Forgive me, I've been busy

I’ve been busy trying to balance the stuff I love doing with the stuff I hate.

I’ve been trying to think of a way out of 9-5. An out to meetings, selling and being told I’m not chirpy enough.

I’ve been looking for a flat, for a new place and a new start with my best buddy.

I’ve been trying to be more tolerant to bullshit, but end up ranting regardless. Maybe even more than usual.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Everything is good. It’s great in fact. It’s just when you finally work out what you want out of life, it’s frustrating that getting it seems so far from reach. But enough about that. Let’s talk about the warehouse conversion that Luke and I are moving into.

It’s beautiful. You know when you walk in somewhere and you just know it’s for you? Well, it was exactly like that. I was almost afraid to say I liked it in case it was way out of our price range. But it wasn’t and now it’s ours. It’s got an amazing kitchen and I can’t wait to use the oven, it’s so big and shiny! It’s been great living in my big house with my four, sometimes five housemates, but it’s time for something new. It’s time to make the trip across the river. Straight up and then a little to the right. It’s time to embrace the bus and listen to da yoof’s hip hop blaring from the backseat rather than having my face in someone’s armpit on the Northern Line. I simply can’t wait.

The funny part about moving East London is the fact that it’s cool. And Luke and I aren’t really cool. We’re kind of on the far outskirts of cool. Actually, I might be a bit farther out than him. For all of you unfamiliar with East London, it’s the home of the over sized specs, hats, tights, baggy blazers, shoes with no socks and guys with floppy, half shaved hair. It’s a place where outrageous is encouraged, if not expected. But having said that, you also have those who appear effortlessly cool, but without a doubt spent about three hours tweaking their high waisted jeans before leaving the house. And then again, you have the people who are actually just fucking cool.

I must go. It’s 530pm and I have a long night of work ahead of me.

I'm worried about my brain

This was my dream last night..

It's my wedding day. I'm about to go downstairs to the reception and I'm in a bedroom checking my makeup in a compact mirror. At this point in my dream, I'm having loud and preoccupying thoughts about how my lips and cheeks look like they've been raped by the 80's. I then resign myself to the fact that I am looking hideous and go downstairs to the reception, very aware that I am, indeed, Barack Obama's daughter. Sadly, daddy isn't downstairs, nor is my husband. There are, however, rows upon rows of table tennis tables for all the guests, none of whom I seem to know. At this point in my dream, my brain decides to reveal to me that they're all from country Australia. I decide to take five and look outside. They're children playing ring-a-rosy quite sweetly and for some reason they're dressed like various story characters. One is Snow White, another is Sherlock Holmes. Disturbingly, they have children's bodies and adult faces.

Flash forward. I'm now dead. For some reason, someone has decided to bury me in my bridesmaid dress from cousin Rebecca's wedding. However, being dead hasn't stopped me from being able to walk past my body with Luke, which is for some reason, on display Lenin style. Luke comments happily on what a realistic job they've done on me. Too bad dead me has turned into a clothes shop mannequin - one of the ones that have no distinguishable features and are all white and angular. I do, however, take a moment to think about how this means I now have GREAT cheekbones.

Flash forward. I'm working on the Governor of California's new electoral campaign. No, sadly not Arnie's, as I distinctly remember asking this in my dream - it was just some other guy. My dream ended on putting EVERYTHING to do with the campaign (including staplers and post-it notes) in a glass trophy case.

I don't even know what to do with this.

You know it's not a great day when you step in human poo

There's something to be said about work toilets. Yeah, they're grimy, that's a given. Up until today, the girls of ground floor north had to put up with toilets that didn't flush and smelt like piss. The afore mentioned problems were easy enough to deal with. Ok, not ideal, but if you walked into the toilet and the seat was down, you knew it was a no go zone.

Today was different.

I walked into the toilet, turned around, went to hover (it's germy and I have good thigh muscles) and then looked down to see a brown smear on the ground. While I'm still hoping it was dirt (afterall, it did rain today), an email went around a couple of us, that included the words 'BEWARE, HUMAN SHIT, ON FLOOR, GROSS'.

Why do I have to deal with this? It's not a Tuesday problem. In fact, it's not even a Friday problem. It's a aim problem with people who should be toilet trained. I can't even work out how this happened.

I'm in a delicate state, and while writing this post, I've realised I've forgotten to tell some very important people of this matter. But then again, this is not the first time this has happened. Back in 2003, I was doing some extremely important outlet mall shopping in the US when I needed to go to the toilet mid way through deciding whether to purchase some denim knee high boots. Yes, you read correctly; denim, knee high - it was 2003 after all. Actually, you're right, there's no excuse. I went to the toilet which ended up being a ten minute walk into the middle of the car park. It was a tiny, lonesome cubicle which, let's just say, served as target practice for both numbered varieties.

Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.

Lately

Last week, my life was about to change. I actually just deleted two paragraphs of pure work related ranting. I decided against it because a furious finger vomit was not what I originally had in mind for this post. Rather, I wanted my words to be about fullness, satisfaction and happiness. So here it is.

Last week, my life was about to change. There was a chance I was going to lose my job. The prospect of this made me feel both excited and slightly pukey. Thankfully, I still have it. As much as the place sometimes infuriates me and makes me want to stab myself in the eye, when I leave, I want it to be on my terms. Perhaps in the form of a sign painted in glitter and emoticons dotted around. Or maybe a happy dance, I haven't decided yet.

With the prospect of at least another couple of months of guaranteed pay, I'm feeling a strong urge to buy shit I don't need. The other day, to celebrate keeping a job I hate, I bought a t-shirt with two girls punching each other in the face. It was either that, or one saying 'We Both Love Soup'. In fact, I might still buy that one because honestly, it just tickles me.

On the weekend, one of my worst fears came true. Twice; I was pulled up to assist at a magic show. The first was a lot more traumatic than the second. It was in front of a packed room in the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Now, if you don't already know, I am rather slow witted. In fact, if I even think of remotely witty come back, it will be about three days later and probably on the toilet. This is why on stage audience participation scares me. The trick I assisted with (and by 'assisted' I mean thinking of a card not being sawed in half) was over pretty quickly and luckily, I didn't have to speak too much. However, my other worst fear came to life: the funny man's kiss on the cheek. Now, I've been to a lot of audience participation shows. I know what happens when they get a female up from the audience and the dude asks for a kiss on the cheek. It's the good old slide of the cheek so it's planted on her lips. I was so not going to fall for that shit. In fact, I was determined. So determined. After shaking my head furiously mouthing 'no way', I caved. I decided I was going to have to kiss him, but in the farthest place from his lips. I was ninja ready for any type of sudden head movement as I went in for my peck. The trouble was, his head and cheek stayed put. I kissed the magician on his bloody ear. It wasn't even a proper kiss either. I had an ulcer on the inside of my bottom my lip, so my lips refused to pout together for any kind of normal end product. The kiss ended up being a weird brush against his ear cartilage.

Smooth.

It's official. I have aged.

Since the last post, I've been a bridesmaid, turned another year older, watched one of my best friends get splattered with bird shit, seen some comedy that makes you want to slit your wrists, ate at a Michelin star restaurant and got a fringe. So far 28, so good.

The Wedding was what I thought it would be. Well, the lead up was anyway. I'm not good/equipped with handling tears, especially when I deem them unwarranted. I'm not good with weird emotional freak outs either. I deal with them awkwardly, my reactions are totally forced, especially when I'm trying to be sympathetic. But it wasn't all bad. While I know that The Wedding wasn't what I'd ever want for myself, the whole marriage thing is actually beautiful, even underneath all the cheesy photos and colour coordination. I really enjoyed the Scottish ceilidh. I think I really like tradition because I come from a non traditional family. I feel a little sad that if I ever got married there wouldn't be any singing and dancing to Scottish anthems, nor would I be wearing red or adopting any of the Chinese traditions. Of course I could, if I really wanted to, but I don't know enough about either side for it to seem acceptable. I'd just feel like a culture sucking fraud.

So onto the new age, and with 28, comes a new list. I did most of what I wanted to achieve and this time around, I've got more time to get everything done. This year's list is going to be more thoughtful, because this is what happens when you're 28; you're wiser, more worldly yet you still laugh at poo jokes.

28. The manifesto.

Floss more. She who flosses prevents gum disease (is this weird this was my first thought? No, eroding gums are gross).

Experiment with cooking. Soy sauce shouldn’t dominate my meals, I’ve probably tapped into my Asian-ness enough.

Grasp grammar. Honestly, it’s about time.

Glasses. Perhaps accurate vision will be deemed more important this year.

Try harder. If everything were easy you probably wouldn’t be writing a manifesto, right?

Don’t ever be lazy. You’re not at the moment, but it’s just a warning to the 28 year old you who may be feeling a little weary and less sprightly.

Be less dismissive of people. Maybe there’s something more to the people you don’t like. While they’re probably still dicks, at least try one more time?

Go out for breakfast more because you love it. You can order muesli every time if that’s what you wish – don’t listen to other people’s scorn.

Farewell thee well 27th year.

Reason 457 I am turning into my mother

My mum has an uncanny knack of remember the smallest details of her childhood but when it comes to her, say, remembering which of her daughters is calling her on the phone, there are sometimes a few lapses. For example, every time I call her, the following conversation starter occurs:

Ring ring, ring ring...

Mum: 'Hello?'
Me: 'Hi Mum' (sometimes I mix it up with, hi mum, it's me)
Mum: pause......pause

[mum's train of thought] hmmmmmmm, now I spoke to Juliet the other day, Lisa on the weekend. Ah, this is the deeper voiced child, the one who insists on calling me at 730am when we've made no pre-arrangements to talk on the phone [train of thought breaks to remember if any arrangements to call were made that she may have forgotten].

Mum: pause

[mum's train of thought cont.] Yes, it's Vanessa, that one never makes arrangements.

Mum: 'Oh hello dear' (even though she says the same hello dear with all of us so she actually could have bought some time at the start while she worked out which one of us was calling).

Before I get an email from her telling me she knows which of us is which, the point I am making is that my long term memory is so much better than my short term one. Last night, Luke and I were playing the game where you sing the next line of a song. I sucked at all songs post 1996. But when TLC's Sumthin' Wicked This Way Comes I was totally channeling the late Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopez. The song I learned back in 1995 (in the peak of my R&B days) was obviously in some recess of my mind, just waiting for the day some neuron came by to pick it up to test its worth. It was probably sitting alongside the various bits of useless information my brain insists on carrying. For example, Left Eye died in a jeep accident. Of course, I don't need to remember this, yet I remember such facts over the more useful things like where full stops etc go after inverted quotes. Actually, I can't even remember whether they're called inverted quotes or commas.

Hmmmm.

In follow up to post 3.8.09

Vic and I were loudly 'rated' by a gaggle of builders last night.

Filed under 'a large percentage of people in this world are idiots' and 'female meat meets femmo rant'.

Success

Tonight, Vic and I were talking about how we measure success, and understandably, as we are not conjoined and share the same digestive system and heart, our measurements are about as different as metric and imperial. For some reason I negatively prefaced my idea of success with something along the lines of 'I may be a massive underachiever but...'and having reflected on this conversation 20 minutes later, it really bothered me that I did this because I am not one of those down on myself people.

But let's have a moment to psych me out. My idea and measurement of success has only recently taken a solid form. I spent a majority of my life comparing myself and the stage of life I was at to that of my sisters. Wrong, so wrong. I am not them and that's ok. So I had to change my definition of success. It has become clear since coming here that all I really want is to be happy, everyday, and if I am good at that, then I'm successful. But that seems a bit lame-o and to be honest, maybe happiness is not the end of my measuring tape (cms of course).

The problem is, I really like stuff in general. I really like doing a lot of things. I'd even go as far to say I love a lot of things. Take writing for instance, I love doing it. But then I don't do enough of it. I have a very short term memory, so while I really love doing things at the time, I completely forget that feeling and move onto something else and get pre occupied with that. I also love cooking but I do it in spurts. I love taking photos and most days I'll walk past things and mentally take a picture of it in my head, but I never carry my camera around. I also love doing bedroom art projects. I love going out for breakfast. I love reading. I love going to dance classes. I love random projects like deciding to write letters to people. But then I just stop. I can't stick to things and put my heart and soul into it. I can't dedicate my life to this one thing that I am passionate about and that bothers me. Almost everyone I know has some kind of thing they really strive for. Whether it's to be a mother, a writer, an artist, a successful business person or even someone who builds an amazing bridge, they have this thing that drives them. I want that. I want it for more than a project or two weeks of dance classes or a phase of making muesli.

You can't force these things and maybe I'll never find that one true passion to focus on. Or perhaps I've just summed up my love of stuff into 'happiness'. I once asked someone if I could put 'faffing' under my list of hobbies in my resume. Maybe it represents me perfectly but then again, it just doesn't seem enough.

Portugal

I’m back with a slightly darker sheen, a newfound appreciation for tiles and have come great strides in being able to urinate in the sea. Portugal was great fun and I’m sad to be back. I hate how holidays always feel like a distant memory as soon as you return home.

But, shall we recap?

Have a cup of tea, I’ll be mum.

Porto was our first stop. Home of Port (the drinking kind not the harbour), we managed to have a taste of the local specialty when we stumbled across a one man run restaurant. This sort of madly run restaurant seems to be our thing when we travel. This time, the dude was neither obese or lazy eyed, but he was a little odd with his communal menu that he shared around the four tables and the brisk pulling up and down of the dumbwaiter that delivered the food and cleared the plates. We also found this beautiful bookstore with an amazing red stepped and wooden carved spiral staircase that followed floor to ceiling bookcases filled with years old books. Another highlight of Porto was the shower at the place we stayed at. It had three nozzles in one shower. One standard, another with six jets and then a rather large over the head one. It was truly amazing and the coverage would put sponge baths to shame (not that I’ve ever had one but I imagine they’d get in there). Finally, Porto is where I discovered my love for tiles. All the facades of the houses and churches in the old town are covered with the most exquisite tiles. I want my house to have beautiful Portuguese tiles on the outside, wooden shutters on the windows, wrought iron balconies and maybe leafless vines subtley growing and creeping up the walls from the front door. Oh, that would be lovely.

After Porto we headed to Lisbon where I completely fell in love with the city. It just had a great feel to it with the hilly cobbled paths and tram lines weaving webs throughout the city. It was here I ate my top five meal of all time. We found this little Argentinean café in the Bairro Alto district, sitting in between a break of white chunky steps and the second to last in line of little eateries with outside tables set underneath hanging fairy lights and roaming street musicians with playing guitars in the background. Luke had a steak and I had the fish and both were delicious. Oh the sauce, oh the baby potatoes rubbed happily in butter and sea salt. Oh the animals that were sacrificed so we could gorge happily and then want to vomit with fullness after.

Then, for the last part of our trip we headed further south to Lagos which again, was stunning, with its sparkling green and blue waters and craggy rocks sheltering the beaches. Luke discovered soft sand and I in turn discovered the joy of being able to wee in the sea. I’ve recounted this story a few times and have been met with a few looks of disapproval at my joy, so I won’t go into too much detail because not everyone likes wee, poo and midget stories as much as me. Now, up until a week ago, I was unable to wee in the sea. This was a problem for numerous reasons and something I really wanted to conquer. Now, although technically I haven’t weed in the sea while ‘swimming’, my ‘aim’ has been close to full water contact and as Luke said, baby steps. This may actually be on of those stories that results me getting an email saying it didn’t make sense. Please let me know if you want me to elaborate further.

Lagos also enabled me to practice my French. Ah, how the lessons of 1994-1998 have totally come in handy all these years later. We stayed with this slightly crazy French lady called Angela. I think she thought I could speak French better than I could. I understood most of what she was saying, but when it came to constructing sentences other than just saying ‘oui, oui’ over and over again, my mind failed me. Mum, you would have been somewhat proud of my comprehension but not so proud of my construction.

This post is long for your eyes but for me, I feel like I’ve missed large chunks from a never ending trail of fun and interesting things we saw, ate and experienced.

It was great and I hope you enjoyed my rather long postcard.

I need to go on holiday because

I just had a meeting and used the following bullshit buzz phrases:

- 'We need to inject some more unique elements into this'
- 'We really need to dial up the be better aspect of that'
- 'That will be the hero headline, this is more just a creative wrapping'

Oh god.

Seriously, I need to go away to remember who I am.

I think Portugal is the place to do it. This time tomorrow, I'll be in Porto, injecting some custard tarts into my mouth.

In one weekend

You can be having the time of your life
You can be reliving the worst time of your life
You can experience an overwhelming sense of relief
You can be broken
You can be hoping for a time when you feel normal again
You can be making mistakes you've made many time before
And you can be waiting for the day your skin doesn't itch anymore

How can one weekend bring such a varied outcome for myself and my friends? For some reason I had the chance to speak to most of my friends from around the world today and shit, I've never had such a variation of sad, happy and strange events retold to me. We're so wrapped up in our own lives that you completely forget that one of your friends could be having the best or the worst time of their life. Of course, you can't go around thinking that all the time, but when you do, it's an mix of a strange and interesting, which is pretty much guaranteed when it comes to thinking about life. Note: I just had a sleep in between those last two sentences, is that a bit weird?

My own wallowing this weekend has made me feel reflective on the things I don't appreciate enough. Of course, the day I get through a day without getting stupid welts all over me, I'll forget all this worthiness, but at the moment, I'm wheeling and dealing with myself like a crack addict looking for their next fix. So at the moment, I'm repeating to myself that I will never complain about going to work again if I get through 9-10pm tonight without a rash appearing. I just want to get better and this stupid reaction to be over. Stupid suspected Romania and it's stupid bugs. Stupid non Romanian things that could also be making me itchy. Stupid everything but I'll also even stop saying the word 'stupid' if they don't come up again. Yeah body? How does that sound?

It's funny that when something is wrong, all you can do is think of how appreciative you'll be of the day it all goes right again. I remember thinking back to having a really bad cold, and all I could think was; the night I can breathe again through my nostrils again will mark me appreciate every breath I take from that day on. Of course, I take every non snotted up breath for granted, but still, these promises we make to ourselves are sometimes hilarious.

Or maybe it's just me who does that?

I need to go and vacuum my room and put my boiled sheets back on my bed.

P.S For everyone who is finding out for the first time about these welts, I'm fine, I've just got a suspected allergic reaction that is impartial to a bit of 9pm action it seems. I've sought the appropriate medical advice and am non spready, just itchy within my own core of 'allergy' (I don't know where that last sentence came from).

Oh, Romania

Romania. From now on, I won't be able to mention this country without and 'oh' before and a 'sigh' after. So where to start.

Ok.

A couple of months ago, Vic sent through the Romanian national anthem. I had a laugh to myself because all I heard was some angry, 15th century, hatchet wielding men singing/yelling from deep within their bellies which had probably just been filled with meat and cabbage. Having just returned from Romania, I can confirm that these men still exist. They are scary and most of them are taxi drivers.

Oh Romania (sigh). What a land of contradictions, stray dogs and ugly people with the strangest hair growth. When we arrived we couldn’t find the bus stop. There was no information desk, so we asked the 2nd most trusted people, the police, where we might find it. They helpfully informed Luke that the bus stop was 20kms down the road. Not so helpful when you know for a fact there is a bus stop at the airport. So, we decided to catch a taxi. Not so helpful when the taxi driver is trying to charge you about £30 to go 10km down the road. We haggled, and then agreed on a price. After a 10 minute drive into the city, with tunes blaring from the radio that resembled my old keyboard’s demo mode, we stopped at the train station where the driver proceed to demand more money. In fact, he decided the price we had agreed on was actually per person. He just forgot to tell us. Ah, the hilarity. We ended up chucking the money at him and the legging it out of the cab. It was truly a great start to the country.

Then came the train station. As a general rule, most vagrants hang out at train and bus stations. Accepted. But seriously, when you’ve just been ripped off by a fat fuck of a taxi driver and then find yourself walking through gypsy children sniffing aerosol cans, stray dogs with patches of fur missing and generally unpleasant and scary looking men just to get through the front doors, there’s only one thing to do: head to Mc Donald’s. Those sweet golden arches provided the McFlurry and post mix Cokes to will us onto the next 6 hours of our journey; to Transylvania.

The beauty of the Carpathian mountains and the surrounding countryside was probably what made the trip. After another taxi ride from Brasov, through to Rasov and then Bran, we finally made it up the mountain into the Piatra Craiului National Park in Moeciu where our accommodation was. It was everything we needed it to be to start over with Romania. We stayed at a family farm, with about three generations of the family living and working there, including the 100 year old grandma who seemed to spent A LOT of time in the barn. There were cows and chickens as well as massive hay stack houses with pitch forks at the top, as well as homemade tables and chairs and old jars with wild flowers on all the tables. It was beautiful. We even arranged for a farm style breakfast that began with a glass of warm milk, straight from the udder. I really liked the idea of it, but when it came to the thick taste of fresh, frothy teat, it was a bit much. After breakfast, we walked down the mountain into Bran and had a look at the outside of Dracula’s castle. We didn’t go in as we heard that they had re decorated it Romanian style. We figured that probably included tearing up the floorboards and scattering rubbish around the interior, so we didn’t bother. We then meandered back up the mountain and had a traditional picnic halfway up that included cheese and pizza flavoured chip sandwiches, biscuits and many name games.

I think after our mountain time, we were all a bit reluctant to go back to Bucharest, but it wasn’t as bad as we were fearing. After waiting for our train which was almost an hour late, we got to our hostel successfully by avoiding all taxis. Our hostel was just near Cismigiu Park, which was lovely. It had rows of green benches with wrought iron backs and sides, where the old folks would gather to have a chit chat at dusk. There was also a space in the middle of the park for the local Romanian men to play a game that looked like Scrabble, but with number tiles and carpet on top of the table.

Most cities, even the most average, have beautiful old towns. It’s what saves the grime and the ugliness of the concrete. But, of course, because it was Romania, the old town was just as ugly as the rest of the city. There were no footpaths because they had all been dug up. They had been replaced with wooden slats that were so flimsy, the fat fuck of the taxi driver would definitely have fallen through. Surrounding the slats were piles, upon piles of rubbish, guarded by the manky dogs that roamed the city. Instead of the electrical wires being, I don’t know, underground or perhaps inside the electrical poles, they were just wrapped around the outside of the poles at least a hundred times over, with some even hanging down head height. As we continued to walked around, one thing became very obvious; these people like to get married. There were at least five wedding dress shops on every street, with the most hideous looking dresses imaginable. Think Borat’s mankini but with lace and a meringue bottom. Hot.

This entry is a lot longer than I intended, and I even skipped some stuff to try and save your eyes and attention span. I guess I’d like to wrap this up with, oh Romania (sigh). I’m glad I went and saw you. You were ugly, you had an old woman who kissed Vic’s cleavage with her gummy mouth and called me a Mongoloid. You had people with huge moles, the worst dress sense on the plant (red horizontal and pink vertical stripes in ONE outfit is TOO much) and hair spurting out of some weird places. You had people who would do anything to get ahead, people who crossed themselves upon going past every church, stray dogs and drunk gypsies stealing petunia’s from a restaurant. You were both weird and a little wonderful. I liked you and I hated you.

Stop my weirdness

Do you ever only act weird around certain people? I do. There are people who bring out my weirdness, usually because I don't know what to say to them. They're mostly people in authority, like a couple of my bosses at work, where I say really inappropriate, random things to them.

Example one

Scene: At a random desk. It's one my new boss' first day and I decide to strike up a conversation with him which is totally not like me.

Me: Hi, I'm Vanessa, how are you going?
Him: Hi, I'm XXXX. How are you going?
Me: Good thanks, how are you?
Him: Good, how are you?
Me: Err, good thanks.

Example two

Scene: In the kitchen. It's day three for the afore mentioned boss. We're boiling water together. He's making a selfish tea round, I can't get away with that shit, so I'm on about four cups.

Me: Hi, how's it going?
Him: Oh yea, you know how it is when you start somewhere new.
Me: Yeah, you totally feel like a spare dick.
Him: Err, did you just say spare dick? (note this man is a WRITER)
Me: Um, yes, spare dick. You know, spare dick?
Him: No, no I don't.

Example three

Scene: In the kitchen. Again, the below conversation is with boss dude. Note to self, I really should check he isn't in the kitchen before I venture in there next. Again, we're making tea. Him, a selfish one, me, a morning round I, no doubt, did with a lot of fuss and claims of 'you're just asking me because I'm a woman'.

Him: Hi
Me: Hi (cautiously)
Him: Most Aussies don't drink tea.
Me: I know, I've assimilated.
Him: I don't drink it that much, I've just started getting into coffee.

(The conversation is going normally until this point where I launch into a passionate rant about how English people don't understand what good coffee is. This goes on for a full kettle boil. It is long and unnecessary, but once I get started on this topic, I have to finish).

Him: Err, yes. Well, instant coffee..
Me: DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THAT SHIT. It's soooo the equivalent of Melanie Griffiths 'finding her way' in the corporate world of Working Girl. HA HA HA HA.
Him: I was going to say I quite like it. Are you saying I'm like Melanie Griffiths?
Me: Oh. Yes. Well. Some of it's nice. And. Um. No. HA.

I should stop making tea.

Swine apparel

There's some figure that if people actually actioned the ideas they had, persevered and learnt from their mistakes, the changes of being successful would be something like 1000 to 1. Think about the odds people play with the lottery and then compare that to a little hard work and some hard core, scary arse, putting yourself out there. Most of us are too scared or too lazy to actually do half the stuff we really want to do, but not Luke. However this turns out, I'm stupidly proud of him and completely admire him.

http://www.swineapparel.com

Update, 27 things

1. Bake some biscuits - DONE: ANZACS, some choc chip ones and oat and apricot
2. Visit Turkey - DONE: note this changed to Iceland and this is ok cause it's my list
3. Own something expensive - Having trouble with this one
4. Go on a holiday with Luke - DONE: and to be continued
5. Read a classic - DONE: Catcher in the Rye, Farewell to Arms
6. Make a really good curry - Hmmm, need to get onto this
7. Go to the ballet - DONE: Swan Lake at the Royal Opera
8. See another play - DONE: The Frontline, but I will see another one
9. See Shakespeare at the Globe - HALF DONE: saw a play at the Globe but not a Shakey
10. Write some letters to people - DONE!
11. Go to the underground rebel bingo night - Do-able
12. Go to Chagford - The next three I will need to get onto
13. Visit the Lake District
14. Visit the Cotswolds
15. Eat in one of the best restaurants in London - Do-able
16. Do one of the country walks in my London book - Hmmm, can I do one in Brasov?
17. Do another bedroom art project - DONE
18. Try and see a deer at Richmond park - DONE
19. Have a summer picnic - DONE
20. Find out how hard it is to apply for a visa for the US - Do-able
21. Be a good bridesmaid - Getting there, will be doing a chunk this weekend
22. Go to Essex - DONE
23. Go to a quiz night - Do-able when Vic moves to Clapham
24. Try to (ha!) get better at drawing - Getting there, but never do-able
25. Enrol in a writing class - all booked, won't be able til until 28 things before 29
26. Try to get an article published in Frankie - being slack, must try harder
27. Do the Jack the Ripper tour (random last one, I know) - DONE

How is everyone going with theirs?

Neurons are cool

Our minds are amazing, funny things. Last night, Luke and I went to a School of Life (www.theschooloflife.com) talk about memory and it was so surprisingly thought provoking. Man, I love being an adult. I totally embrace this stage in my evolution whereby comfortable shoes rule, on the odd occasion can say ‘shit’ in front of my mother (only occasionally as it still feels naughty), wear stockings with open toe shoes (not sure about this one but Vic has welcomed it into her life quite happily) and finally, go to something kind of nerdy and not be ridiculed about it.

So, for the first time in ages, I actually listened with the intent of retaining information. I even did it for a whole 90 mins, give or take a few mind wanders. It’s crazy how we remember things, or as we learnt, how we don’t. Our memory isn’t for what we may think. In fact, we can only hold up to five pieces of information at a time. It’s not built for long term retention. Thank god, because I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. Interestingly, our memories are often shaped and re shaped each time we revisit them thanks to many things, including the change of environment. Even our mood, smells, even sounds can alter what and how we remember. So basically, every time we think back to a memory, we’re actually going back to the last time we thought of it, rather than the original event. How we work is seriously fascinating. Even how we experience déjà vu is intriguing. Our neurons shoot through the middle of our brain and along the way, pick up other contributing neurons to form a particular memory. In the case of déjà vu, the wrong neuron (the familiarity one) is picked up, making us think we’ve seen or done something before. As you can see, I could go on about this for at least another five paragraphs, but I won’t.

Yay learning!

I'm back

Sorry I haven't written in a while.

I've had a really intense couple of weeks at work. My brain has felt constantly constipated, I've gone from no ideas, to plenty of ideas, to no ideas again. Sometimes I feel like screaming at people; 'this is just advertising' but it just ends up like those dreams when you're shouting and your mouth is moving but no one can hear a thing.

But now it's over, and I can breathe again. I can make plans that I can keep and no doubt I will forget the pain and frustration before it starts all over again.

On Saturday, Vic and Luke surprised me with a picnic in Richmond park because of the afore mentioned work beating. It was one of the most lovely, thoughtful and touching things anyone has ever done for me, let alone two of my favourite people in the world. You know when you want to express your gratitude but it just sounds so empty and trite when the words leave your mouth? I can't find the right words to use because anything that forms in my head seems so clumsy, but it was amazing and beautiful that they thought to do it. Saturday left me thinking about my other friends who aren't here to make me feel better in person but do with amazing Powerpoint presentations, music and photos as well as giant Fru-Choc balls that arrive on days when your face feels squashed with stress. Let's all take a moment to have a cyber hug in a field of daisies. Please make sure you're wearing white.

Oh, and I crossed off two things off my list on the weekend: a picnic in Richmond to see a deer and the Jack the Ripper tour! Woooo.

Beware of Icelandic roadside horses

This is going to sound somewhat dumb, but sometimes I forget we live on a planet. I mean, who, apart from people working at NASA and planetariums, actually include Earth in their everyday thoughts? Err, let's see, milk, bread, do I look fat in this and ah, planet Earth? I don't think so.

Iceland made me remember why living on Earth is so amazing. Yes, life form is pretty cool but the Northern Lights, the Blue Lagoon, Geysirs? Fucking incredible. I'd forgotten what it was like to step outside to air that felt heavy with purity. It was so still there, so quiet. But don't let me lead you astray, Rekyiavik was far from paradise you might think. It had the dullness of the granite buildings of Aberdeen, the leftover depressing eastern block houses of Slovakia and the feeling of a black sheep nation from the rest of their luxurious Nordic neighbours. As soon as you went out into the country, it was like you were on another planet. There were no trees, no soil, only mounds of lava covered in moss. It was something else.

Amazingly, on the way to the hostel from the airport, on what was probably one of the longest bus rides of my life, we saw the Northern Lights. As I glanced out of the window, I noticed a green haze streaked across the sky. It wasn't what I was expecting, nor where I was expecting to see it, but it was wonderful nonetheless. And I guess the unexpectedness of it made it all the more special. We saw them again, a couple of nights later, on a planned tour that we booked in the hope of seeing them so late in the season. After waiting in the cold for about four hours and using up all the waiting games we could think of including 'what else could we be doing now', they finally appeared. There we were, two girls from Adelaide, standing in a valley where the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates meet, looking at the most incredible dance of charged particles underneath a magnetic white haze. God, it's so hard to explain, but they appeared out of nowhere and literally moved across the sky. And then, almost as soon as they appeared, they were gone. The more I think about it, the more amazing it seems.

So on our nature day of waterfalls and Geysirs, I got bitten by an Icelandic horse. If only I could describe one properly to do the stupidly of this event justice. Ok, I've got it, they're like a bigger Shetland with a mullet. At the time, I was totally being at one with nature. I was even feeding the fucker properly. The one I started feeding first was totally digging me, we were bonding and it was even licking my fingers lovingly. Then the other manky one butted in, knocked my other bread roll and just as I thought I was getting more horse licking action, it bit me. Hard. Who gets bitten twice out of the two times they've been around a horse? And by a stupid one with a mullet? Me.

The Blue Lagoon was something else. If there ever was going to be a waiting place for Heaven, this would be it. It was smaller than I expected and the blueness of the algae gave the water a slight toxic look. But to swim in Cocoon-like, 30 degree, blue thermal water while the icy wind of the north pole is slashing your face was pretty freakin' cool. The Lagoon water was so clouded that I could only see my hands when they were just about to surface. By the sides of the Lagoon were wooden slits holding some kind of natural face mask that had the consistency of cottage cheese. It dried hard on your face and it was quite comical to see people wading around with these tribal like white faces. Because we liked it so much and also because we'd run out of things to do, we went a second time on the way to the airport. That day there was an incredible amount of fog over the water, so much so, Vic and I could have been the only ones there. The only thing ruining our toxic rebirth were the stupid Brits abroad with their lack of volume control thinking everyone wanted know where Dave was. Luckily he was in the really hot bit.


So, I'll wrap this up as it's pretty long, but it was such an interesting place. While I'll probably never go there again, I'm so glad I went.

Korean kareoke

Luke and I had the most random and fun night on Friday. We were out in Soho and decided to go and get something to eat. By chance, we stopped outside a Korean restaurant. They people told us it was full but they'd be a table ready in 10 minutes. So we followed this guy up three flights of stairs to a small room above the second floor of the restaurant. In there was a skeleton of a large grill, a massive TV on the wall, tambourines on the table and two microphones with shower cap tops on them. The dude asked us if we wanted to watch TV, but we asked if we could sing kareoke instead. So we did. The guy even turned on the disco lights on for us. So while we waited for our table, we sang. No era was left unturned as we used probably the biggest remote in the world to badly belt our way through The Beatles, Queen and Bon Jovi. We actually had to send them away twice so we could finish our songs. It was so random, and so fun. And the food was excellent too. Our meals were garnished with the most amazingly sculptured exotic birds carved out of radishes. We even got these miniature paper towels that when poured with boiling water, turned into large hand wipes.

Now I am off to buy my second set of sheets. It's official. I am going to go flat sheetless every couple of weeks. I figure it's a good compromise. I can have an old school set and then one 'edgy' set. Wooooooooooooo.