For everyone

I've just had a really great day and now I am feeling all reflective and sharey. Gather around family, friends and randoms, I wish to tell a story. Ok, so it's not a story as such, more like a recount of my day mixed with not so original reflections, but I'm feeling poetic and homely. Kind of like a middle aged librarian named Jan who has stringy peppered hair and wears tartan knee length skirts and cabled knit jumpers. She probably has a cat too. Ugh. Cats. Shit, let me start story time again without any Jan or cat references.

Ok. So sometimes I feel selfish for coming to live in London. My guilt is then somewhat garnished with some kind of limp parsley when I can't answer when I'm coming back. And you know what, it is selfish. Leaving family and friends who love you is kind of hurtful to those who are left behind even if they understand why. Missing half of your nieces and nephews grow up, babies being born, weddings and coffees with your mum and best friends at times makes my insides feel heavy. But selfishly, the more time I spend over here, the more I find what I was looking for. And the greatest thing is, I wasn't searching for anything in the first place. Now, I realise how badly I needed leave. Not that anything was bad. I was happy, but my life was just a bit beige. And to put it simply, now, it's not. So how do you reconcile your life versus everyone else's?

Well you can't.

But I don't think London is forever, in fact, it's most definitely not. But it's now. So very now and it's real and most of the time, wonderful. It's not some working holiday with minimum wage bar work and visits to the Walkabout. London is breakfast in Shoreditch - spooning elderflower jam onto toasted sourdough. It's five tea rounds a day. It's a place with the most beautiful parks that stunningly showcase the coming of a new season. It's somewhere where you walk past Orson Wells' house while on your way to eating miniature tacos.

It's just freakin' cool.

Shhh

Now, I realise that when I am old I am going to one of those people who hit the young folk with my walking stick, stroke the stray yet abnormally long hairs sprouting from my chin and run over anyone in my way with my electro nanna-mobile, so I know that with my current ‘delicate’ levels of tolerance, I’m going to be the granny from hell.

So with this said, I’m going to launch into another ‘social observation’.

Talkers. I hate them. I can’t stand people who talk through movies, concerts, presentations (ok, maybe I don’t mean this one but I needed a third example). I have a larger than life hatred for useless commentary and those who deliver them. In fact, I’m going to do some recent scenarios.

Scenario one: West End production, Stomp to be exact. Men clanging around, banging sticks on bin lids. We don’t need a lot of imagination on this one except the lead guy is stupidly hot (not necessarily relevant but still an important detail for the complete picture).

Talker 1 let’s call her Pamelaah: Someone’s just come on stage. What’s he got in his hand? Oh, it’s a bin lid. Is it a bin lid? Why is he holding a bin lid? What’s he going to do with the bin lid? Oh, he’s banging on the bin lid with that baton. Is that a baton? Wow, he’s doing it really quickly. Do you think it’s quick?

Sadly, all the glaring and turning around in the world did not shut this woman up.

Scenario two: Jose Gonzalez gig. Lorenzo, 22, Italian (we had 2 hours to get to know him). With group of friends: annoying Australian girls x 2, English girl, as annoying, x1. Jose is playing his acoustic set, crowd is predominately silent. Jose is looking hot, but not as hot as Stomp dude.

Lorenzo: I don’t understand why no one is talking. Why is no one talking? Why is everyone quiet? I don’t understand. Why not talk? I don’t know this song. Play ‘New Shoes’ (not even one of his songs). He continues to yell out ‘New Shoes’ for the rest of the set.

Sadly, Lorenzo will never realise he is a dick.

Why are people so dumb? Part 50.

Or are they just pretending?

I know I've bitched about this before, but I don't think I can keep on pretending that they're pretending. Sure it's denial, but I can’t possibly bear the fact that the ratio of dumb arses to normal, cynical, people is even a bee’s dick higher. I’d think to think the smart people out there are just hiding, perhaps chilling in their la-z-boy recliners debating the horrid example of this bastardisation of the English language but accepting that these chairs are in fact, a gift from the cushioning gods. But maybe it ain't so.

The latest example of dumbness was last night. Vic and I went to see Rainman the play. Like many a mediocre actor before him, Josh Harnett obviously decided that a bit of theatre would help in his quest to be more than just the Hollywood heart throb. Ha. Josh, if you were playing the autistic savant then maybe you’d get props, but you couldn’t even deliver your lines of 'the hot brother' properly. Yes, even us modest thespians (me Drabula’s (yes Drabula not Dracula) wife circa 1991 and Vic numerous roles in the Hills theatrical group circa 1990’s) picked up on this. But I digress. The dumb people were the females in the audience (aged 25 and over) who ‘wooooooooooooooooooed’ when Joshy walked on stage. I thought that would be it, but no, again there were actually giggling fits when he took his top off in another scene. Girls, how will we ever be portrayed as anything but Sex and the City watchers who buy razors and phones with Daisies on them if you people continue to act like this? Please, just stop. STOP.

In other news I still haven’t sent my postcards from New York. I plan to action this by the end of October.

I’m off to the Loire Valley this weekend. I can’t begin to tell you how much cheese I plan to eat.

A better me

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’m going to be an all round better person. I’m going to be someone who is financially responsible, who does more baking and someone who sends postcards immediately after holidays*. I’m pretty sure there are other things I should add to the list. Oh, yes, be a better writer. I am going to learn grammar. I will use tenses properly, write with more emotion in my work and know where my apostrophes go. I may also start read my work properly before it is read by ‘important’ people i.e my work group head. I am going to exercise my mind. Be more informed. Be caring. Thoughtful. More aware. Learn politics. World economic policies (maybe). Yes, these are the things I’m going to do.

This is exciting. I’ve already started. I met with a financial adviser today. I even listened to most of it. I took notes too. I just realised I forgot that I decided to action my list immediately, good start Vanessa, but at least I’ve remembered to do it now.

In fact, I’m going to put you all on cyber hold while I perform my first maturely actioned task.

Done. I feel better and more responsible already.

I’ve also decided that I am going to make some more friends. With the forthcoming departure of many of my closest London friends I will soon find myself significantly ‘friendless’. So how does one go about making new friends? My sister suggested I join the choir. Maybe the fact I’m not 50, don’t like quilting and can’t sing is a good enough reason for a big, fat, no freakin’ way. Kudos to her for originality though. As if by sent down from Google God, there was a pop up banner on one of my search sites advertising a meet people club. So I clicked. Then it confirmed what I suspected. They are all losers. I’m sure they love playing darts and putting tunes on the jukebox. There has to be another way. So I thought about taking up a sport. Except, well, let’s just say despite the fact my Dad loves to brag about the golden years of his shot put and javelin talents, none of us picked up the sporty gene. That and the fact I suspect he is lying.

So my friend avenues have been severely dwindled. I want my new friend circle to be like Brangelina’s brood. I want friends from all over the world. I want to talk about my friend Djwali from Africa and Anja from Sweden**. Even Karen from London would do.

*I will actually get around to sending my postcards from New York. Yes, I realised it was in June. No, I will not consider sending postcards from the actual holiday destination – let’s be realistic here.

**Current friends, no offense, I really like you, but I have to do a top up.

'I'm not a racist, but'....

Ah my favourite words. Perhaps I take my role as defender for all minorities (or perhaps in my case, the next superpower minority) too seriously, but I take offense to anything followed by 'racist but'. It evokes massive feelings of rage and while I internally debate whether the imbecile who spoke the forbidden words is worth my wrath, numerous things cross my mind. Should I give them a Chinese burn? No, I have weak, weak arms. Should I smack them in the head? It would be funny, but I'm pretty sure I was raised not to hit people.

So the afore mentioned phrase is, in my experience, always said from the mouths of, I hate to say it, Australians. I hate that I am bagging my peeps again, but do people seriously think if they say that they're not racist, it will justify what's to follow from their mouth? My latest gripe was a comment about Asians. It's usually about 'us' anyway. God there is so many of us that you can pretty much shove 'em all under one, cheaply made umbrella. Sure, we're all the same. We usually do the same dumb things, are all good at maths and just want to study all the time while playing the violin and eating with those damn hard to use chopsticks. Now seriously, come on. Are Europeans all the same? I especially like the fact that people chose to bitch to me, out of everyone, because most people don't realise the girl with half slanty eyes and a fatter nose than most is HALF CHOPSTICK. Duh.

So back to the story. This dude I was sitting next to at dinner the other night started talking about 'the Asians'[insert horror music here]. I'm going to reenact the discussion conversational form so you get the full picture:

Him: 'You know Asians?'

Slanty girl: 'What all of them?'

Him: 'Nah, you know Chinese and Japanese'.

Slanty girl: 'Yeah what about them?'

Him: 'Did you ever notice that they all wear bike helmets backwards?'

Slanty girl: 'Um, no, I haven't'.

Him: 'They all do, can't they get it right?'

Seriously, what do you do with someone like this?

It's official

London and I are back together. After a few testing months, we are now back on track and stronger than ever. For some reason it happened when I was coming back from Spain. It’s a little absurd because I was returning to grey, cold, ugly weather after being in sunshine for 9 whole days. But Vanessa (I'm referring to my friend not my split personality) and I sat on the plane, making a list of all the things we wanted to do when we got back. And then I fell back in love again. It was almost beautiful.

The past weekend Megs and I went to Bestival, my first proper English festival. Boy, was it everything an English festival should be. Mud, rain, wind, camping and an incoherent Amy Winehouse. It was so much fun though. I’ve never seen that much mud before. Everyone looked like zombies trying to trudge through it in their wellies. On the Saturday of the festival, everyone got dressed up to the theme of 30 000 freaks under the sea. Megs and I went as drowned airlines hostesses. I’ve congratulated myself a little too much on this effort because usually I suck at fancy dress. Cassie can back me up on this for the years of 2001-2006 (except for the time I did the vampire costume). I also reignited my love for toasties over the weekend and now they are my lunch of choice for the next week. Melted cheese goodness.

Work is a lot better too. I’ve now actually done something worthwhile. By worthwhile, I of course don’t mean for the good of mankind, but more something that I can actually put in my book. It’s only taken a year and a half. The only problem with this new ‘enthusiastic’ Vanessa is that it’s sucking the life out of me. I used to be able to go to the gym after work and now make a time to catch up with friends. Now, I can’t remember the last time that happened. This is the price you pay for being on the radar. The blip is now a faint ringing in my ear. Kind of like that annoying buzz that people who have to sleep with the tv on get.

27 and tanned

Hmmm, so much to share and so little brain capacity to stay focused for enough time to write it all.

But I shall try. Lets start with my birthday. It was seriously great. I had one of those moments when I thought about how much I loved my friends and my life. I went out and drank way too many cocktails on the Saturday night and then completely paid for it the next day which was my actual birthday. To celebrate my coming of age that is scarily close to 30, I had a Sunday lunch at a pub in East London. It was really cute, with board games stacked on an old piano in the corner and taxidermy on the walls. However, I was so tired and I struggled to keep my eyes open for most of the afternoon. So when my friends were still surprisingly there at 730pm, I left my party early, cause at 27, you can do that.

So now I have just come back from my longest holiday for the year - a whole 9 days. Yep, it was long and exciting to be away for more than just a weekend. The first stop was Ibiza. I didn't really think this destination through, as Ibiza is the number one holiday spot for the Brits abroad. And well, I'm not the most tolerant person. I was thinking more of the sun aspect and wanting to go somewhere I'd never been before. The plane ride was scary. We were faced with 18 year old girls wearing fur print cowboy hats (I didn't even know these existed) with stripper shoes, boys with matching partly shaved eyebrows and families whose vocabulary mainly consisted of 'innits' and 'aw shu-ups'. Hmmm. Luckily we stayed on the other side of the island with the Spanish who also go to Ibiza for their summer holidays. All in all, Ibiza wasn't as tacky as I thought it would be. We found a beautiful beach near the national park where the yachts pulled up to be ferried food from the beach side cafes and where chillout tunes played while you sunbathed on actual sandy beach and swam in the clearest of water. After summoning up enough courage to venture out to San Antonio where all the English congregate, we were again surprised to find it wasn't all that bad. In fact, we watched the world famous sunset from Cafe del Mar, sipped sangria and had a brilliant time. We then walked a couple of doors up and ate dinner at another waterfront cafe while Groove Armada played their warm up set. Seriously, life doesn't get much better than that.

We then headed to Valencia for La Tomatina. My, how that was an experience. 30 000 people trapped in a tiny square in Bunol with 5 tonnes of tomatoes being hurled at you from a truck. This is after being squashed for about 2 hours watching the men climb up a lard smothered pole trying to pull down a leg of ham. Then being sprayed with water and trying to avoid the local tradition of having your t-shirt ripped off and then be whipped with it. There was a point where I was worried I was going to be crushed by the crowd, but then my attention was diverted to being pummeled in the head with tomatoes, my goggles breaking and then getting the tasty mixture of tomato juice and urine in my eyes and mouth. Yes, urine. Males standing drinking sangria for 4 hours and no toilets is recipe for peeing on the squashed tomatoes. But all in all it was a fun and totally crazy experience. I'm glad I did it - probably for the last bit which was when the crowd dispersed and I could finally breathe and get a few throws in. Oh, and being hosed down at the local fire station was pretty fun too!

Valencia itself was really beautiful. We had the best paella I've ever tasted. It was squid ink with pieces of calamari cooked on top. My god. We were all scraping the dish to get every last morsel. This was then topped off by dancing with the locals to Spanish music at a bar. Oh, there was also torilla, salmon and sangria flavoured icecream. I can't say I was that adventurous in my pickings, especially when there was also the likes of donut flavour to choose from. Wait, I think I might need a moment to reflect.

Probably the worst part of my trip was the realisation of how disgraceful some Australian travelers are. I had been told by a friend of how they were actually worse than Americans but I didn't believe him. But it's unfortunately true. The people I met made me ashamed to be Australian. They were rude, arrogant and just downright disrespectful. Most Australians pride themselves on being a carefree, happy go lucky bunch of people, but it seems now when they go overseas and come together as a group, a really strange mentality erupts. They go mental. They stand around singing cold chisel at the top of their lungs, are disrespectful to local people and actually have the audacity to complain that they just want some Aussie food. Are you fucking serious? What is Aussie food anyway? I know that there are people like this all over the world, but I just thought we were a little better than this. Now, I've seen that we're no better. We have no right to look down on Americans for their ignorance when we are just as bad. And, to top it off, there is a large percentage of people walking around with Southern Cross and boxing kangaroo tattoos. When did this happen? When did we go from ridiculing Americans for having their flag patriotically hung outside their homes to inking ourselves with Australian paraphernalia? Have I missed something?

Ok, I'm going to stop now otherwise this will turn into a full on rant. Actually, I think I might have already had one.

Home truths

I completely lack any kind of direction and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

By almost 27 surely you should stop having these mini freak outs. God, it's annoying. Am I not supposed to have some kind of clear direction and grip on my life by now? This haziness is affecting my happiness and I don't like it. It's making me feel blah and I don't do blah. I will not do blah when I have been making people want to vomit with my pro life propaganda up until a couple of months ago. I feel like I'm treading water and I don't like it. London is getting to me and I don't like that either. I'm listening to depressing music on my ipod and generally doing a lot of staring at random things. Sometimes I sigh for dramatic effect and I hate sighers. I will not stoop to this level of patheticness! Someone slap me now like they did to hysterical woman in the twenties.

Why am I acting like this? There's absolutely nothing wrong with my life. Work is better, I have great friends over here, I love my house and my flatties, I go away on fantastic holidays and get to do and see amazing things, yet I feel kind of jaded by it all. I feel unimpressed. Kind of blase and empty. I simply don't know what to do but (as I just wrote that I had a flash in my head that said you'll work it out by October). Wow, that's really new age of me. OH MY GOD MAYBE I CAN WORK ON A PSYCHIC HELPLINE!!

Problem solved. There's finally a use for that Madam V nickname that was given to me all those years ago.

Details

I wish for a lot of things. Like, for example, I wish I could draw. Unfortunately, life drawing class last week proved my sneaking suspicion of being insanely untalented when I turned a fairly good looking black man into an ape. Another reoccurring wish is that I could run faster on my little half Asian legs. I’ve tried, but natural inability prevails. I guess the likelihood of turning around this or any of my other shortcomings/disappointments/failures in the near future is slim to fuck all. That, and the fact I am consistently average at most things. Why can I not be supremely talented at just one thing? One. That’s all I ask. Actually, I’ve always felt I’ve got a natural technique for power walking. To date, I have not yet been picked up by any Olympic scouts. I feel they are missing out. Dammit, I could have been competing at the ancestral motherland Games.

So my weekend in gay Paris was lovely. I ate fabulous food, talked a lot of shit, wandered around a graveyard, had a picnic, saw an amazing exhibition, went on a ferris wheel and was very well behaved on the shopping front. Like in Marrakesh, I ran into slight difficulties with my French numbers. Who knew that knowing the difference between 14 and 40 (it ended up actually being 15) would be so important? Details. Small, small details.

I’m currently going through creative paranoia. I’m now answering to a copywriter for a team leader and while it’s great, I’m writing, re writing and re writing again everything over and over again. I know I’ll be better for it, but for someone who constantly misses out words, has terrible grammar and frequently suffers from brain constipation, I’m really worried that he thinks I’m crap.

This is my last weekend of being 26. And I was just getting used to it too. Sigh. I laughed at someone’s pad that said ‘bleedproof’ today. Maturity level still at 10.

Back, just for a second

An old school friend killed herself a couple of days ago, which, as you can imagine, is shocking, sad and, well, just plain shit.

As much as I bullshit about how I'm getting old, this was a reminder of how young I am and she was and how much more she life she still had in her. To think of how sad and desperate she would have felt that she had no other choice to end her life is just unimaginable and unbearable.

It's surreal being so far from a bad, sad or disastrous situation. You feel detached and helpless. And even though there is nothing I can do, all I want to do is teleport myself home and just see people. Just for a second. I simply want to remind myself that you are all still there. It's like I can physically feel the distance in my chest when I truly stop, think and feel sad. I yearn to see my school friends now, to bridge that ten years we've just had and go back to when the future wasn't so hazy and parts of us hadn't yet been broken.

Why London

That's what I've been thinking lately.

My 'I love London' moments have become less and less frequent recently and I can't put my finger on why. Everything is great, so surely I can't be over it yet? The thing is, most people get the urge to 'go home', mine is more like, 'where to next?' At the moment it's like I'm at a really good party, I'm still having fun but I feel the urge to leave before it gets really crap and I end up seeing 50 year old Uncle Chester groping a 17 year old on the dance floor. By the way, I'm not sure why my otherwise happening party turned into some weird family reunion type event during the course of a sentence.

So where to next? That is the million Pound, US, Euro, AUD question for my itchy, non tinea infected feet. I'm comfortable and I don't want to be. If I wanted to opt for comfort, I'd do it in a place where I didn't have to catch germ infected transportation for an hour everywhere I went and where the weather was better. I'm feeling a bit frustrated. Surely there's more to this thing that is my adventure. Because I don't know what I want to do, I'm waiting for something to happen, albeit magically, as it usually does. But I want it now. I feel like stamping my feet and throwing a tanty at fate or whatever the hell it is that chooses shit like this.

Ever since I started travelling I find it hard to sit still. Is this my life? One where I'm always on the search for something new? Of course, it's not such a bad thing. In fact, it's kind of exciting. I decided the other day that I would try and do something that made me uncomfortable every day. Then, of course, I forgot about it, but now I've remembered, perhaps I'll actually do it. But let's not go into anything blindly, the chance of it happening/me remembering are slim to none. It's kind of like the time I decided I was going to smile everyone at the tube everyday. Sooooo didn't happen. Actually, the last time I smiled at someone on the tube was when I was trying to take my cardigan off but had too many bags containing food to hold. There was a guy standing opposite me who had his hand out in a gesturing type pose. Now, he may or may not have offered to hold my bag for me. He didn't actually use any words per say but he had his hand out and he looked eager. So I gave it to him. Then I smiled. I'm still not sure if he was actually offering or not.

Speaking of blind people, I went to the most amazing restaurant last week. It's a restaurant where you eat in the dark and you have no idea what it is you're eating. And when I say dark, I mean a pitch black. The waiters and waitresses are all blind and while I don't for a second understand what it is to be blind, you get, for an hour and a half, a glimpse into their world. From the menu, you chose between surprise anything, meat, vegetarian and fish. I chose 3 courses of anything and it was one of the best meals I've had in a while. The first course was duck pancakes, main ostrich and venison and for dessert, mango pudding and a berry parfait. I ended up eating with my fingers. I'd pay anything to see what we all looked liked stuffing ourselves with our hands. I even licked my bowl after the dessert and then stuck my finger up at everyone just cause I could. Yes, I am totally mature.

Hmm, I've tired myself out now with this frantic typing. Plus I've worked another 10.5 hour day being all 'eager'. So, night!

Home

And I'm coming home for Christmas. Now that it's booked and not quite paid for, I'm feeling really excited and I can't wait to see you all in 5 months time!

Like home, but not

Sorry, that's a dumb title but I've got nothing else.

So I went to a party last night and it was so weird. It was like I was in Adelaide. Nothing about it felt like London other than the mandatory conversations you have with people from Australia when they are living here. Let me enlighten you with the standard set:

How long have you been over here for?
Where in OZ are you from?
Where are you living?
Where do you work?
How long are you staying?

Sometimes the odd social commentary about the weather and how hard it is to make friends with English people is thrown in for good measure. Now, I'm not criticising because it's normal to ask these questions. I too participate in these conversations, hell, I even ask some of the questions, but it makes me want to seriously cringe and perhaps perform some kind of head smacking when I catch myself doing it. I am in London, this unbelievable cosmopolitan city and I socialise with almost all Australians. This party I went to last night was like being in a weird Adelaide 90's time warp. I was talking to a guy I used to know in high school and his friend when I worked out that his friend and I knew the same people. He actually recognised me from a photo that one of his friends put on facebook. I moved to get away from this shit. To put things into perspective, it's not always like this and it is actually seriously difficult to make 'local' friends here. English people even admit this as most of their friends are from uni days rather than when they moved to London and made new ones. Why? I have no idea.

On the other hand, I shouldn't be so critical because how often do you make new friends in Australia or go in search of them? We too are cliquey amongst our circle of high school and uni buddies. It's always nice to make new friends but we are probably all guilty just liking the ones we have and not being bother to seek out or include others.

To give you an update on my enthusiasm, I've actually been 'visible' at work this week without selling my soul too much. It's seriously ridiculous that being paired up with someone makes it look like you talk more, are enthusiastic and are more ingrained in your work, but it's true. Because I have been walking around with my art director and not at my desk, it's perceived that I'm out there making advertising magic happen (please, please, please pick up on my sarcasm here). Ugh, so that's the vacuous world of advertising, or perhaps work politics in general. Now I feel depressed and cheap. But speaking of cheap, I did find an amazing Indian place to eat the other night. You know you've hit gold when there is a massive pink chandelier hanging amongst neon lighting. Plus, I have now moved up to ordering the hot version of dishes. Mmmm, spicy lamb bhuna.

Shit, it's July

Has it truly only been 7 months that I've been using predictive text messaging? I can't believe it. Why does life move so quickly? I'm trying to savor the occasional warm days (and maybe master how to spell occasional as it took me 5 goes), good hair days and laughing til I get cheek pain and it just refuses to slow down.

So I've just come back from New York. Man, I love that place. You know when you go somewhere and it just fits with you? I feel like that with both New York and Amsterdam. I could so imagine myself living there. Even with Americans. It made me realise how unfriendly the British are. I actually became friendlier as a result. Yes, believe it or not, I smiled and said have a nice day to one and all. Sure, it's all fake, but they are friendly. FRIENDLY. Now I am saying 'friendly' over and over in my head and it now sounds weird. Maybe I'll stop now. Friendly. Yep, still weird.

You know what - people keep on asking me what I did there and I have absolutely no idea. A few random things pop in mind like the couple in their 60's rowing a boat in Central Park having the time of their lives, a little boy eating a banana taking a shine to me and talking to this weird hippie lesbian chick in a vintage store in East Village. I'm really worried that I'm going to forget all these wonderful places I've been to. How do you hold onto memories? You can't photograph everything and even then, can you bring back some wonderful feeling or event you once had from a photo? I think with photos you get caught in the aesthetics of the moment rather than the emotion.

I'm now back at work with a semi new attitude. Well, one that sticks me though until I find a new job. I decided the other job wasn't for me. Even though it would be awesome, there's no point starting something I'm not that into just because I don't like where I am currently. Yes, this is VERY mature. Next I will actually start reading my bills properly.

I'm sitting cross legged on the floor of my room at the moment, staring out the window in kind of a musing, arty way. Have I told you about the view from my window? It's fantastic. For the most part, all you can see is sky, but the best bit is when the sun sets over the chimney tops of the neighbouring houses. It's seriously magical. I'm planning on climbing out of the window one night to watch the sunset from the roof. I may check with a more knowledgeable housemate regarding roof vs my body weight first.

When is being you not ok?

At work.

Seriously.

I've been a bit miserable for the past week. But it's ok, it's character building or some other self help wank description I could potentially spurt out. Yes, I'm being totally melodramatic but let's wallow a little, because let's face it, this blog is all about me.

So Vanessa is not ok. Vanessa as a person that is. Yes, she who has been accused one too many times than she'd like to remember for not being smiley enough. This time, it's not some dumb ass drunk trying to be funny or the popular girl at school who just didn't get me - it's work. It's ironic really, being in a job where it's supposedly ok to be different, yet I'm being criticised for my lack of 'outward enthusiasm' rather than judged on my professional abilities.

Now, for all who know me, I'm not disillusioned enough to think I'm this bubbly little thang who loves bunnies and pink stuff, but I can't believe a job could make me feel so inadequate as a person. I've been told that despite being good at what I do, I'm actually in trouble for being anonymous, unenthusiastic, not taking it seriously and not featuring on the radar. Yes, they actually used the word 'radar'. Now, I'd just like to point out, I work in FUCKING ADVERTISING. Being told you are anonymous is as you may guess, not that nice. In fact, it's probably one of the most hurtful things that has ever been said about me. I don't want or need everyone to look at me nor do I want to be everyone's best friend. I'm ok with being out of the spotlight, but anonymous, sheesh, that's harsh. It kind of makes me feel like a nobody, unimportant and kind of worthless. But perhaps I'm being soft.

Anyway, it's ok, I'm 94% over it. I've had some pumping up by friends, did some 'take this you assholes' good work, am going to New York on Tuesday and can't actually be bothered being bothered by it anymore. And, it's not all bad. Apparently they do this to most people to kick them into gear, and do you know what? They're partly right. I don't care about what I do. It's vapid and wanky and at times the ridiculousness of it makes me grumpy. Admitedley, sometimes I enjoy my job because I love writing and can't believe I get paid to do it. I love being exposed to such talented illustrators, designers and photographers but to be forced to act like someone in order to keep my job is not ok. So I need to reassess because frankly, my attitude sucks and I hate being unhappy.

I think I may have another job offer on the table, but I don't know if that's what I want to do either....gah, life decisions. I prefer which holiday next type problems.

Hi

Hi life,

How are you? Kicking back poolside with the cocktails? I can imagine you drinking a slippery nipple with a yellow umbrella and purple stirrer. Yes life, that's soooo you.

As you know, I've been going along swimmingly. I've been loving life, been spoiled by amazing holidays, beautiful friends and family and have been packing as much into my life as humanly possible. And then, for some reason, you decide I need an arse smacking. Why? Can't you just leave me alone? Was I getting a little cocky? Too much attitude in the happy department perhaps. Life, thanks for reminding me I'm far away from people when they need me, that every so often you need to try a little harder and showering me in that wave of 'what do I do next?' that I could really do without.

Fine. Reality check ticked. Can we move on? Please?

Thanks.

Love,
Vanessa

Please explain

I think I need to set a few things straight as I have received some emails/comments/phone calls re 'if everything is ok'.

Yes, everything is fine.

You stop talking about food and suddenly you're having a life crisis. I totally appreciate the concern though.

So let me just stress a few points;

I'm not going through a life crisis
I'm not unhappy
I do not feel like a failure
My mum still loves me despite me using her for creative purposes in many stories
I may or may not get married one day
I may or may not push a child through my birth canal
I will most likely buy some kind of property in the next 20 years
I'm not obese yet
I still like poo jokes/stories

Um, I think that's it. Did I miss anything?

Torn but not in a Natalie "I released a greatest hits album despite only actually having one' Imbruglia kind of way

I constantly have battles in my head. Like, should I wear this extremely impractical, yet fashionable belt that is going to inevitably give me a stomachache due to tightness? Answer = yes. Or, can I actually wait until I've eaten lunch before I eat this white chocolate/brownie cheesecake? Answer = hell no. But I guess digging a little deeper, I find myself in the raging battle of age versus expectations.

I think people, well most of my friends and I, have this simmering pressure of how our life should be by the time we are 30. I feel a little less pressure living away from Australia, but if I lived in Adelaide, where my most of my friends are shacked up, using their birthing canals and owing the banks copious amounts of money, I would be feeling very third wheel. Now life in Adelaide is by no means bad, and I'm definitely not being critical or meaning offense to my wonderful friends, but if this wasn't the life I wanted to lead, I'd find it very difficult being there.


So why 30? Who decided that this was the age we were to aim for when assessing life's goals thus far? Sure, thanks to our physical make up, women feel like the timer is going to go ding on our ovens immediately after blowing out our 30th candle, but the pressure some of us put on ourselves to tick off the boxes is pretty ridiculous. Oh, and just so we are clear, the boxes are as follows:

I've done it in a pretend conversation with my mother, complete with a Family Feud wrong answer bah-baw style for dramatic effect*

1. 'Vanessa, have you met a nice boy yet'? Bah-baw
2. 'Vanessa, the interest rates are going up, you really should think about getting yourself on the property ladder.' Bah-baw
3. 'Vanessa, when am I going to get some more grandchildren?' Bah-baw (can I note she already has 7 - frankly, she's getting a little greedy).

And in that order too.

Could I perhaps be so bold to suggest that this pressure to tick off at least one of the boxes, I think you can guess which, results in such a high rate of divorce??

The reason why I am torn is because I thought my life would be different. I expected to be more mature by now. Not to still laugh at all poo jokes however bad and the desire to go to Cockfosters lessen after a year of laughing at it, but it hasn't. Dammit, I still want my picture under that sign. I thought I would know what I wanted to do with my life.

I was brought up with this rough plan; school, university, good job, nice boy, marriage, house, babies = happiness. Sounds easy enough. Both my sisters have done it successfully and happily. But I had 4 months of clarity while travelling around the world. So now I'm completely tickless and having the time of my life. Sure, I didn't expect I would be where I am now, but it's an awesome surprise. The thing is, I still get the expectation guilts.

Ideally, I'd like to throw complete caution to the wind; quit my job, travel and see where I end up. I never want to hear myself say, 'I always wanted to do this but never did' or, 'that's just unrealistic'. But it's hard to completely release ourselves from our expectations, no matter how far we run from them.

Plopp!

I've just back from Stockholm. The land of sea, cinnamon scrolls, 7-Elevens and ridiculously good looking people.

So there is a raging debate going on at the moment - which, by the way, I love. Thank you for contributing. I mean it. I know there are people who read my blog but don't comment. Please do. It gives me warm fuzzies. Like a cup of hot Milo when you can't sleep. Or when you see bunnies in a field. Actually, not bunnies because every time I see an animal I think about eating it, even road kill (sometimes) hmmm. Do I need to substansiate that sentence with some kind of footnote making sure you all don't think I am a freak?*

Ok, so where was I? Ah, Stockholm and the debate. Now this kind of ties in with the general theme of some of the comments of late. So my friend Megs and I were out at a pretty cool club in Stockholm on Saturday night. Think Bohemian decor with a slightly Mozart feel. Lots of gilded mirrors, booths with 'real' champagne and Swedish gangsters (I didn't know they had any, but they looked like the blonde mafia) sitting with barbies on their laps. It was an experience to say the least. Oh, and not as wanky as it sounds. A little, but not a lot.

So this bar/club thing was a weird meat market. As Megs commented, it was like these guys had been reading The Pick Up Artist and were going hell for leather trying to do their 'How to approach 101' weekly exercises. Seriously. Having said that, some were just plain weird. Like Vomit Breath for example;

Let me quickly set the scene. Megs and I are sitting down by ourselves, deep in conversation, probably about Megs' bruises from being constantly shoved by the scary Swedish girls on the dancefloor when Vomit Breath comes and sits down with us. He says nothing. He looks like Albert Bensimon. He stares. He is creepy. Then he talks, earning him the name, Vomit Breath.

Vomit breath: "Hhhhmmmmghfff"

Me: "What?"

(creepy staring)

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff"

(more creepy staring)

Me: "I can't understand what you are saying"

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff chaiohfiodh asdhio (which can be roughly translated to) Why are you in Stockholm?"

Me: "Just for a holiday".

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff chaiohfiodh asdhio (which can be roughly translated to) Why are you in Stockholm?"

Yes, we had this rather repetitive conversation for about 5 more minutes until we tried ignoring him but he continued sitting there, staring. We then got up, and he followed until I glared at him. Die, Vomit Breath, die, or at least go pass out in a gutter - yes, these were my thoughts while I glared. It was movie style chick kicking ass with cat-like evil eyes type of scene.

So this scenario brings me to the point of this post. Why, when males drink, do they think it's charming or acceptable to act like a complete sleazy, weirdo, knob? It's not as if I am the most friendly, approachable person in the history of picking up. Yet whenever I'm out, I get these weird men latch onto me like I'm fucking Mother Friendly Teresa. Why? And without sounding like I have my head up my arse, they usually look like Bill Gates, but probably without the World's Most Richest Man' title. My friend Naomi used to tell me off for being too nice to people if I didn't want to talk to people. I'm a big believer that even if you are inebriated, it takes guts to approach someone, so therefore to shut someone down on the offset is mean. So I talk. I'm polite and don't lead them on and then usually, they act like a sooky child when they realise it's never going to happen. Ugh. I'm sounding all chick lit. I'm going to stop now.

Stockholm has chocolate bars called 'Plopp'. C'mon, say it out loud, it's fun. You know you want too. "Plopp". "Plopp". Haha, it's such a funny word. How's that for changing the subject? OOerrrrrrrrrr, I saw the coolest Vikingesque ship. It was built in the 1600's and sunk on it's maiden voyage - sound familiar? It stayed on the ocean floor for 333 until it was brought to shore and restored. It was truly amazing.

In other news, I had to 'sell' myself to the creative director at work. Apparently I'm annonymous and 'off the radar'. Ah, the good ole advertising radar. The only way to blip is either via kissing arse or being an obnoxious twat sporting the latest Cons. Of course, this observation has been made based on assumption. My emotionless face has let me down again. Apparently I always look 'stern and uninterested', which, to the latter, I kind of am. It's advertising for fucks sake! Anyway, I showed some passion and enthusiasm and I think I am now a weak pulse with my lips and tongue firmly safe from any butt cheeks. Woo-hoo!

*I am not a freak, I just like meat.

Moment of clarity

I had one last night. At the opera. Yes, I am very mature and cultured. It totally suited my new short hair/virgin bride look.

I have been wrong to blame Hollywood on creating unrealistic expectations of love, romance and marriage for females. I now blame Shakespeare, Italy, Mozart, the Baroque period - basically any type of prose, music, poetry, dance from the 15th century onwards. Perhaps earlier, but I can't be bothered researching it.

Forgive me, I've been on a train

and I've been thinking....

How well can you actually know someone? For all you know, that seemingly normal guy you work with could love being spanked by a monkey in a apron. Ok, so that would be funny, but you know what I mean.

I know this isn't a particularly groundbreaking subject, nor am I offering anything staggeringly insightful, but I can't help but wonder. Perhaps this screams of 'trust' issues on my part, but can you really go with your gut instinct about people? Most of the time I think you can, that's all you can do, but what happens if you're gut is wrong? How often have you been wrong about people? I mean, we all want to believe that people are good, and of course, most are. But does that need for good make us blind to some of the ugliness in people?

I guess the classic example is being in an unhealthy relationship. The good we look for in people also ties in with the happy ending we all want. Or rather, the happy ending most little girls are led to believe they should look for. Man, fuck Hollywood.The crap that is fed to us about Prince Charming and happy endings is seriously nauseating. BUT, having cursed the studios and projectile vomited on the notion of romance, I would like to add that I hold a bit of hope for some form of magic, however it may appear.

So, having recently had had a series of 'why get married' talks with friends, I am seriously coming closer to the decision that marriage is an unnecessary need in my life. Yes, I am now delving into something a little deeper than how well can you actually know someone, but here I go.

So I am now splashing into the pool of commitment and doing a bit of backstroke around the edge. Yes, it's all very nice, la-di-da (I don't know why I am doing a pool analogy but let's stick with it). So, I'm swimming around quite happily, not getting my hair wet when BHAM, I'm supposed to get married. Why? To show a higher form of commitment to someone? To say, I choose you to 'spend the rest of my life with'? Hmmmmm. I get out of the pool. I've come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as 'the one'. Whoever made that up has a lot to answer for, and should probably be paper cut all over their body with a bunch of Hallmark Valentine's Day cards. There are people who come into your life and if the timing is right (plus a bunch of other things) you get together. But life changes, as do people and it must take a hell of a lot of work to stay on the same path as someone for 10, 20, 30 odd years. I look at the person I was 5 years ago, and while I will essentially always have the same characteristics, a lot of me isn't the same. So when you get married, you're basically saying I'm going to do my best to stick with you - this is all you can do. So why do you have to get married to make that 'ultimate' commitment to someone? Surely it's the same promise to someone, based on the same principles, the same intensity of love and meaning whether you're married or not? Just without the presents, cake and expensive party.

Does anyone feel the need to change my mind?

P.S before I get any emails, no, I am not going out with someone. No, I don't have anyone I mistrust in my life, this post is just based on a collection of recent thoughts on public transport, conversations and natural cynicism.

Amen.

That special something

Do you know what I love?

No, no, other than food.

That special something that makes you connect with someone to form a friendship. That thing that connects you with someone in a totally platonic way but is so special that no matter how much time you've spent apart, the spark that drew you to the person in the first place remains. Ands there's nothing better than picking up where you left off. Too many people get caught up between mistaking acquaintances for friends. Mostly, it's people you work with. The true test is when that commonality is stripped away, whether you can take it to that other level.

I wonder what it is that draws you to your friends. The most obvious answer is a common thread of interests or way of thinking. But when I think about my friends, most of us have quite diverse lives and at times, a completely different, unparalled way of thinking. So I'm not sure that's it. Can it actually be explained, or is it just one of those beautifully strange things.

Living away from friends is often a great test of true friendship. People get caught up in their routine and when you're away from the everyday events, you actually have to make a real effort to stay in contact. Days too easily slip by, events not shared, and soon, months have passed. I totally understand lapses in communication, as sad as it is, and as much as it sometimes disappoints me, it's just a part of life. But I look forward to seeing some of my strangers again. I know if that spark is strong enough, we'll pick it up again just as we left off.

So...

I realise I totally contradicted myself in my last post.

Sorry about that.

Although, I still meant what I wrote.

But it's my blog so I guess I can do what I want - HA!

Judgement Day

I know it's wrong to judge. Wait, no, I take that back. Because is it actually wrong to judge? We all do it. Anyone who says they don't is lying. So why are we taught that we shouldn't? Surely it's just another branch of expressing or formulating an opinion. It's wrong to look down on others. Agreed. But if judging is making a call on whether something is right or wrong, then I think it's ok.

So all this has stemmed from a good old work night out. Booze. Workplace flirting. I don't know, boredom maybe - it's not a good mix. And I'm talking about those people 'in relationships'. I'm the first to admit that you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but why are people so fucking stupid? Why would you purposely hurt someone you supposedly love for a bit of booty? Do people not care? God, it irks me and in this judgment call, I completely look down on them. It makes me disappointed in people and puts another dent in my already skeptical ray of hope when it comes to faithfulness, trust and respect in a relationship. Of course not everyone is like this. I realise that, but ugh, enough of it goes on not to make you want to judge. Or is it just me?

Smile

Ah smiling. That old chestnut. Life's official representation of 'happiness' and also the cause of me wanting to seriously hurt people at various social situations from about the age of 14 onwards.

People: 'Why don't you smile more'?

Me: 'Because I don't have a naturally upturned lips dipshit'.

Argh. Why do people have the need to say this to me. My favourite is when I'm out and some dickhead will come up to me and say:

'You have such a pretty face, why don't you smile more, aren't you having fun'?

Or sometimes it's more succinct:

'Smmmmile'.

Grrrr.

What is the point of saying this to me? Am I going to turn around and say, 'geez, I can't believe I haven't been constantly smiling since I arrived in this fine establishment with so many sleazy and leering men like yourself. But thanks for pointing it out. Wanna shag?'

Puh-lease.

I'm still waiting to think of a comeback that is cutting, witty and will not result in some kind of violent stalker. Hmmm.

But despite the word 'smile' being the sometimes baine of my existence,it's kind of an interesting thing here. Smiling at someone and them smiling back is one of the nicest feelings you can have when it's spontaneous, natural and felt. A girl smiled at me on the tube the other day and I smiled back. And I felt good. Then, feeling inspired, I looked around for another smiling target. The closest person was this old dude with those broken red capilleries around his cheeks and spiky white hair. I suspect he had that yucky old man smell, but undeterred, I smiled at him at a totally non condescending but in a hey, I am the youth of today and I am smiling at you with respect old man, kind of way. He glared at me for a bit and then went back to his paper. Oh well.

Smiling is lovely but it's not the only sign of happiness. Why do you have to have to smile for people to know you're happy? Damn my naturally snarly mouth.

This week has been the most amazing week of weather in London. It's been warm, and I fear, I am turning into a Londoner. I can't stop gushing about the weather and I actually find 24 degrees kind of hot. I know, I'm embarrassed. Today I walked to Borough Markets, picked up some cheese, bread and friends and then went for a picnic in the park with the frisbee. I really want to be a awesome at it, but due to my bad hand/eye coodrination/blindness as well as my inability to do the frisbee 'flick', I kind of suck at it. But everyone else sucked too, we all maybe caught it and threw it straight twice.

Now, I'm sitting in my beautiful, airy kitchen, drinking wine, listening to music and eating biscuits. Later, I'm going to make some muesli, watch a dvd and read a book. I can't wait!!!!! My surly face is happy. On the inside, of course.

Cinque Terre

Scene: My work kitchen. Tuesday after bank holiday weekend. The mood is peppy. There is no milk in the fridge. This slightly affects the peppiness. But the people of the kitchen overcome this through optimism. They line up for the kettle, busily putting tea bags into cups. Waiting for the moment that the milk will appear. And it does. Those hippies with their ‘Magic Happens’ bumper stickers were right. Crazy Brazilian kitchen workers dart around in the background shouting out ‘Oh miii’ and ‘Si’ every so often. They probably say more stuff but I don’t know how to type it. Plus I’ve forgotten. There is random talk of football. Yawn. Girl crush laughing her slightly annoying high-pitched laugh. Ding goes the microwave. Dialogue begins.

Characters

Kitchen person (non descript, make him or her as hot or interesting as you would like as I am merely using this person for what would otherwise be a monologue)

Me (slightly tanned, probably a little chubbier than last week, jeans are looking a bit tight. My right eye is a little red from lack of sleep)

KP: How was your weekend?

Me: Amazing

KP: Really? Why?

Me: Well, I went to the Cinque Terre

KP: Please tell me more and I will not interrupt and ask annoying questions that disturbs the flow of your narrative…

Me: Sure. Well, here I go. Vic and I flew out on Friday morning to Genoa. I spent most of the flight playing elbow war with the dude I was sitting next to. He was lucky his arm was sweaty and I am a germophobe, otherwise, I would have opened a can of elbow whoop arse. We had been in Genoa all of maybe five minutes when we ate our first pizza. Maybe another half an hour later when we ate our first gelati. 15 minutes after that we ate our 2nd ‘sandwich gelati’, 20 minutes after that, we ate two more serves of gelati. But in our defense, all would be categorised as top 5 gelati experiences and the last would sit as best gelati ever eaten hands down. Oh and then there was the rose flavoured one. We then discovered the delights of buying a drink and getting a plate full of food with your order. Being the gluttons we are, we spent a good 10 minutes bitching about how everyone else had received a bowl of fries and we hadn’t. Because, you know, we hadn’t eaten enough. Re read the last sentence (minus the bit about the fries because we got them the 2nd time around) because we had another drink and um, another plate of food…..Oh and we may have also had dessert too in the form of a nutella pastry (wow, it looks like A LOT more food when in written form).

The next morning we caught the train to Riomaggiore, the last village in the Cinque Terre which was where we were staying. Because we hadn’t eaten in about 5 hours, we immediately ate breakfast and then bought some pizza for good measure. Sufficiently full, we started the trek between the five villages which, from Riomaggiore to Monterosso al Mare is about 9km. The coastline is truly beautiful. Imagine if you can, the bluest sky that meets a turquoise sea, stretching as far as the eye can see. Matchbox villages the colour of gelati, crammed and dotted on the top of the cliff face and vineyards sprawling further inland, weaving their way through the hills bearing olives and grapes with rosemary bushes and orange blossom providing the most delicious smell.

Insert dramatic sigh here. In fact, I’m probably looking wistful. Wait, I’m looking wistful out a window of a second floor rustic farmhouse. There’s a hand carved oak desk in front of me with a jam jar filled with daisies and a typewriter with paper ready for me to write poetry. I digress.

So, just to fast forward a little, there was more eating, more gelati at each stop and then another buy a drink and get a plate of incredible food at the last town of Monterosso. We then caught the train back, managed to miss our stop and landed in La Spezia which was lucky because that gave us time to make room for an amazing meal back in Riomaggiore. I feel I am being repetitive, so let’s just say it was thoroughly enjoyed, so much so we went back the next night and saw a famous person whose name I don't know to fully brag. Milan was a vacuous hole, but Bergamo, an hour from Milan, was stunning. It was perhaps one of the most pretty towns I’ve been to in Europe.

My time in the Cinque Terre made me ask myself, if I saw places like this every day, would I take them for granted? Would they still appear as magical? Would I feel the need to stop and have a moment to take in how lucky I was? Is it the mundane that makes beauty all the more special? Perhaps. But why should we deprive ourselves of not waking up everyday to magical places, just because we need something worse to fully appreciate it? It doesn’t seem right. Sure, there’s life, routine and finances to take into account, but it’s such a human trait to surrender and become a martyr to reality. It seems wrong.

Doing it Italian Style

I don’t want to get too behind, so I should probably tell you about my weekend in Sardinia. You know how sometimes it’s the unexpected that are the most fun? Well, this was certainly the case this weekend. Travelling with foreigners (Australians and token New Zealander) meant we had to get up at 230am to get to the airport. We decided there was no point in going to bed and watched High School Musical 1 (with dance move break downs) and 2. I’m actually ashamed to say I was mesmerised by this experience. That Zac Efron can dance. While he is no Dean Cain, I would have given him space on my wall, that’s if I was 12 and still considered plastering my walls with men an appropriate form of décor. Ok, let’s face it, I’d still be doing it if I hadn’t gone all ‘Rebecca’.

So back to Sardinia. We ended up waiting a good 3 hours for busses on our first day there. I am proud to say that being the seasoned traveller I am, waiting does not faze me, as long as there are shadows for hand puppets, I can wait for any form of transport. In between 9 scoops of gelati, we managed to visit the blue grotto caves (ok) and do a bit of exploring in Alghero. It was relaxing, there was sun on our faces and we were happy.

The next day we found some local markets where we stocked up on prosciutto, local cheeses (hello Peccorino, how may I eat you), breads, fruit, wine, beer and desserts. Our picnic haul was truly amazing. Gelati, of course, served as an appetiser before we headed to the sea and set ourselves up on the rocks for a good 6 hours in the sun. We then headed to the town square where were staying and participated in some local dancing at the festival of Saint Marco. By participating, I actually mean we were the only ones dancing while the locals looked on. I’m pretty sure they were amazed by the rhythm and variation of moves on show. Better still, they would have assumed we were Brits abroad due to lack of coordination and willingness to be wearing summer clothes in spring just for a hint of sun on our skin. The Aussie name is still in tact!

This weekend I am off to the Cinque Terre and I am unbelievably excited. Get ready for some serious gushing next week.

Oh, and I made muesli last night. It’s really good*. I’m going to make some man a good little wifey one day.

*confirmed by third party

Voice from the bowl

Here me speak! Yes, I’m thinking starting my own motivational roadshow. I will travel the globe, spreading the word of the V. I will have a large screen, showbags with pens bearing the V sign and perhaps people fainting at my feet.. I will go and inspire people to say yes, to go outside their comfort zone and just embrace life. I’ll go on to write my own book that will be available in audio, pictorial and Braille formats.

It started how all good stories do. With shit. Now this isn’t any old shit. It’s day old turd that has been floating in the female toilets at work. It then went on to involve me being a good Samaritan by warning Girl Crush at work of this toilet travesty. Then realising I was talking to Girl Crush about shit, I decided to compliment her. That very quickly progressed to me insulting her by asking if her ‘really nice scarf’ was from Topshop. Now, FYI, I find Topshop scarves ridiculously expensive. So it was meant as a compliment but she wet herself laughing (the kind of laughter where you join in because you feel you have to, and then stop because it’s weird you are laughing when it’s clear you have no idea why). Apparently it was a designer scarf, so I started doing some backtracking where I decided to insult myself to try and make up for it. Girl Crush is exotic hot. Stupidly stunning. And so, so chic. But unfortunately not that interesting. It’s ok, I forgive her though because she’s that beautiful. After she had composed herself I then somehow launched into my ‘I love life’ spiel. I don’t know where it came from, but it was like I had an audience. Girl Crush was actually looking impressed, dare I say, inspired. Sentences like ‘take each day as it comes’ and ‘you discover so much by taking yourself outside of your comfort zone’ were projectile vomiting out of my mouth. She stood there, mesmerised in the stinky toilet with the occasional whoosh of the passion fruit scent air freshener that served as the only interruption to my rant. When I finally came up for air, she said, and I quote directly ‘Wow, Vanessa, I’m feeling really inspired’.

I think I may resign tomorrow after I’ve found my Winnabago and loudspeaker.

Yes

I'm reading this book at the moment where this guy decides he's missing out on too much in his life by saying no too often. So he decides for the next 8 or so months he's going to say yes to anything anyone asks of him. Now, this is no Dice Man for anyone who has read it, the story is real and the guy is hilarious. He says yes to viagra pill spam mail, yes to becoming part of an extra terrestrial social group who claim God is living in East London. Basically yes to anything and everything.

The thing is, saying yes all the time is hard work. And for us time poor lazy folk living in 2008, we find it hard enough to commit to social plans without bailing at the last minute let alone helping someone or going outside our comfort zone at the cost of some of our precious spare time. Now, obviously, it's unrealistic to say yes all the time. But how many times do we say no to things, when really, it's would be easy enough just to do it. How many experiences do we miss out on, interesting people not met, new things not learned by saying no? And how many times when we unexpectantly say yes find ourselves having a great time. We're so conditioned to saying no, perhaps it does take an experiment like saying yes all the time to get ourselves out of this selfish rut we find ourselves in.

I find that living over here immediately makes me suspicious of anyone and everything. Sometimes I act inexplicably rude to people. Sure the guys handing out the free papers by the tube annoyingly shove them at you, but screwing up my already un naturally friendly face and flicking my wrist is probably going a little far. I purposely never answer the door incase I have to speak to a door knocker. To be fair, the last door knocker I spoke to yelled 'fuck you' through the door, so my experiences of being friendly have not been great.

So what am I trying to say? Well, I'm pretty good at saying yes to things but maybe not yes to enough of the right things that could possibly lead me to a wider range of interesting people and experiences. Oh and perhaps tap into that girl who arrived in London a year ago and said no thank you to free newspapers and didn't swear at tourists who stood on the wrong side of the escalators. Maybe I should slow my walking down too. My speed and dodging capabilities are at an all time high.

I feel like a fat badger

Yep, I do. It's probably because I've just come home from lunch at The Fat Badger pub at Notting Hill. In fact, it's 639pm and I'm still full. The tank was fully filled and the trackies are now on.

I've just had a fabulous weekend. I can't actually believe I just used the word fabulous. I feel the need to justify it now. Wait, no, I can't be bothered. Now, I just want to flag the fact that I'm conscious of the boring factor of this post but work with me. I want to share. I want us all to sit round a campfire and toast marshmellows while I tell you about my weekend. Cue kumbayah now.

It started with shopping on Friday night. The type of shopping where you just want to buy everything in store. Do I need that choir boy looking shirt that makes me look like I have no neck? Course not, but I feel intoxicated by the possibilities of looking pure. Do I look good in it? Hell no. It makes me look like Bert Newton. Ok, not a good example as I didn't buy it, but that was the type of frenzied mood I was in. Shopping was then concluded with Indian Tapas. I take my hat off to the Spanish for letting me try more than one dish at dinner, and to the Indians for the fusing it at a restaurant at Soho. Further frenzied behavior took place at home after. But it demonstrates weakness on my behalf so I won't go into it. Let's just say it involved cheesecake and chocolate.

Saturday morning was spent at the gym with the instructor kind of inappropriately touching the middle of my chest, but he was then punished with the spike of my hairy legs while he gave me a stretch at the end. Hot. I then met some friends at Borough Markets. I need not say more. Borough always delivers. Saturday night brought my evening of culture. Kevin Spacey was there, as was Jeff Goldblum. The play was ok. I was a bit distracted in the first bit because I could have sworn that Bill Murray was sitting in the audience. I spent a good 10 minutes trying to remember his name and then the next 20 minutes looking back and forth between Bill and Kevin. It was then confirmed that it wasn't Bill Murray so I could then direct my full concentration to Kevin's profuse sweating on stage.

And now we're back to Sunday. I'm sitting in my awesome bedroom, looking out to a beautiful sunset over the chimney tops of my neighbours houses. I can hear my housemates laughing in the kitchen and the smell of garlic cooking. Cat Power is singing a song about bobby and I'm going to Sardinia on Friday. I'm stupidly excited about a eyeshadow palette I found on ebay. 96 different shades of colour will soon be gracing my lids. I can actually create an Asian cooking sauce from scratch and I have a freezer full of dumplings. I feel so happy I may burst.

A friend asked me the other day, if I were to die tomorrow, would I be more pissed off that I hadn't achieved the things I had set out to do, or the fact that I loved life so much. If you had asked me a year ago, it would probably have been the first answer. Sure there are still things that I haven't done and would really like to do before I cark it, but my answer to him was the fact that I loved life so much. There was nothing wrong with my life before living over here. In fact, I would have continued trotting along being quite content. But somewhere along the way my capacity and ability to find happiness was increased. At times, it completely floods me. God, I sound like a born again.

Happy anniversary, London

So I've just had my year anniversary with London.

It was a beautiful day. I'm pretty sure I got to work late. Wait, yes I did. As you can see, it was a pretty momentous occasion. So much so I can't really remember what I did. I probably surfed the net and said 'mmmmmm' to a few things, oh, I went out for wine and cheese with the team at lunch and then went to bed early so I could get up at 345am to catch a flight to Salzburg.

Salzburg was, um pretty. For some reason I became a complete spaz sometime while crossing the German border. I managed to trip over several times, which, when you have a sore coccyx bloody hurts, as well as set off the security alarm at the Salzburg Museum of Modern Art. I feel like there were more displays of duhness (yes I know I'm supposed to be a copywriter), but it was probably me just saying stupid things, as no other physical incidents come to mind as I sit down to reminisce.

Now, I know that I am a slightly (debatable) mean, sarcastic person. So I guess two people of a very similar nature should not go on a Sound of Music tour. It's like letting an anorexic into McDonalds. The vomit of verbal abuse (whispered and laughed) that came from Vic and I was torrential. Singing along to 'My favourite things' or the goat one? Puleeease. It did make for tears on Vic's behalf though. The tour was made worthwhile by discovering a new tourist camera pose (bending knees while doing a shhhh sign) to add to the ones discovered in Oslo - hello star fingers. Man, I love Asian people. On a more serious note, we did get to see one of the most beautiful places on earth, St Wolfgang just outside of Salzburg. I've never seen such an idyllic place. It was absolutely stunning.

Other than laughing at dumb people singing, our time in Salzburg was spent searching for the perfect strudel. When we were disappointed not once, but twice, it then became just a nice strudel. And by the end of the weekend it was any strudel that tastes semi ok will do. Eww, I've just swallowed paper. Ugh. Whoops. That's what you get for being too excited about eating pork buns you found at the Chinese supermarket. Sorry, back to Salzburg.

There isn't much more to say about it other than, it was pretty. The scenery was lovely, but in the end, the best parts of the trip were laughing at people and defacing various Austrian statues and billboards - see Facebook pics.

So now I'm back. In the land of men who insist on carrying really large umbrellas, where homeless people sit on the tube with half their head in a plastic bag on the neighbouring seat and where they don't sell those really great peanut butter chips you can buy in Austria.

Now, I'm sure you're getting sick of my I love London garble, but I had another 'moment' today. I was walking into work from the gym and as I crossed over Waterloo Bridge I had Big Ben, Houses of Parliament and the London Eye on my right and to my left, St Paul's and London Bridge. Now seriously, how cool is that? The day I don't find this utterly amazing, beautiful and exciting is the day for me to come home.

This weekend I am in London - yay, my first weekend home in months. So I am making the most of it. Borough Markets on Saturday, a Kevin Spacey play on Saturday night at the Old Vic Theatre and then on Sunday lunch at Gordon Ramsay's gastro pub.

Umm, and I might have developed an addiction - to booking holidays! I booked another trip away today. Woooooooo! To Paris. And, um, I might be booking a trip to Portugal tomorrow. Hmmmmmmm.I LOVE MY LIFE!!!!!!

My arse

How many times can one person damage their coccyx bone in one lifetime?

Twice it seems.

So last night it happened almost a year to the day my arse landed heavily on a metal bar in Thailand. This time it was all the way down the stairs at home, in front of two of my house mates. That's 16 bangs on the butt on the way down. Lesson learned: eat more chocolate in future for greater padding.

Just a warning, there may be a bit of 'I love my life' snippets in this blog. So yes, I do love my life. On the weekend I went away. Again. Yes, I know. And before you ask, no, I don't earn millions. Nor do I eat soup everyday. Well, actually, I do sometimes, but that's cause I like it. It's just really easy to travel here. I went to Oslo for £10 return. Sure, add spending money on top, but how much would you spend on an average weekend? Booze, clothes, dinners? Yea. See. Thought so. Ok, I would probably spend more, but it's affordable. Way more affordable than most of my english friends would like to believe.

So Norway. Now that I've gone on a rant about money, it was so freaking expensive there. So much so that there will be no mention of how much money was spent. Ever. Money can't buy experiences. Nor can it buy about 18 hours on a train, 8 hours on a bus and 3 on a boat in one weekend. I am definitely well versed in all forms of Norwegian transport.

The whole reason for this transportation expedition was to see the fjord country. It was beautiful, but not as beautiful as I was expecting. Perhaps it was the time of the year, as there was still a lot of snow around, but I was imagining rolling hills, lots of greenery and all I saw on 'one of the most beautiful train journeys in the world' was snow. Now, snow is nice. It's pretty. I like the way it falls on tree branches. I even like snowflakes, but 7 hours of snow. Come on!

Bergen, which is the gateway to fjord country, was lovely. It had the most amazingly colourful weatherboard shop fronts along its pier which dated back to 1380 or something like that. Vic and I decided in order to save money that we would climb to the top of Bergen's mountain overlooking the city instead of taking the funicular. You know when you decide to do something and it's a good idea at the time and then, almost as soon as you start, you realise how bad the idea actually was? This was a prime example. But, we were rewarded with the most spectacular view after almost an hour a vertical climbing and a lot of sweat.

We also ate the most amazing buns. They were so doughy and soft, and were filled with an almond paste and then topped with custard and light dusting of icing sugar. We ate two just to make sure how good they were. The Norwegians have also totally embraced pear which is what I will be doing more of. Pear drinks, pear chocolate, pear pastilles. Pear, so the forgotten fruit of the 70's.

I must go ice my arse now.

Morocco

I've just come back from the most amazing holiday.

I feel lucky. So incredibly lucky. I often think this. I mean, do I seriously get to go on these wonderful holidays and visit these places some people could only dream about? This is my life and I love it.

So Morocco was mind blowing. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it far surpassed my expectations. Africa is intoxicating. Life there is simple, hard and somehow makes you feel ashamed for being Western. By no means would I want to be a woman there. I can't tell you how many men we drove past in the country who were either lazing around in groups on the street or sitting around cafes while the women lugged bundles of produce on their backs. I can only imagine how many women get raped there. Perhaps it is only towards Western women, but it seems if you're a female, you're basically a piece of meat and men are therefore entitled to act like animals toward you. It's wrong and uncomfortable, but it's a society where everyone's roles have been played out for centuries and somehow, it works.

I can only wonder what they think of us Westerners. While their way of life is by no means enviable, I kept on thinking how ridiculous they would think my life is. Rushing around constantly, never having time and don't get me started on how meaningless my job is. Western life is so vacuous. We obsess about the most superficial bullshit it makes me feel ashamed and stupid. The more time I spend in poorer countries, the more I think they have it right. All the money in the world can't make your life richer. What right does the Western world have to throw their weight around in countries such as Africa and the Middle East when, by comparison, our values are often inferior to those of these countries?

Anyway, enough ranting.

So on the first day Skinner and I lay on the rooftop of our riad and listened to the afternoon prayers which are broadcasted out over speakers all over the city. Having the sun on my face was amazing. I think I actually announced how amazing it was at least 6 times in 15 minutes. Anyway, after that we went exploring around the Djemaa el-Fna which is Marrakesh's main square. Skinner and I downed a couscous, tagine, pot of mint tea and half a kilo of biscuits in about half an hour. It was a good start to the holiday. After wandering around the souks we then decided it was time to eat more at the food stalls they had started setting up for the night in the middle of the square. I can't begin to tell you how amazing the square is. Imagine the most amazing smells, the sound of snake charmer flutes and Berber drummers set under an open air eating area.

I found myself wishing I had spent way more time paying attention to my numbers during French lessons at school. Perhaps remembering which was left and right would have been helpful too. While I was quite good at making small talk and asking how much things were, and even asking for directions, I had problems putting the information I got into practice as I only know my numbers up to 30. Here's an example:

Me: (in French) How much?
Stall owner: (in French) Blah blah blah
Me: (in French) That's too much!
Stall owner: How much then?
Me (can't think of any numbers) No thanks, bye!
Skinner: How much was it?
Me: Um, I don't know

Mum would be so proud.

So we then found a safari company and decided to go on a 3 day trek into the countryside. The next day we headed by mini van to the Sahara via Ait Benhaddou, Ouarzazate, Erfoud and into the desert by camel for a night of camping. It was amazing. Trekking through the Sahara is one of the most incredible things I've ever done. It was stunning. Mind blowing. Breathtaking. When we got to the campsite we climbed up a sand dune just in time to watch the sun set over the Sahara. We stayed the night with our Berber hosts and sat around in a tent made of local rugs singing songs and telling riddles. Sounds naf as, but it was really cool. I even got up and did some Berber dancing with one of them. We then retired to our rug tents which were, to put it simply, freezing. We slept on our rugs that we had for our camel ride with another blanket on top for 'added warmth'. That and having to wear all the clothes I brought with me! Anyway, I loved it. We go up in time to get on our camels again and watch the sun rise before heading back for a 10 hour car ride back to Marrakesh. I realised during the trip back that I had left my underwear in the tent. It was so dark I couldn't see anything, so since then I've been getting flashes of the Berber dudes sitting around playing their drums with my underwear on their head. At least they were clean.

When we got back we decided to try another riad that some people we met had stayed in. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up staying in the most beautiful riad for a dirt cheap price. It was stunning. There was a small pool in the middle of the courtyard with an open air roof looking out to the stars. Our last day in Marrakesh was spent visiting the tannery and have the ins and outs of pigeon shit by some random dude and watching the goat carcasses still with hoofs carted in and out. We then got hasseled by the local dude who had taken us there and got a bit freaked out by him following us. So we found a Hamman to hide in, and what a great place to hide. I got my arse cheeks seriously scrubbed by this Hamman dude. Because of my inadequate French I wasn't entirely sure what we were in for, but it was fantastic. We were in this stone room where we got scrubbed, bathed and rubbed in mud.Comparing notes after, Skinner's cheeks didn't seem to get the same scrubbing as mine which was slightly concerning, but still, mine were all the better for it. We then had an amazing couscous for lunch, went to the Majorelle Gardens tried to go a museum but the taxi dude took us to a completely random place instead, sat in the square and soaked in the ambiance over a coffee and then had our final meal at the night markets followed by another half kilo of biscuits. Mmm.

Then I got totally felt up by a female security officer at the airport. It was really weird in a slightly violating way.

Anyway, back now, feeling slightly depressed and having my wisdom teeth out tomorrow. Ugh.

P's and Q's

What does that mean anyway? Thank poo? Pank Q?

So I had a really interesting conversation with a friend today which prompted a debate on how we were both raised. The differences were pretty small, but seemed quite significant in relation to our conversation. My mum raised me with the 'proper', largely old school English set of manners. It's wrong to assume, but I kind of thought they were the universal code that most kids were brought up on in 80's Australia. Now, for the most part, they are a little stiff and don't necessarily need to be used every day, but they are there and I kind of like them. For a country that has little tradition and a society that seems to be repelled against it, I think they are important and I'm starting to feel a little protective of them.

This led to another conversation about being a 'gentleman'. A part of me feels indignant, of course I can open the door myself, but for all the feminist shit I dish out, it's really nice when a male opens the door for me. It's not about not being able to open the door myself, it's about someone wanting to do it for you. Again, it comes down to holding onto something that has been done for years and preserving a small part of tradition.

When I was little, having to ask to leave the table, not being able to watch tv at dinner and finishing my meal by putting my knife and fork together EVERY TIME annoyed the hell out of me. Now, it feels important. It's the little thing I can pass onto my kids because what will happen to society without good manners? I mean this in all seriousness. We already live in a largely self absorbed and non traditional society, what is going to become of us if no one gives a shit about preserving little things like manners?

Sooooo, what do you do?

So I've been doing some thinking. Fear not, I haven't exerted myself too much, nor will a theory be named after me, but I've been wondering how many people actually think like me. On more than one occasion I've been called 'strange, weird, eccentric'. Sometimes I'm ok with it, other times it pisses me off. I figure, to some extent, most people think like me, but just don't say it. Other times the things I unearth from the dark, very dirty crevasses of my mind are probably privy to me and mostly shouldn't be said. But all that aside, lately, I've met more people who think like me and I like it. So how many more are there?

I don't do small talk. I suck at it. I would rather just meet someone one and say 'fart' and then take it from there. None of this 'what do you do' bullshit. My lack of enthusiasm for chit chat usually makes people think I'm stuck up, rude, a bitch - the list is kind of endless. But the older I get, the less inclined I am to do forced conversations. I guess living over here as given me a lower tolerance for hanging out with dumbasses and a greater thirst for finding interesting people.

I wonder what the ratio is for how many people actually know us. Not in a 'if Joe had the choice to be a river or the sea, which would he be' kind of way. But more like how many of our friends and family really know us? There are different levels of our personality we chose to share with others. To begin with, we only reveal the part that we think the person would best relate to. Then hopefully you move on. But for the most part, we find a level of understanding and mutual interest and the relationship grows. However, how many people can you say confidently really know and understand all of the different layers that make up who you are?

Can I just finish off by saying there was a newspaper article in the paper about a woman who sat on the toilet for 2 years cause she got stuck. Her skin ended up growing around the toilet seat. Luckily, her caring boyfriend brought her food and water. I guess it's kind of like one of those potatoes you grow in a jar.

Also

I realised the other day that BBQ City is becoming a distant memory. It made me both sad and of course hungry at the same time. It's almost been a year since I had my last meal there. Home is far away. My old life even further.

Deep thinking is over. A good song has come on the office speakers, it's time for chair dancing.

A new addiction

I’m finding it a little hard to write at the moment. You know when you’ve eaten so much that the usually lose skin around your stomach is now so taut that you figure this is the closest feeling to pregnancy? Well, imagine that and then some, maybe think triplets and that’s how I feel. Ugh. It was good though. I love team lunches. I love sausage and mash. And fries. And greens. And dessert. And wine. Lucky I’m heading to Brussels this weekend. I like for my stomach to be prepared for full eating capacity.

So news. Well, at work we are currently looking for an art director to work as my partner. Weird, I know. Especially when some of the people we’ve been interviewing have also been going for creative director roles or have worked at some of the best creative agencies in the world. Hmmm, could I feel anymore inadequate? Probably. Like if I was standing naked next to Gisele Bunchen, or if Dave Eggers read some of my copy. But that’s it. Oh, a humanitarian of some sort would probably do it too. And one of those 18 year olds who have started their own multi million dollar company and retire by 21. The whole process is weird because it’s kind of like being set up for an arranged marriage.

I’ve also been going insane booking things. Holidays and culture are the flavour of the month. I could be my own entertainment company. Wait, I am. I am so freakin’ excited. It’s the type of Vanessa excitement that means bunching my fists, doing an ‘eeek’ (the girliest one I can manage) and squeezing my eyes closed. I may do a shake of the head too. But not in an epileptic way, it’s more of a Hindu performing princess movement. I’m getting to a point where I can’t go a week without booking something. I may have a problem.

Ok, I really need to do some work now.

Snot good

Cultural difference number 46: Pantene is pronounced Panten. Weird.

In other news I have been sick again. Cold number 4 in the past 2 months. So many germs, so little time. I seriously think that if the world suffered some superbug type thing. Ok, so it has, let me re phrase that, if I was subjected to some kind of superbug I'd definitely be the first to go. I feel weak and disappointed. I am a healthy person. I run. Yes, I get a stitch and can't seem to go past the 30 minute mark, but still, dammit, I sweat and get sore knees. I eat my recommended 5 servings of fruit and veg a day. Why am I at the top of the list for being wiped out? I think I might blame my mother. I am a child of an older woman. While I am more likely to be a genius (1. left handed 2. born to a woman over the age of 40 3. can't remember the third reason), I feel like I am slightly defected in the immune and sporting categories. Wait, I think the latter is my Asian genes. Ok, I'm just susceptible to germs. Do you know what I hate too? People commenting on you always being sick. Like you hadn't noticed that you've blown half of your body weight out in snot for the past 3 days.

I think I'm going to be one of those old people that glares at the young folk and tries to run people over in their old personmobile.

I'm sleepy.

Oh, I booked to go see the New York City Ballet, I can't wait!! I decided that I would go have a me moment and see the ballet on my own. I've been wanting to see them since 1996! Yay!

Ok, I'm going to bed. Excitement over.

A new quest

I had the most random night last night. It was one of those nights where you plan to have a quiet one, and end up coming home at 4am. So after going to a 'jam session' last night, I am now thinking I want to play the guitar. Along with my signature dish, I could so be one of those really really really handy people who, when going to someone's house can not only whip up a spontaneous yet superb dish, but then gather everyone around for a sing along after. Maybe around a roaring fire.

Let's go back to say, 1994, when I played the flute. Now under the influence of my mother, who wanted me to play a musical instrument and my sister, who I idolised and had played the flute, I attended flute lessons. I sucked. So much so, that my teacher gave up on trying to teach me for exams and indulged in my requests to compose my own music. I was seriously hideous at this. In every piece, there was no kind of rythem or chorus or whatever you call it, instead, I wrote in a 'trill' in every piece. Now this 'trill' sounded like a bird. Why did I included it? Do I like birds? No. It was because I only liked doing things I was good at. Obviously not much has changed, because last night, I made everyone who could actually play the guitar play Babara Ann over and over again so I could join in on the chorus.

But now I want to be a guitar player. I know I'll forget about this by hmmm, next week, but still I'm strumming the idea of this around in my head (HA!).

Signed, sealed and delivered

I've decided I don't need a signature dish because I've discovered I can actually cook without trying. Yes, it's like when Teresa grew boobs overnight*, I've tapped into some ninja like culinary powers, and overnight, I'm a iron chef Vanessa.

I am planning on cooking a prawn laksa tonight. There is no end to my capabilities. I can hold my head up high in the communal kitchen now.


*I'm still waiting for this to happen to me

I love London moments

Every so often I have I love London moments. Well, at least that's what I decided I would call them about 15 seconds ago when I thought I needed to write a blog entry that didn't revolve entirely around food*.

So life is normal here. It's like living in Adelaide except people scowl more, I spend way too much time on public transport playing a game I like to call 'Who is a potential serial killer' and always forgetting to bring one of the following when I go out: London A-Z, umbrella, gloves, scarf. But in the midst of going about everyday life, I love it when the true gems of how cool it is to live in a city such as this one randomly appear.

For example, today I hung out in east London. I don't think there is anywhere else in the world where there are so many varied people, cultures, beliefs, sexual preferences, fashion trends, foods, interests in one city. It's truly amazing. For everything that is wrong with this place, there are hundreds of things that are right, interesting and dare I say it, kind of wonderful . Mostly, they are small in significance, but are so validating when every so often you wonder why you would choose to come and live on the opposite side of the world away from your family, friends and BBQ City**.

This afternoon I spent the afternoon eating and wandering and then eating some more. For lunch Vic and I shared a red pumpkin curry amongst people who were playing a backgammon type game on little tables set up in between the eating benches. This crucial lunch decision was only made after at least half an hour deliberating between the Japanese omelet, pad thai, Ethiopian, Caribbean, vegetarian and Chinese. We then kept going past Brick Lane to this amazing bagel place with a line out to the street. After stuffing our faces with a cream cheese and cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, we went to the flower markets where we got three bunches of tulips for £5 and on the way back, stopped into a vintage kitchenware store who were serving free tea and coffee. When does that ever happen? Especially in London! Maybe this doesn't sound so wonderful to you, or interesting, or exciting, but it was just one of those simple days where life is good and you are happy. Or perhaps I've been spending too much time on the tube sitting next to people whose breath smells like manure and am starting to appreciate the simple pleasures a little too much.

*By the way, food is mentioned, but only in context to the story.
**BBQ City doesn't count as a food reference as it is in relation to matters of the heart

Not signature, but still a scribble

So today I was:

1. Photographed
2. Praised like the slow child in the class who had finally learned how to tie her shoelaces at aged 12 when....

I cooked dinner tonight.

Not signature but still, the flatties were impressed. Probably not with the creation, but more at the fact that I wasn't eating oatcakes for dinner and I was actually frying something.

Dinner was (insert a very impressive drum roll, perhaps royal like)

Seared salmon fillet sauteed with honey, various sauces dans le cupboard and guacamole dip. Served on a bed of baby spinach, vintage (slightly off) tomato, roasted capsicum (ok, it was roasted) and julienne style cucumber. Finished with a drizzle of lime and seasoned with cracked pepper.

The praise of the aroma and presentation were showered upon me by the boys.

Now they are suspicious of my 'new found' abilities and I'm thinking I won't get their leftovers anymore. Boo.

Greatness update

Breakfast: yoghurt and museli (duh, would I have anything else?)

Mid morning snack: boring, not worth writing about

Lunch: smoothie, soup (important lesson learned: 3 cans for 70p = GROSS), toast with honey, muller rice - apple flavour (best rice pudding creation ever), rice cakes, apple

Afternoon snack: too busy presenting work. Yes, I am very, very important. Actually, while I am talking about my importance I'd like to highlight my lack of volume control while talking due to blocked ears as well as sounding like a man. A nasally man. Like I said, important high flyer. Ok, I know I didn't say high flyer before but that's because I only just thought of it then.

Dinner: miso soup, hommus and bean dip with various items from the fridge, oatcakes with honey, yoghurt with honey, some Italian biscuit thing dipped in honey, more oatcakes.

I went a little crazy tonight because I found Aussie honey at the supermarket.

I need a signature dish NOW so I can at least add it in the mix of dairy, honey and oatcakes in my diet.

Signature dish

So I've decided I need a signature dish. You know, one that you know off by heart and can just whip it up when the need arises.

Scenario: dinner party and the host forgot to make a dessert.

Host: "Oh my god, I'm such a bad host, I forgot to make a dessert!"

Me: "Don't worry about it [insert name of host], I can make us a [insert signature dish] in no time."

Host: "That would be great. Thank god I invited you. And here I was thinking you were just one of those people who come to dinner parties, never return the invitation and always have thirds."

Me: "Pfffft, that was so 2007. I now cook and have a signature dish."

I'm thinking that sticky date pudding could be it. Ok, I've made it once. But it was good that one time. Can you claim a signature dish from a one time making? Can you claim a dessert? It's not very useful other than made up scenarios like the one above. I think I need a main dish. Perhaps some kind of green thai curry or something with asparagus. Or fennel. Wait, I don't really like fennel. Leek?

I feel I have the potential to be impressive. Not in a high school report card 'impressive but never applies herself' kind of way, more like, that's the best leak curry I've ever had, shit Vanessa can cook.

I'm going to surf for recipes now.

Please hold for culinary greatness...

Amendment

Obviously I don't want to ride in a hose and carriage. It's probably not that romantic and probably more dirty than anything else. Great. I've ruined my one girly fantasy by making it dirty. Even the word fantasy is dirty now. Sigh. It was late. My brain has a dysfunctional relationship with my fingers. I am an idiot. But I'm keeping it in there for everyone's amusement.

2008. The Year of predictive text.

Yes, I am embracing all things new in 2008. Starting with predictive text. My attitude towards predictive text was originally similar to my initial attitude towards pointy shoes: ugh, yuck, ugly, why bother, you look like a witch. Then, after 5 years of scorn and missing the cool shoe boat completely, I give them a crack and decide they are actually ok. This is now me with predictive text. Previous attitude: ugh, why bother, spell words out yourself dammit and this is another example of laziness in our obessesed with saving time society. Clearly I should spend less time thinking about unimportant things in 2008.

Hmmm, I might start thinking about fiscal responsibility and 5 year plans.

Mmmm, speaking of plan, that rhymes with flan and I saw the best looking one in a window of a bakery in Amsterdam on the weekend.

Where was I?

Ok, I realise it's just predictive text and I'm not making the world a better place or preventing my late life onset obesity for when my metabolism truly dies from eating apple pie for dinner (last night) by promising to go to the gym in 2008, but this is a big thing for me, hence the announcement of its introduction to my life.

Onto other things. After being stopped at the airport by the security frisk lady and questioned about my age i.e how old are you, I was looking around for your parents, I've decided I may boost the maturity levels too this year. Now, don't get me wrong, being mistaken for a 17 year old is nice, but I feel like I get more and more immature as I get older. Seriously, I was way more mature when I was 18. Now, I am about 12 and wearing a trainer bra. Ha, wait, I'm still wearing one. I'm not sure how I go about this 'I am mature hear me roar' thing, perhaps having a competition with your housemates as to who knows the most swear words in different languages (me - hands down.....pfft amateurs) is not a good start. But really, is it ok to be 40 and still laugh at poo jokes? It's scary that according to society/sister precedent/nature I am suppose to be nesting and listening to the faint tick of 30 and it's freaking me out. I haven't even begun to gather the twigs and you know what, I don't want to. I'd rather stick marshmellows on my twigs and toast them over the fire. Hmm, is this some kind of metaphor for my choosing fun over the bur(n!)den (ha - burnden!) of financial responsibility and life stability. Perhaps, and I am so ok with that.

This weekend I enjoyed more marshmellow and went to Amsterdam. God, I love that place. I could happily live there. There's something about the place, the people, it just fits with me. The weekend was relaxing and believe it or not, Megan and I were still sick for most of it. But we managed to eat, drink and shop ok. Thank god.

This Thursday Megan and I are off to Vienna and then Salzburg and I can't wait. Finally, my girly fantasy of riding in a hose and carriage will come true and I will be able to gorge in all things apple and sausage.

Maybe I should go to bed now and actually get to work on time tomorrow, cause that would be, you know, mature.