends away. But I don't want to have the same year as last year. The whole point to life is constantly evolving who you are and what you do. So I've stolen an idea from another blog and I'm making a list of 27 things to do before I turn 28. And do you know what, I'm stupidly excited and perhaps a little in love and with my list already. In fact, I've done one already - make biscuits! I just have another 5 to think of and then maybe I'll post them up. Errr, maybe not. Then I'll actually have to do all of them. Maybe I should stop telling people about this idea....

Monday, January 19, 2009

Feeling chicken

As I walked past Chicken Flavas yesterday, in the midst of having happy and pleasing thoughts about having ‘saved’ this month by spending money from my Australian bank account, the realisation: fuck, I’m turning 28 this year, hit me like an oversized bucket-o-fun.

Yes, I realise 28 logically and historically comes after 27, but honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me. I then called Vic to tell her of this crazy news. She proceeded with the expected ‘no shit did you just realise this?’ followed by a pep talk that age is just a number, I’m in a great time in my life, blah blah and to perhaps freak out next year. Now, I know all this stuff and I’m pretty sure it’s just a momentary lapse in my usual, who gives a shit about age, but still, 28? How did this happen?

I think going back to Australia kind of highlighted my self suspecting stunted growth in areas that most of my friends seem to be thriving in. Do I own a house? No. Am I thinking of owning a house? No. Do I know anything about watering systems? No. Do I think about the future? No. Do I think about diamonds? No. What makes it even more stunted in a kind of primordial dwarf way is that I packed up, threw out and gave away all of my belongings on my last day in Adelaide. These 'things' were the only tie to grownup living I had. Man, I had white goods. Had. Now, I actually own nothing of worth. I’m 18 again. Actually, I owned my bed and a car by then, so make that 17 but with short hair, fatter and without the hideous tendency to go out in public wearing tops saying ‘Boy Toy’.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

I hope to wear a corset and a leather G

When I'm 65. Just like Grace Jones. Oh and wear cool hats. But I might have a cane to hit young folk with while looking non botox hot of course.

So I have had one of the best holidays ever. Definitely top five material. I'm feeling a little businesswomany having just played Monopoly, so I'm going to do a officy analogy. My time back at home has been one of reconnecting with my family and friends. In bussiness terms this would be known as someone who is a networking slut. So if reconnecting is like networking, and networking means free food, I've basically been going at the canapes and champagne over the past 19 days like a office bitch set free in a room of free stationary.

Have I lost you all?

Kind of? It's fine, just hold on. Or get something to eat to get you through the rest. So my holiday home has been pretty much that. It's pretty cool to be on holiday in a place that's your home. And having been away, you see everything in a new light. Adelaide for instance, has massive roads, a scary abundance of 70's style buildings and the most beautiful parklands, sunsets and stretches of beach. Adelaide also has some of my best and oldest friends and of course mum, who hopefully will not disown me for not crying at the airport. I can't help my inability to cry at proper emotional events. Perhaps someone should have shown me an Olympic event before boarding the plane. I've also had a awesome time in Sydney. I feel better knowing my nieces and nephews remember Nessie and of course, now, after last night, I have something to aspire to when I'm 65.

So when I leave on Tuesday morning, back to London, it's going to be done quietly. With no fuss and hopefully no excess luggage payment. I'm looking forward to going home but that's only because I've had such a great time in my old one.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

Dropping my tuna

Sometimes things take a while to settle in your mind before a moment or experience can be truly recognised as something beautiful or significant. Often, some of your best times, memories and experiences come to be exactly that; your best, after a little time and reflection. It's like going to a movie, reading a book or even listening to a song: when you're still thinking about it hours later, you know it moved you in some way.

My time in Adelaide and at Falls has been exactly that. Ok, so Falls was a washout. It was probably karma coming to bite me in the arse after incessant bragging about attending a festival in the glorious Australian summer. Summer my arse. Wearing 5 layers for 4 days straight, donning a lumberjack hat day and night* and having to sit in a car to keep warm probably serves me right, but pissing down with rain everyday too? Seriously? That's just cruel. But it was fun. Because of it, Vic may never go camping again and mum may never want to wear her socks, but still, on reflection, I had serious bouts of knee slapping, almost vomiting laughter, and really, you can't ask for more than that.

Skinner, Vic and I were talking about reconnecting with home and all of the things with which bind you to a place. Sure, familiarity of surroundings is great, and history plays a huge part too. But when it comes down to it, it's the people who make it home. For months I've been confused about whether the UK or Australia is home, and you know what? It doesn't really matter. If I had all of my friends and family in one place in the middle of nowhere to tease me about hoisin sauce, getting stomach aches come washing up time or calling me Dr Arnold Dowanger, it would feel like home.

So this is the start of another year. It's coming up to three years since I first set off from Adelaide. I could never have predicted any of this, nor would I want to. I love life's measures and looking back with intense fondness about the years gone by. This year I have no resolutions other than the one I made with myself when I put my life in a backpack and that was to live and be happy**.

*Teresa,your hat and wellies were the equivalent of the BBQ City staff hand feeding me shallot cakes followed by malteasers, mangoes and your pizza. Oh and biscotti too.

**I'm sounding like a hippy and/or high because I've been doing large interpretive festival dancing for 4 days and I have burnt, fat hands that don't want to rewrite stuff that's immediately come out of my head despite sounding incredibly wanky.