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.

Paris

I’m spoiled. Really spoiled. Who, with the exception of business people, Eurostar drivers and err, passport control, gets to go to Paris five times in their life? Me! That's who! It’s ok, I realise how lucky I am. So much so, I was giving thanks like a nun getting laid for the first time on my way back this morning. It went something like ‘blah blah thanks be to me who gets to pop over to Paris when some people have never left their city’. Then, my thanks was over, because really, it was a little vomit worthy and frankly, I was boring myself. So instead I had a snooze with my head in a weird position which left me feeling wonky for the rest of the day.

My weekend in Paris was fantastic. I love that no matter how many times you go somewhere, it’s always somehow different. This time it was different in a kind of random way. I’ll start from the beginning.

Food. So much pressure to eat the right thing. We even consulted the likes of Time Out and The Guardian for guidance. Consulted in vain might I add. All that printing of options, discussing and marking on maps was for nothing but a bit of deep fried duck and a fat, lazy eyed pirate. Perhaps more detail is needed. Let me set the scene briefly: 12 hours of walking, getting lost maybe four times (mostly my fault), rain, non reading of gallery opening times and a free Starbucks cappuccino. And back to the story. It was about 1030 at night, somewhere past the Bastille and we were in the middle of walking the long way to get there. My legs were heavy, toes slightly blistered by my Assassin shoes and I was close to giving up. It got to the point that if the next street wasn’t the right one, we were going to turn back. But as luck had it, the next street was what we were after. And can I add, the street set up the randomness that turned out to be the night. It was probably the only restaurant on the street/motorway and it was next door to an iron clad police station.

‘Les Dingues’ was a one man show. I think the maitre-de/barman/chef/waiter/DJ’s name might have been Pascale. At least, that’s what he’s going to be called for the sake of this story. So, Pascale was on the morbid side of obese, kind of looked like the fat guy from Lost and held his curly locks back with a headband – because, you know, for a man who looked like he suffered from the meat sweats, hygiene would have been a top priority. He was the kind of dude that made babies cry, dogs bark and old ladies clutch their handbags. He scared us into eating everything on our plates without a single threat. But he was that type of man. Throughout the meal, we felt like uninvited guests, as it seemed like everyone (4 people) there knew Pascale. Some guy was even getting up every two minutes to change the tunes playing from the computer on the bar. Then, a party of five, a dog and some random guy on his own came in and started a party. Old Pascal was LOVING it. He was smoking at the bar as he poured drinks and wandered in and out of the kitchen, no doubt to scratch his arse. The highlight would definitely have been after we’d finished our mains and I spotted a mouse run over the plates. Pesky food standards. So after, we made a hasty exit amid a floury of ‘tres bien’ and ‘super’ compliments about our meal and left feeling kind of disturbed and sick from a plate of what was essentially meat grizzle and burnt frozen wedges. God it was random.

Wow, that ended up being longer than I intended. If you want to keep on reading, there’s more.

We also went to Versailles. The day had gone quite well so far because we hadn’t got lost. It went a little downhill when we somehow joined an Italian 50+ tour group as soon as we got through the gates. We realised too late and backed away slowly after getting some weird looks as the nonnas knew we were misplaced before we did. As we laughed our way down to the ground floor at the silliness of it all, we stopped in our tracks as another group of 50+’s were grouped at the bottom of the stairs. They were listening very intently and quietly as old people do and seemed unamused at us interrupting what was no doubt a very interesting spiel. The only way to escape was to walk down the stairs, past the guide and through the crowd. It was like we were celebrities, except of course we weren’t and it was kind of embarrassing.

The final thing, which may not be the last, but I’ve had a mental blank, were some markets we visited near the Sacre Coeur. Note, when Time Out says ‘must see’ and ‘prepare yourself’ they are both lying and telling the truth. It was like stepping out into ghetto sales hell. Imagine some of the most gangster looking hoodies mixed with local tramps, then add every piece of crap you've even thrown away. Voila! You’ve got yourself a market. The funniest bit was walking around the corner from the main market and seeing rows of mini stalls the homeless had set up. Used towel? Sure, someone would definitely up for that. One shoe? Discarded socks? The perfect gift for all! It was hilarious.

Add a shit load of cheese, wine, crepes, pastries and a boy, and that was Paris.

Old habits die slowly

I grew up a flat sheet girl.

So, as I contemplate buying my second set of sheets (I know. Commitment to the max), I'm wondering whether I should take the plunge and skip the whole flat sheet thing. I'm mean, it's not as if I do hotel corners when I make my bed. What am I saying? I haven't made my bed in the morning since the early 90's let alone do any fancy folding.

I guess I feel like it's a bit of a grown up thing not having a flat sheet. It's kind of like when I have ice cream for dinner or before my 'real' dinner if I'm feeling really crazy. It's sadly satisfying and makes me feel like I'm defying the rules of my childhood. Wait, it's bigger than that, I'm rebelling against societies rules! I squash rules with a spoon.

When I think about it, which is perhaps too much, it's a little sad knowing I might not have a flat sheet anymore. It reminds me of my childhood, of my mum tucking me in and it's really handy in the morning when you have a bright room. I know it's completely ridiculous and I've spent way too much of my time and Skinner's time discussing this, but it feels like it represents something more than an added layer between me and my duvet(UK readers)/doona (OZ) - like what I did there? It's like the one last thing of my childhood will go when I get rid of it.

Again, I'd like to reiterate that I know this post is ridiculous. Perhaps I should have a little think about how and what I'd like people to think of me being pressing 'publish post'. Hmmmm......

Back to my woes:

I tried the whole duvet only thing last week. It was mostly out of laziness because my sheet had ended up on the floor and I couldn't be bothered pulling it up. It was ok. My legs felt joyously free, but I felt a lack of security that only a Doberman or a flat sheet can bring.

I decided to go ahead with this mature move in the bedding department today. Strange foresight that usually never appears when I need it to came over me and I looked online to see if the cover I wanted was in stock before going all the way to the shop. It was not. So now I am still a flat sheet girl in a one set world.

Time, timing and the what if of it

I'm sure everyone has thought about timing more than once in their life, but last night, Luke and I were talking about it, and I was trying to remember all the significant times in my life that I had consciously made a decision that had led me down a certain path. I mean, we make decisions everyday that have an impact in some way or another on our life, but I'm talking about the times I kind of stopped and went, shit, this is going to make a difference. I think maybe the first was when mum gave me the choice to go overseas with her. I use the word 'choice' loosely, as Mum threatened to put me in boarding school if I didn't go. Whether she would have followed through with it, I'm not sure. I suspect it was a clever piece of reverse psychology. Sure, the me of 27 wants to go back and kick the TLC listening girl of 1996, yet to grow into her nose and who harbored fantasies of one day marrying Dean Cain. But when you're fourteen, the thought of missing one weekend, let alone eight in a row, of going into the mall and trying to make eye contact with the guy with green eyes was devastating. In the end I went, bribed with Euro Disney (I know, I hate Disney), had the most eye opening and wonderful time of my life and missed nothing.

I guess the first real decision I ever made was to go to university. I think the second was to apply for a job in advertising. The third, to go travelling and the fourth, to move to London. I know I've made a lot of decisions between then which have no doubt made an impact on my life in ways I've seen and have yet to see, but I think they would be my biggest ones so far. Four major life decisions in ten years. Is that a lot? Or a little? Hindsight brings the impact of those decisions to life, so I guess more will reveal themselves when they're ready.

Stupid words

I've been doing some integrating. So much so, it's become part of my vernacular. So much so, I've been whipping them out in meetings. Like 'let's just crack on shall we?'. Recently, I've been whacking this phrase out onto the meeting table like it's chamber pot contents being thrown out of windows in 1800's London. Err, not sure why I've gone all Oliver on you, but let's move on. Oh, the use of 'crack on' was so tempting yet too obvious.

So, I'd like to dissect the stupidity of this phrase in two sections.

Section 1:

Let's just crack on

Am I baking?
Am I smashing wood with my forehead?
Am I at a Greek wedding?

No, no, no. So stop saying it you silly girl. Be your own person, don't let these bullshit blue sky phrases seep in and poison your mind.

Section 2:

Shall we?

As much as my mum would like my use of 'shall' in a sentence, I'm neither polite nor a resident of a castle so I don't need to include this in my vocabulary.

That is it.

Bad, gross and a bit weird

Over the last month or so, I’ve developed this really disgusting habit of pulling the mascara off my eyelashes.

It’s disgusting for the following reasons:

1. It’s disgusting
2. I have Asian eyelashes which I’m pretty sure I’ve moaned about a past post. Because they’re few and far between, I can’t be wasting them on habits such as these.
3. It is annoying people, I’m like a pen clicking or knuckle cracking person. And I don’t want to be.

I must stop but it’s so satisfying pulling out those pesky clumps of mascara. It’s all the most satisfying when I don’t get an eyelash too. Now, don’t stress, I don’t have some weird phobia thingy when I’m going to be eyelash-less and hiding away in an attic hissing at shadows with my pink ringed, unprotected, eyes. I just need to stop my three go a day habit. I. Just. Need. To. Stop. It.

Do you know why this has happened? It’s the advertising that fooled me into buying this stupid 500 billion times thickening mascara. I choose to blame everything on advertising. Everything.

It has come to my attention

That my last post may have needed some context.

So here it is...

http://www.futureme.org

Future me

Last year, I decided to send myself an email in the future. You know, just to make sure that the future me was staying on track with what the past me wanted.

Monday, November 10, 2008 was like any other day. I probably, actually, correct that, most definitely, had Sainsbury's Fruit and Nut Muesli with yoghurt and banana for breakfast. And, because I just really enjoy checking what I was doing at various points in the previous year, I've even checked my diary to see exactly what I was up to. So, let's go back four months. The week before this fateful Monday, Skinner had left, I had caught up with Jaz, wondered why it had been so long since we last caught up, and as it worked out, it was the last time I saw him before he left. On the Saturday, I had met Vic and gone to the National Portrait Gallery. There, I had rushed up to this unsuspecting girl thinking it was Vic, and had made some highly amusing and witty comment about a fat Victorian lady to her. The girl who looked nothing like Vic but for those who choose to walk around blind like myself, it was quite an easy mistake to make. Let's face it, short bobbed, black fringed hair is very similar to medium length brown hair. Afterward, if memory serves me correctly, we went and had afternoon tea at the cute place in Soho Skinner introduced me to. On the Sunday, I went to Lisa's for her belated birthday lunch and most likely stuffed myself silly.

And now we go back to Monday. I think it had just hit me that Skinner had gone, I was feeling really sad, knowing that the next year was going to be tough without most of my friends who, up until then, had been sharing my London adventure with me. I think I just wanted to remind myself of how I wanted to be in the upcoming year. And you know what, there's definitely something to be said about timing.

Vanessa of November 10, 2008 wanted Vanessa of March 7, 2009 to know:

I hope you're making the most of every opportunity that comes your way and that you're happy.

Yea, it's a little lame-o, but past me would definitely be happy with future me. It couldn't have come on a better day.

Monday, parliament day

I completely forgot to talk about my amazing visit to Parliament on Monday night. To cut a long, and only amusing story for, say, two people, short, Luke and I went to the House of Commons for a tour and special seats at question time. Not only did we chat local issues with his local MP (obviously I had a lot of thoughtful and insightful points to offer), but we also got our own private tour complete with really interesting, and no, I'm not being sarcastic, historical anecdotes. It was one of the most random, surprising and interesting things I've done in London. I spent a lot of our MP conversation thinking about saying something regarding Australian politics such as, 'oh, I believe our political system is based on that of the English one' because derr, it is, but as I opened my mouth I had a moment of panic when I thought I was wrong. So I closed it. Plus I couldn't remember what we called our House of Representatives, which, with hindsight, I now realise, is called the House of Representatives. We also went into the family room, met a dude who campaigned for Obama and got really cool security tags. Now I know what I'll look like if I ever rob a bank and then escape via a train station where they capture me on CCTV.

It was just really kind of inspiring to meet someone who was actually really passionate about making a difference. Of course, it hasn't really rubbed off on me as being some kind of Joan of Arc is only a thought rather than a reality, but still, it was great. Question time was a err, dull, but it was bizarre seeing an MP in that green room (can't remember it's official name) with his feet up on the middle table you see on TV.

Things are looking up

Because I actually have things to write about other than nonsensical musings about the oil man voices in my head.

I have so much fun stuff planned over the next couple of months I actually had 1988 night before Christmas excitement on Sunday night. So much so, I couldn't sleep. I've got comedy shows, Swan Lake, Paris and the latest additions of Iceland for Easter and Romania for May bank holiday.

March is definitely the new January. This year is about doing what feels right. It's about lists, about being being better at life, about trying and being a winner.

The fun-maker is back.

Schizo movie watching

Sometimes when I read books with certain speech dialects or nuances, I begin thinking in my head like them. So tonight I've just seen the weirdest movie, There Will Be Blood. It has affected my brain a little and now I'm talking like a turn of the century American oil man.

Like, 'come sit with me'. 'Fine, I'll take bread'.

That's all I can remember.

I don't have anything else so say other than I saw a Boost Juice today and it was almost as good as snow day. Not quite, but almost.

This writing everyday is hard. This post is crap. Sorry.

I don't really have anything of value to say

But I need to write something.

I need to because I'm lazy.
Because I sometimes hate my meaningless job and need to use one of my few skills for something that doesn't involve tv's or phones or shoes.
I need to because it makes me better, and I need to be better.
I hate that work has made the phrase 'be better' into something that makes me want to have a little vom in my mouth.

So there, that's something.

Could have, would have. Didn't know.

The reoccurring thought/slight panic came back to me again the other day; have I missed my calling? Instead of it being on the ski fields and me being some kind of Olympic skier, this time it was while I was watching the Oscars. It came to me, quite startlingly, I could have been a cinematographer, a scout locater or even a documentary maker. Here I was, wasting my time with advertising, when I could be gallivanting around the globe looking for the perfect toilet for a Jackie Chan fight scene. It's so unfair that we're made to choose what we want to do for life at 16/17; an age where I still actually harbored some kind of hope for marrying Dean Cain. I know, I know, I'm still young, but the thought of starting again when I've only just begun is daunting and un motivating. But I think about the things we could of tried and dreamed about earlier on if we had been made more aware of them when we were more willing to try, no matter what.

19 more and 6 months to go

I'm pleased to report that thus far, I have done the following:

1. Bake some biscuits
- oat apricot and coconut, ANZAC, choc chip. I've been very bakey. If I was a guy who liked milky, motherly woman who baked, I'd totally go for me. Except I'm neither milky or motherly.

4. Go on a holiday with Luke
- booked so I think it counts

5. Read a classic
- almost finished Catcher in the Rye. Booya - I've been using that word a lot today, along with kapow. I think I might be channeling Fidycent and Batman.

10. Write some letters to people
- one sent, one written, two in mind

17. Do another bedroom art project
- hello world map

21. Be a good bridesmaid
- I very tactfully tried to suggest alternative options today. I realise sometimes I'm not very tactful so I checked with people first to test my 'tone'.

22. Go to Essex
- done, fun and saw the err, beach, at Southend. Wooooooooer.

24. Try to (ha!) get better at drawing
- I've done a few postit note drawings. They are still at 7 year old child level. I am embracing it as my 'personal style'.

March is the new January

I think I need to start things over. As usual, I'm as slow as a fat feedee eating a vegetable to work out why. So let me break it down, street style. I'd add some kind of hip buzz word I learned recently but because I suffer from being both slow and as un brain spongy as our kitchen cloth that hasn't been changed for months, I can't and won't. I like listing things, so here are my petty and insignificant problems in no particular order:

1. I have a severe lack of friends - looooooooser.
2. I'm not enjoying work - fucking credit crunch
3. I'm feeling a bit less wondrous about my usual London activities - am I becoming a dried up, cynical Londoner?

Now don't get me wrong I am:

1. Not wanting to go home
2. Giddily happy despite the afore mentioned problems
3. Can't think of a third but I wanted the two lists to be complementary

Instead of actually telling people how I was feeling, I adopted the stiff British upper lip and decided to try and keep it in. Ok, I'm lying. Like I can ever not over share. It was more like I hadn't actually worked out what was wrong (see first paragraph). But then as soon as I told everyone, as in about 6 people, I started to feel better.

I'm into changing each year to make it better than the last and I guess over the last couple of months, I haven't known what to do with this one. I guess the difference with this year is that London feels even more like home and more in the sense that there is routine, there are roots, there are bills. I also feel like I'm trapped in a job that is making me feel like I'm treading water because of the stupid economy. I'm just not as starry eyed about London despite still loving it. I guess I just miss that wonder that it first gave me.

But enough of that analysing shit. If London is feeling like home, maybe I should be embracing that. Maybe I'll actually buy another set of sheets so I have two! Maybe even commit to a phone plan. Ok, I have hardly any of the original OZ/NZ 07-08 crew here. Fine. Maybe I should actually make more of an effort to make some English friends. I can fully assimilate. Yes, having mindless arguments about customer journeys and being in meetings where people actually use phrases like 'let me just post fit that in' is making me want to stab myself in my eye with the closest possible blunt object. However, I can use my brain outside work and I should be using it. So to start, I'm going to blog everyday this week. It may be boring, but it will be words on a page.

If there were two me's I'd totally be chest bumping myself.

Hack

Does anyone else feel like a complete hack sometimes? Is it just my job or does hackism and self doubt span further than the shallow world of advertising?

Some days I feel like I'm on fire. I am a writing machine. But that's only sometimes. If they were doing a survey of dentists like on the Colgate ads (except obviously they wouldn't be interviewing dentists - derr), the voice over would read 'did you know that Vanessa is mediocre four out of five working days?'. Is it ok to know and be ok with the fact you're just ok at your job? Do people who are brilliant at things know that they brilliant? Probably. So I guess I'm not.

Is it a defeatist attitude to be mediocre? Or is it a result of things coming too easy to our generation so if something's hard, we just give up and try something else? Who knows. I'm driven to try because I'm stubborn and competitive, rather than passionate. I don't think I want to be brilliant for the right reasons so maybe that's why I never will be. I can't work out whether it's a smart thing to be ambivalent about ambition or just, I don't know, lazy. Sometimes I think a lack of ambition equates to happiness because you fill your life with more things that just your career. You have a better balance in your life, you put more energy into other, more important things. Other times, I think it's just an excuse for not trying. Some days, I think the only thing that tips me above average is because I can't reconcile which one I am.

Update

I'm very pleased with the mascara purchase. The brush is everything it the advertising said it would be. I even slept with it on last night and woke up with my lashes clumped together. Quality. 200% thicker overnight.

Mascara

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

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

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

I am indecisive while shopping when hungry

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

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

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

I'm so gullible.


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

27 things

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

Have you guys done yours?

So far..

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

But..

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

Feeling chicken

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

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

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

I hope to wear a corset and a leather G

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

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

Have I lost you all?

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

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

Dropping my tuna

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 days - the story so far

So now I'm back to normal. My arm movements regarding 'the lifestyle' have decreased dramatically i.e I've totally forgotten about it and I'm no longer feeling like London doesn't exist because now, I kind of miss it. Fradelaidians don't freak out about this (friends+Adelaide=fradelaidians! Sometimes I just want to congratulate myself). So, I'm feeling some weird zen-like balance epiphany thing. God, I love my epiphanies. And they always happen on a Sunday night. What would MacGyver do with this information? Hmm, anyway back to the zen thing. Perhaps it's because I'm sitting with my legs crossed. Or maybe it's because I'm feeling more chongbong than kilt today. Regardless, this is good news for the global Vanessa network because:

a. I know I'm not going to freak out when I get back to London and have some kind of crisis about the lack of vitamin D in my life

b. I know that I can come back to Australia and be happy - whenever that may be

High fives all around. My axis is spinning around like Kylie's early 2000 comeback.

Enough epiphany shit. Let's talk food. I've been gorging in Adelaide's culinary delights. Last night I was reunited with BBQ City. It was beautiful. How can one place provide so much happiness? Today was all about the mangoes. Some people find me hard to read, but when it comes to food, I'm like a Mills and Boon storyline. I merely glanced at a mango today and within ten seconds it was cut and plated up for me. Come home time I was cradling one in my arms like taking home my first newborn. Friends I tell you; this is why you have them. Speaking of friends, I really love all of mine. I keep on wanting to touch them which is really unlike me. I'm embracing it though so there's a lot of arm touching and hugging. Hopefully I'm not being too scary. At least I've stopped doing the lifestyle speech. Oh, and I even went to a sing-along chick flick movie, sang and liked it. Yes, I hear a collective 'shit'.

So at the moment I'm packing for Falls. Like every English festival I've been to, my much anticipated Australian one is going to be cold and wet. But it will be fun.

Anyway, I must go to bed. See y'all in 2009; the year of touching.

Stewman told me that sometimes my posts only make sense to me. I fear this one may be a little odd as my eyes are droopy and I've eaten a shit load of salt today. DANGER!

Radelaide

So it's amazing being back. I keep on flailing my arms around saying one of three things:

'this is the lifestyle'
'this is really weird' (will explain a little later)
'I love being back'

I had forgotten how good life is here. It's simple, it's relaxed; it truly represents the way life should be. There is just so much space. And the richness of colour; I almost cried (ok not really, but it's more dramatic this way) when I saw the blue, blue, BLUE sky. God, it's so beautiful. Everyone is so relaxed here. When you walk into a shop, the person is friendly. When you walk down the street, people smile. This is unheard of in London. Oh and the roads are so wide, you could fit at least three lanes in one suburban street. Not to mention the fresh air, the birds and the stars. And eating outside. I love eating outside...

Ok, so onto the weird bit. It's seriously like I never left. It's like my life in London doesn't exist. Kind of like the past two years never happened and the last time I saw everyone was last week. I'm back singing the wrong words to 70's songs with Megan in her car and having a weekly breakfast with Leash, Megs and Anna like I've never been away. While it's great that I can easily slot back into life here, it's also just really bizarre.

I think some friends in London think I'm bullshitting and being over patriotic when I say how fantastic Australia is. Don't get me wrong, it's not making me rethink my life in London because I still love that too, but I guess being home has just reminded me of how good it is. This really is the simple life. And it's beautiful.

I have to

Have a 2008 reflection. It would be a waste of a year and a diary not to. Plus, I can't be bothered packing and figured this would be a better idea.

So this has been a truly incredible year. I've seen, done and visited some of the most amazing things and places. Without having a Gwyneth Paltrow Oscar breakdown moment, I'm lucky to have these opportunities; I know this, but the most satisfying thing is that I've created all this for myself.

At the beginning of the year I decided it would be the year of weekends away. I may have taken this a bit far.

January:
- Amsterdam (this is after a week of skiing in France over xmas)

February:
- Dublin
- Belgium

March:
- Morocco

April:
- Oslo
- Salzburg
- Sardinia

May:
- Genoa, Cinque Terre, Milan, Bergamo
- Stockholm

June:
- New York

August:
- Paris
- Ibiza and Valencia

September:
- Isle of Wight for Bestival

October
- Loire Valley

December:
- Australia

I've also seen some amazing gigs, dance performances, galleries, art and of course, eaten some unbelievable food.

For some of my friends, I know this year has been trying beyond belief and I hope this next year brings you the happiness you deserve. I guess I'd also like to say thanks to all of you who make the effort to read my blog as well as stay in touch with me. It was me who packed up and left and I know it's hard sometimes to take the time out to try and explain in words the ins and outs of your everyday life to someone who isn't there anymore. But it's important for you all to know that the smallest email can bring a thousand words worth of happiness.

I think I should stop before I start quoting Confucius. And, I really should pack.

I'll see most of you very soon. I can't wait. And for the rest, I'll see you in 2009.

This time next week

I'll be at the airport.

I can hardly believe it. From a countdown that started in July, it has come around quickly and kind of unexpectedly. Nevertheless, I'm stupidly excited. I've divided the things I've been looking forward to into categories:

Smells:
- Jacaranda trees
- Freshly cut lawn
- Sprinklers in the evening
- BBQ's

Sounds:
- Australian newsreaders - weird, I don't know why seeing as though I don't even watch the news. Maybe just Australian voices on the tv.
- Crickets
- Mozzies

Foods:
- Asking for a flat white
- Proper Asian food - hello BBQ City, where have you been
- Chocolate Paddle Pop
- Golden Gaytime
- Farmers Union Ice Coffee
- Mango Magic Boost Juice (apparently there's one here, but I know it's not going to be the same)

Random:
- Driving a car with the radio on
- Going for a walk up Mt Lofty and saying hi to people when you walk past
- Going for a walk in the evening when it cools down
- Meeting up with my friends to just have a coffee - that never seems to happen here
- Going to the beach!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

People, well, that's just obvious.

I wonder if it's going to feel like I'm 'home'. Because, at the moment, I'm completely torn as to where and what I consider my home to be. I feel like London is my home and Adelaide is where I'm from. I know coming back is going to be awesome, but how will I feel when I have to leave? Will I want to stay? Will it make me realise I'm not coming back for a while? I know I'm thinking about this too much, but it's almost impossible not to. What I do know is I can't wait to see you all and it's going to be hard to say goodbye.

See you soon suckers.

Today I

I woke up at 8:16 and then slept again til 10:33.
I had that feeling of possibly never being able to wake up because my eyes were so heavy.
I went for a run and the grass still had icicles on the blades.
I actually felt how beautiful the morning was; it was a perfect winter morning.
I spoke to Vic while I plucked my eyebrows and wondered if it was normal to get so much satisfaction from getting those little buggers out.
I ate muesli and wondered if eating it everyday for the past 3 years is perhaps excessive and obsessive when there are plenty of other breakfast choices.
I decided no, we all have to love something and muesli completes me (but only with yogurt).
I watched the only show I can dedicate myself to - Greys Anatomy is my commitment to crap but I may have to reconsider if Izzy keeps on behaving this way.
I sat and waited while one of my housemates offered me food. Andy gave in and gave me half of his bagel. I then spent a good 15 minutes thinking of the beauty of bagel, iceberg lettuce, crispy bacon and cream cheese.
I then ate Malteasers and immediately thought of Teresa, my official Malteaser supplier.
I asked Andy to teach me and KK how to juggle.
I sucked at juggling. KK was pretty good.
I was advised to have a break form juggling.
I went to tidy my room but then decided to write emails to people based on various life epiphanies I regularly have on Sunday nights.
I then spoke to Lisa.
I thought about sending my New York postcards.
I looked out of the window to a striking pink sunset over the neighbours chimneys.
I started writing this entry.
I tidied my room and actually vacuumed it. I even moved my bed and found Heroes season 1 under the bed from my old housemate.
I went downstairs to help Andy with fajita night. And by help, I mean watch.
I tried juggling again. KK is still better than me.
I ate the fajitas and some of KK's curry.
I helped plan next week's Sunday dinner. And by plan, I mean agree to watch.
I drank some wine and ate some random leftover biscuits for dessert.
I watched a movie with the boys.
I opened my bills from the past month.
I posted this entry.
I went to sleep in my 13.5 tog duvet (yes, I mean doona/quilt but I have to assimilate because I'm sick of being ridiculed).

Goodnight!

Do we ever learn?

Sure, most of us register when we’ve made a mistake, give ourselves a mental slap and think not to do it again, but do we actually ever learn? And by learn, I mean, never do again? Most of the time, probably not. For example, my iPod earphones broke. Again. There are several lessons to be learned from this. The first came about 8 months ago after I was generously given another pair after I had trashed my first ones. These earphones are delicate creatures and don’t deserve to be yanked out of my bag chord or ear piece first. They should be wrapped lovingly around my iPod after every use. Maybe in a blanket or one of those iPod sock things. They should not be thrown into my bag with lunch that leaks over them. I’m a bad iPod mother.

So obviously after trashing my first pair I didn’t learn my lesson and my second pair were treated even worse than their predecessors. Whoops. After trying to listen to music through the only working right ear piece which was hanging from the weird coloured wires, I gave in and went to buy some new ones. Now, I think we can all agree that Apple iPod earphones are a rip off. £20 – pu-lease. Anyway, so I had my brand new ones in my hand, ready to pay when I spotted another pair; a cheaper, but seemingly just as good pair. If only I could turn back time. How many times has the cheaper, inferior product been better? NEVER. This was no exception. After hacking the box open so I could resume my listening pleasure, I realised that these ‘block the outside noise’ cheap pieces of shit didn’t fit in my ears. Unless I have abnormally small holes (yeah, yeah - funny), I’m pretty sure I’m doing some serious damage every time I try and wedge them in my ears - like a pre-op fatty trying to fit into a pair of skinny jeans. Now that I’ve spent way too long explaining my earphone lessons, here is a shorter breakdown of other lessons I’ve learned but not necessarily retained:

- When I try to hurry I take way more time
- I should never try a ‘new’ hair do before I go out
- I will never eat ‘just a bit’ of something
- When I try and be nice it looks really insincere
- Every time I go into the Tate modern I get angry and sleepy

That’s all I can think of so far.

Uh oh

I live in a bubble and I’m ok with that. But then sometimes people try and poke your bubble with little Buffy like wooden vampire picks and because you don’t have slayer like capabilities, you now have holes all over your bubble. Yes, it’s a little cold and windy. Kind of like our oven at home. The glass on the door has smashed and we have mended it with sticky tape and still use it, despite there being shards of glass everywhere and holes. Ideal? No, especially when are hoping to cook a turkey in it tomorrow night. But I digress.

So all this economic bullshit, while obviously worrying, hasn’t really hit home until now. Unfortunately, we’re all kind of selfish, well, maybe it’s just me, and while we all know of people being made redundant, it doesn’t really affect your life until it creeps in and starts breathing down your neck. In and out. With a bit of spittle. Ew, that’s gross. So, what I’m trying to say is that they are making redundancies at my work. Obviously, this is putting a massive blip in my bubble. Sure, I am in negative mode on the friend front, it’s getting dark at freakin’ 3:30pm now and I spent this morning on the tube playing elbow war with a lady who thought I was a pole – but I love it here and I don’t want to leave. I know everything works out one way or another and to tell you the truth, I’m not that worried, but I just find it annoying when there are blips in my fun. Oh and when the person who is deciding your fate called you ‘icy and anonymous’ three months ago.

Speaking of fun, I went to the most amazing club last night. It was in a train station, well to be precise, through a tiny door and underneath a main railway station. Words will not describe how cool it was, but think live art, spontaneous performances, bands and random art installations and that might help with your brain painting? Are you conjuring coolness yet? Try a bit harder. Are you there yet? Ok, yes, that’s it. It was amazing. It was so amazing I lost my voice and got home at 4am. Now I have to go to bed.

Reinvention

I've been thinking about this for a while. It seems we have very few opportunities in life to undertake a massive reinvention. Most of our opportune times are few and far between. I mean, if we want to reinvent ourselves, we kind of want it to go unnoticed. Well, I would anyway. So it seems we have a few clear cut windows for transformation; the transition from high school to university, between jobs and if you're lucky or unlucky enough (I haven't quite worked out which yet), a spot on Extreme Makeover.

Sometimes, I feel like we kind of corner ourselves into a persona that we didn't mean to create, or perhaps one we grow out of. Think of the Spice Girls. Imagine being known as Sporty, Posh, Ginger, Baby and Scary for your entire professional life? Ugh. Then again, if I had as much money in the bank for doing a bit of teetering on my sparkly platforms and lip syncing like they did, I'd answer to butt mouth for the rest of my life. But for the rest of us, how do we overcome ourselves?

Let's talk work. Some of us have a divide between our work persona and our personal one. I, for one, don't. Well, I don't think I do anyway. I can barely remember where I leave my tube pass let alone not be myself for 40+ hours a week. The thing is, when I started this 'real job' charade seven years ago, I had no freakin' idea what I was doing. Because I'm slow on the uptake, it took me ages to work out that I could actually be myself and didn't have to pretend to be this mature, worldly and professional working woman, when, quite clearly, I was not. The thing is, when we kind of start being one thing, it's so embarrassingly obvious when we try and change it. Think our dear Neighbours stars trying to break into singing, or Josh Harnett doing theatre. Finished cringing?

I have no idea how I would like to reinvent myself. I think I'd like to, but I'd probably forget that I had done it and then I'd just be left looking like a dick who was smiling excessively, sporting a new walk and wearing a beret. Don't ask me why I hypothetically transformed myself into a valium taking, Parisian strutter. Weird. Maybe I'll leave reinvention to our Kylie.

Go getter

My name is Vanessa and I partake in the minimum amount required for me to get by in life. There, I said it. I’m not particularly proud of this, but it’s been with me most of my life. Actually, to be more accurate, I teeter smack bang in the middle of bulldog passion and couch potato ambition. I kind of think this is worse because it’s like my school reports used to say, I have potential, it’s just whether I bother living up to it. Every so often, I get a kick in the arse which means I try harder. Quite predictably, it pays off in my favour. If only I felt the need to try harder more often because quite comfortably, I’m an inherently lazy person and I bask in the beauty of my ideas rather than the results of my actions.

How to you find that motivation to fill up empty words?

Because I’ve spent 27 years with myself, I know when I’m going to do something and when I’m not. Therefore, I’m quite selective with what I say I’m going to do. The phrase ‘gonna’ and the often resulting white noise of forthcoming non-action irritates the shit out of me. So even though I’m a’ gonna’ in my head, I try not to live like one. But, perhaps I’m getting better. I undoubtedly have the motivation to visit all of the countries I desire and most of the time, socially, I visit all the exhibitions, performances and restaurants I want. So I guess my problem is mainly professionally. Like most, I don’t really know what I want to do with my life. I often go through freak out attacks of conscience where I find it hard to justify my crust. Do I:

Contribute to the greater good ? Nope.
How about partially contribute to the greater good? Ha, are you kidding?
Um, the environment? – Nooo.
Make people buy stuff they don’t need? Bingo, now you’re talking!

The thing is, I go to work and do something that I’m reasonably good at and mostly enjoy, and if you can find that in life, you’re doing pretty well. I lied before when I said I didn’t know what I want to do with my life. I’m pretty sure I know what I want, yet I find it extremely difficult to motivate myself to take the measures, the very small baby steps, to get there. I’d like to say I’m scared of rejection or some bullshit like that, but I’m afraid I’m just lazy and easily distracted, which is frankly, quite pathetic.

So wonley

Today it hit me. I had my fourth goodbye in three weeks and today’s was the probably the hardest. The goodbye in itself wasn’t the saddest part, probably because we made it quick and then I went and bought a load of crap at Primark immediately after. Instead, my delayed reaction happened on the tube two hours later somewhere in between Charing Cross and Embankment. Ah, public eye welling. It totally goes against my otherwise icy demeanour. Plus, you look like a loser with a defunct tear duct. Actually, I probably looked more like a loser/mentally unstable person that time I started laughing for no reason on the tube. Hmm, there’s always something worse. I think that saying is supposed to be ‘someone worse off’ and not supposed to be about yourself.

Awwwww, saying goodbye sucks arse. Ok, I know that no one likes saying goodbye. Unless you’re tonguing George Clooney goodbye and then immediately saying hi to Jake Gyllenhaal (please insert whoever necessary to build an appropriate mental picture), I highly doubt there is anyone who embraces the goodbye – wow, that’s so obvious, I’m actually a greeting card. Anyway, I guess the reason why I’m feeling all wallow like is because my world feels unbalanced and now I feel the true depth of London’s transient nature.

I'm sporty, therefore I am

Well, I wish it were true. I've been accused, albeit quite rightly, that I have no interest in sport because, well, I'm pissed off I'm not good at it. Waiting inside my non-sporty abnormally slow half Asian legs is a competitive firecracker waiting to throw, kick or sprint somewhere in 0 to 10 seconds. Yes, Usain Bolt is inside me.

A year ago I decided extreme frisbee could be my newfound sporting talent. However when I came up with this, I didn't actually know what it was. Upon conducting some research I found out it involved running and tackling. Extreme frisbee was quickly ditched. Prior to my first skiing holiday in December, I had secret fantasies of being 'discovered' as an Olympic skier on the slopes. Upon actually skiing and never getting past snow plough after a week of lessons, this idea was also ditched. I also like the idea of touch football. I fear I only like the idea of it and the implementation of me playing it will result in being benched the whole time. But, I am yet to try.

So yes, in a nutshell, I wish I was really good at sport. It helps you in life. Just like not having a massive growth on your face helps, being abnormally witty or one of those weird, kind of creepy nice, thoughtful personalities. I possess none of these afore mentioned growths or traits, and having delayed hand eye coordination, zero interest in watching sport except WWF wrestling and ballet (yes, both are sports fuckers), it leaves me in no man sports land when hanging with the masses.

As I write this I am sitting with my housemate who is yelling at the tv. I'm stopping typing every so often to 'woo' and put my hands in the air when someone scores, just to get into the spirit, but, let's face it, it's a. forced and b. I don't think he actually gives a shit whether I'm wooing or not. Yes, it's football time here in the UK (soccer for the Aussies) and there is some big game on tonight. Not being into football in this country leaves you with the following problems:

1. When working with 97% males you don't get invited to the pub after work to bond, man hug, watch the game and talk about the game the day after

2. Leaves you with little small talk options with the male bosses in the lift

3. Can't get krispy kremes if you're not part of the Fantasy League - don't exactly know what this is but it involves trading players. Personally, it's all about the donuts.

Don't get me wrong. I've had years of trying my hand in sport. I participated, and I use this word loosely in the mortifying softball throw (I came last) in year 7 as well as 4 years of D grade school netball and tennis. I've also done the obligatory girlfriend spectator duties for both basketball and football for long 5 years. Seriously, I've put in the hard yards. But now, I'm done. Although I suppose if Danny Cipriani ditched Kelly Brook, then yes, I'd support my man. But pretend I'm actually interested in the game? I think not.

So lesson learned is that I should procreate with a sporty, handy around the house, mathematician. The latter two failures are stories for next time.

Funds and gingivitus

So I am now a person with a managed fund. Yes. I am MATURE. Not only do I have an accountant but now I can add managed fund, flossing and user of mouthwash to my list of the adult-like tasks I now perform. Might I just add that the last three are new additions as of today and my accountant, well, that happened about 2 years ago after I calculated my tax wrong and got audited - who knew they paid attention?

After my meeting with my financial adviser today I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. So much so I decided to discuss 'the market' when I got home with my housemate KK.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: I got myself a managed fund today.

KK: What kind?

Me: Umm, what do you mean? It's a managed fund (said slowly for the Cambridge graduate).

KK (being quite patient and un-sarcastic): Bonds or stocks?

Me: Uhhhhhh. Uhhhhhh. I don't know. One with 'newton' in it.

KK: Helpful.

Me: Um, it's middle risk...(insert internal dialogue)

Internal dialogue: Think Vanessa. Rewind brain (internal dialogue makes rewind noises). 1pm today, you were hungry, thinking of burrito while Peter Bloom kept pushing his glasses that he keeps in the tiniest box ever, up, on top of his forehead. You are thinking this is weird and he is bending the arms out of shape. He is talking. You remember you are suppose to be listening. You say mmmmm a couple of times. You repeat the last bit of what he just said. He nods. YES - you got it!

Me: Well, it's low scale volatility (back on the finance talk train).

KK then goes onto do some explaining of the difference between bond and stock funds. I actually listen and get it although a cloud has ruined the shine in my day's maturity.

Despite my lack of understanding of the fiscal world, I do know teeth. So I decide to take charge of my mouth and make pact number 167 to, from now on, floss and use my mouthwash that I bought a year and a half ago.

Postcard update: still not sent, maybe tomorrow.

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.