Steady as she goes

It's hard to believe that I've been back in London for nearly a week already.

The weather has been pretty shocking, with heavy snowfalls over the past few days especially. I have been reading the online newspapers about deaths in Poland, and indeed across the UK, so while I'm still warm and vertical I really don't think I have anything to worry about.

Come to think of it, I don't reckon it's easy to stay either warm or vertical when the weather gets like this. Mamma bought me a couple of pairs of shoes with really good treads while I was home last week, and one pair has particularly come in really handy this week. The shoes aren't anywhere near proper snow boots, so they're not warm by any stretch, but they have (so far) kept me upright as I try and navigate the slippery, slushy footpaths to my office. I do suspect that if the weather stays like it is, I'm going to have to invest in a pair of proper zip-up boots, similar to the sort I had in Chi-town, but at the moment I'm not in a rush for them.

Speaking of rushing, it always surprises me the number of people (public transport commuters especially) who don't see the point in slowing down when the weather gets like this. They don't walk gingerly, taking good care of themselves and sparing an even fleeting thought for anyone around them. Rather, they run like the clappers for their train/bus, as if it were just another sunny, Spring day. One such lady got her comeuppance right in front of me this morning and it was pretty sweet. Actually that's not fair, she fell pretty hard on the tiled floor of the train station, and it would have hurt. But she bounced - and THAT was the only funny part about it (to me, I mean). I helped her up, which seemed like the right thing to do, and the poor woman was so embarrassed but the only thing I think she hurt was her pride. She also got slushy crap all over her woollen coat, but that's just karma for you really.

I actually love this time of year in the northern hemisphere. The frosty weather is pretty to look at, and even OK to be out in - assuming you're dressed appropriately and don't have TOO far to travel. Commutes to work take way longer than they should, but you just need to adjust to that. This time of year also brings Christmas decorations and I've always been a sucker for fairy lights and tinsel. Anything shiny or sparkly, you know how it goes. We set up our office Christmas tree today and I've been playing Christmas carols through my computer speakers (though this is part of my ongoing campaign to make my boss lose ALL of what remains of his hair).

It's probably too early to tell if we'll have a white Christmas, but we've certainly made a cracking start to it.

It speaks!

It has been a long time between posts, I know. Over the past few weeks when stuff has happened, I've caught myself thinking inane things like Oh, I really must blog about that. Yeah you know the drill - obviously nothing ever came of it. Totally my bad.

After the football game a few weeks back, S&C disappeared for the next stage of their European adventure and my life chugged on as normal for a few days. I had changed house again by this stage, so I was enjoying being back with Gus the Wonderdog and taking our morning constitutionals around his local gardens. I still gag when I have to pick up his deposits - each one more warm and squishy than the last - but in the world of dog ownership (even temporarily), you've gotta do what you've gotta do.

On the Tuesday I took a half-day at work and that evening I flew to Adelaide for A&A's wedding. As you do. I was feeling really poorly, owing to a nasty cold that had been brewing for about a week. It hit me full-force a day or so before I flew, making the flight a rather nasty experience for everyone. I slept a fair amount, which was good, but I suspect I probably snored my head off - which was probably not so good for my fellow passengers. Plus I flew with our nation's flagship airline and I am not entirely sure I'll do that again. It was right at the time when the airline's fleet was having those nasty engine disasters and lengthy delays etc and so I was all gung-ho about showing my support for them. Still, I didn't find the flight attendants all that attentive, and in comparison with some of the other airlines I've flown over the years, they were pretty average. Then again, I'm not sure I'd do great work at 37,000 feet with a bunch of snoring, snotty-nosed Australians on board either. Perhaps I'll just cut them some slack and move on.

The wedding was beautiful. Jammin' Jems bought me a belted summer dress for my birthday but hadn't mailed it over to me, so she just gave it to me somewhat (ie very) belatedly when I got home. The dress fit like a glove and with a little bolero cardigan that I had bought at the shopping centre the day before, I felt very comfortably dressed for the sunny weather that appropriately blessed the happy couple for their big day.

The rest of the week passed by way too quickly, as all good holidays seem to do. I was still feeling pretty average throughout the week which was a real shame. I had been to see my Aussie doctor and she had given me some pretty good antibiotics, but they nixed my plans for cocktails with friends - lousy timing. The pills were effective but I still needed a second prescription to feel like I was really kicking the lurgie. Even as I type this my throat is still a bit sore, which is just really annoying.

A couple of meals with friends and family, followed by some shopping with Jammin' Jems in the lead up to her own wedding next year, and before I knew it the week was over. On Friday afternoon I said goodbye to my family and it was off to Adelaide Airport for the journey back to London. Our nation's flagship airline was not quite ready to let me leave incident-free however, and what followed was a horrible 29+ hour journey "home", with delay after delay preventing me from just crawling into bed and sleeping for a month. When I finally did get back to the northern hemisphere, I collapsed into the hotel room and didn't move very far at all until the early hours of the following morning.

Back at work on Monday, I discovered that my intray wasn't as full as I thought it would be (wahoo!), but there is still enough for me to work on that will keep me busy until Christmas (not so wahoo!). I've also moved into some new - temporary - digs, subletting a room from an Australian girl until 3 January. It has been great to unpack my luggage and hang clothes up again - such simple pleasures these days. Not sure what the future holds in terms of my accommodation, but perhaps the search just continues.

For now at least, I'm looking forward to some good sleeps ahead, and a chance to enjoy this burst of snowy London weather. Stay tuned for more (frequent?) updates...

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

It isn't often that you get offered a chance to do something really fun for someone, knowing that they will get such a kick out of it. When life presents you with an opportunity like that, I think you owe it to yourself just to grab it. And so it was with the tickets I managed to find for my cousin Sco for last night's English Premier League Game, West Ham United v West Bromwich Albion.

It was the first time I'd seen S&C since they returned to London as a stopover on what I'd definitely call their 'European Odyssey'. With their new friend L in tow, the guys came to meet me at The Walkabout - chosen by yours truly because it was the closest pub I could find to the Tube station, and far enough away from the destructive/passionate student protesters that had taken over the City Centre late yesterday afternoon.

We had a bit of a catch up over a cold drink and I got to hear about some of their favourite places - and foods - along the way (who knew that Poland made great kebabs - or kebabs at all, come to think of it?!). I loved the stories of S&C's overnight visit to the winery that S's ancestors started - such lovely hospitality from relatives he'd never met before. Oh and apparently the wine was pretty good too.

Dashing next door to Temple tube station, we jumped on the eastbound District (green) line bound for Upton Park. I have no idea where Upton Park is, other than on the Tube map, so I'm so glad that the 45-minute Tube ride was uneventful and we got to the station safely. As we collected more and more passengers, we started to see supporters sporting the West Ham colours (blue and claret). I was wearing pale blue socks, and I remember feeling quite disappointed - and possibly a bit surprised - that they were the only pale blue items in my three suitcases! I pretty much knew I didn't have anything claret-coloured, since I don't think anyone other than West Ham supporters really knows what colour claret is anyway.

Alighting the Tube at Upton Park station we allowed ourselves to get swept along in the crowd in the general direction of the Boelyn Ground, West Ham United's home stadium. The air last night was pretty cold, and getting colder by the minute, so we paused en route and picked up some hot chips & burgers to munch along the way.

Two minutes later we were at the venue and I picked up our tickets. The ticket window dude assured me that our tickets were great - right in the thick of all the singing and chanting. Little did I truly realise how cool the tickets REALLY were. We were in row D (4 rows from the front), right behind the goals! Sco was delirious at how great our seats were, and for the first 10 minutes we could only marvel at our good fortune to secure such great tickets less than 48 hours before the start of the match. In what weird universe does THAT normally happen?!

The game started and for the 90 minutes that followed, I had no idea what was going on. Soccer/Football is not a game I've ever followed, owing in large part to an involuntary biological resistance to understanding the offside rule - though my boss maintains that this phenomenon is unique to females (!).

We were sitting with the home side fans, so we quickly learned the team's song - "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles". If you ask me, it's a bit of a girly song for such a ragtag bunch of East London blokes, but nobody asked me really. I loved the energy and enthusiasm of each team's supporters when their boys were doing well, and I loved the way that the supporters heckled each other when fortunes were reversed. One chant that was particularly easy to learn goes "Your support, your support, your support is s**t". Beautiful in its simplicity, no?

First West Brom scored (Boo!), then we scored (hurrah!); then we scored again (Hell yeah!); then West Brom scored again (Nooooo!). Scores were tied at the end of the game and everything kind of fizzed from there - lots of head shaking and downcast expressions, and we left the stadium to shiver out in the cold streets.

Getting home was a bit of an adventure, as return journeys so often are with me. In the interests of public safety, the transport geniuses in London had closed the Upton Park station during the game - so the stadium announcer suggested we should find alternate routes home. I didn't even understand the route we took to get there, so what hope did we have?!

It took the combined brain power of the four of us to make sense of the buses on the main street outside the stadium and we soon found ourselves aboard some bus or other en route to the remote northeast of the London Tube map (Zone 1,000,000 or something), but ultimately the bus announced the Tube station I'd been hoping to find - and we jumped off the bus. Somewhat serendipitously, it turned out that the Tube station was serviced by just the right Tube line that we needed to get us back to our respective lodgings so we relaxed into our seats and reflected on the great game experience we'd just shared.

Even though I came away from the game with about as much football knowledge as I'd always had, I still loved it. S&C reckon I need to get to a Chelsea game next and as they are currently on top of the football ladder, I think they will be quite an impressive team to watch. More songs and more chanting? I can deal with that.

The Week in Review

This past week has been the usual rollercoaster of apartment searches; apartment viewings; and apartment rejections. I am so sick of the whole thing myself that it's not even worth talking about anymore. At the end of the ride, I just keep getting back in line to go around again. Fortunately I am buoyed in this process by the continued good wishes of friends and family, and the occasional therapy cupcake (bring those on, big time!).

Two fun-filled events punctuated my week, and these managed to cheer me immensely. Firstly I had a visit from KH and her hubby who were in town from Canada. I couldn't believe it when KH first said they were coming - we hadn't seen each other since our days in Chicago and though we'd kept up on email and Facebook, that is not really the same. We met up outside my office one night after work and retired to The Wellington, down the street. When KH used to work in London, she used to eat lunch at this pub quite often, but I had never been in there. I have made a note of it now though. After that, we farewelled Mr H (so he could cleverly get home early), and we headed to the newly re-opened Savoy hotel for cocktails at its famous American Bar. Again, this was another one of KH's old London haunts and it was great to see the place with her. I had been waiting for the Hotel to reopen since I got here - and we were not disappointed. I found the hotel interior to be very flashy and a bit overwhelming to be honest - lots of colour, lots of fabrics, textures etc but it just looks so opulent and beautiful you can't help but be impressed. We got seats right at the bar and were therefore treated to the great artistry of the resident bartenders. I can't remember the names of the cocktails I had (not because I had too many, but because they were specialties of the house rather than classic drinks). No matter though, because I really enjoyed them and I think KH and I solved all the problems of the world that night.

Fast forward a couple of days and London celebrated Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night. Traditionally celebrated on 5 November each year, the City of London's parks come alive on 6 November with fireworks displays and family-friendly celebrations. From our lofty location on the riverfront, we could clearly see the bright lights over Battersea Park and it was really great. My contribution to the night was a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio and a plate of bacon-wrapped dates which the visiting Americans declared to be delicious, which pleased me (though they require no skill, save for not stabbing yourself with a toothpick or setting the sticks on fire under the grill). We over-catered of course, but there is something lovely about cold sausage rolls the morning after a big party. Tipping half-empty beers down the kitchen sink is not quite so glamorous though...

The coming week heralds the return to London of S&C, whose European adventures have been the source of great amusement on Facebook. I hope they're coming back to me with some great photos to match those stories. I also hope I can score soccer (oops, football) tickets for myself and Sco this week - it might take all the flirting and bossing down the phone that I can muster, but I feel totally up to the task.

No doubt there will be more to report next weekend, so stay tuned.

Moving on by standing still

I don't understand that title either, so I'm sorry in advance for what is likely to be an oddly philosophical and potentially off-kilter post.

I did not have a great week, it's fair to say. I thought I was kicking goals at work during the week but I received a couple of emails that dented my confidence. Admittedly those emails were poorly worded and written by somebody generally accepted to be moron of the highest order, but they were still enough to put me in a funk by week's end.

Saturday I spent the whole day out and about, seeing two flats on opposite sides of town. The first room was small and the apartment building entirely uninspiring, but the second flat was just right. Exactly the sort of place I wanted, in exactly the sort of neighbourhood I should be living in. Unaccustomed as I am to the protocols of renting apartments in England, I left the flat in high spirits, sneaking around the corner into the neighbour's driveway to text the landlord (who I'd only just left 20 seconds before), to tell her I wanted the flat to be mine. I knew she had other people coming to see the flat, but I wanted her to be assured that I saw the place as mine. Marvelling at my wonderfully swift decision-making skills, I almost skipped down the street in relief. I made it as far as the end of the block when the landlord texted back to say that somebody had already put up the money for the room, and I therefore couldn't have it. Have you ever been kicked in the stomach? I haven't, but I expect that I now know what it feels like. Where had this sneaky cash-giver sprung from? Who walks around London with enough cash in their pockets to cover a room deposit and first month's rent? Certainly not me!

I was pretty upset for the rest of the afternoon, not just mourning the loss of the room, but because I seem to be fighting a losing game. In looking at apartments, I don't want to be embarrassed by where I live. I know you can't judge a flat on the building's exterior (especially not in London, where ugly ex-council flats have been done up so beautifully inside). All the same, I don't want to live in a dodgy, ugly neighbourhood. I want to be able to invite people over to my flat (though who these potential guests might be is anybody's guess right now). I want my bedroom to be an oasis - a comfortable, spacious, clean and bright living space. I want a kitchen I can cook in, a bathroom I can use without fear of foot fungus, and all this in a clean and safe environment I can come home to every night.

If this reads as snobby, fussy, or princessy in any way, it's not my intention. Or maybe it IS my intention but all the same, I make no apology for it. Most people I tell this to understand my feelings, particularly locals or expats who have lived here a while and have done their dash in dodgy share flats. My strongest advocates seem to be the UK police whose guidance I have sort in the course of my dealings with them at work. The UK police have been a great source of advice for areas of London that I should definitely look to live in, versus the areas of London best left avoided. If anyone's going to know about safe vs unsafe neighbourhoods, its the people that patrol the streets, right? Unfortunately none of these uniformed Good Samaritans came forward with offers of spare rooms or empty flats I could rent from them.

So for now at least, it's back to the drawing board for a new week, and with (hopefully) a new attitude.

Walk This Way

As the flat search rages on, today's excursion took me north-west of the City, into the neighbourhood of St John's Wood. If Wikipedia is to be believed (and it isn't always), this area "is home to some of the most expensive properties in the world". I don't think I need the internet to tell me that, to be honest.

The streets of St John's Wood are leafy and - dare I suggest it - really suburban. I don't mean that in a condescending way either; rather, I just mean that it's clear that people actually live up there. Sure there are flats (like the one I looked at) and council estates, but there are also really beautiful and stately family homes, and that's a combination I really liked.

Bus-wise, St John's Wood is also really accessible to Notting Hill, Shepherd's Bush, Maida Vale and a whole bunch of other areas that mobile young things like myself might want to hang out in. The shops of Oxford Circus are also about 15 minutes down the road by bus. But to be honest, it's pretty much miles away from where I work. The commute to my office would not be an easy one (two buses, or a Tube/Bus combo), and given that I am not a morning person at the best of times, I just don't think I could do it.

I don't see today's visit as a waste of effort though. I loved St John's Wood as a neighbourhood, plus my bus went right down Abbey Road. We literally drove over the pedestrian crossing that The Beatles made famous on the cover of their album of the same name. So after I viewed the apartment, I walked back a couple of blocks to the recording studio and read some of the graffiti that Beatles fans have scrawled on the walls outside. I didn't go into the studio though - I'm not sure if you could, plus the place was crawling with Beatles fans eager to snap photographs (just like I had been doing), and obviously I just wanted to escape them. So I dashed across the pedestrian crossing - dodging much more traffic than The Fab Four ever had to - and I jumped on the first bus that came along, and headed for home.

She seeks it here, she seeks it there

I am back on the wagon again after a very - VERY - ugly Tuesday evening 40th birthday party for one of my bosses. Fortunately it took most of us 3 days to recover from that event, so I don't feel quite so old and useless. All the same, I think I will take things very slowly this coming week.

I am coming to the end of my house sitting stint too. This upsets me on a number of fronts, chief among them the fact that I have become quite accustomed to gazing out the lounge room window at night times, just watching the twinkling City lights reflected in the Thames. I have enjoyed my 45 minute walks into work (on clear days), and I haven't really minded my pushy-shovey bus commutes (on rainy days). So the search has been on - again - for a flatshare in this crazy town. I am still not wedded to one particular part of town, refusing as I do to succumb to the silly notion that you have to be a "North of the River" or "South of the River" person. With my sense of direction, if I can even FIND the River, it's a good day.

I've been browsing a number of flatshare websites (Gumtree and Spareroom seem to be the most reliable for me). I was initially irritated because people weren't responding to my expressions of interest in their rooms - I mean, how dodgy must I have been sounding? So now when I'm responding to room adverts, I've taken to lying by omission. I gloss over how old I am, and I comment on what industry I work in, rather than reveal who my employer is - and so far, that is working for me. I'm seeing a number of rooms tomorrow (Sunday) and with any luck, I'll come out a winner. If not, I'll keep trawling sites next week and try not to take it all personally.

It was wonderful to spend today with my cousin EG, who flew over to London for work. Because she was taking the Tube from Heathrow this morning, I met her at Green Park station (the closest to Buckingham Palace) and the minute we saw each other, I knew something wasn't quite right. She hobbled towards me and revealed that in a rush to get onto the Tube she had twisted her ankle. Not a good start! So we limped as far as Fortnum & Mason down the street from The Ritz and we had soothing pots of tea. The tea did not soothe her ankle of course; we had to buy a compression bandage at Boots for that.

EG is quite the trooper though and insisted that we keep walking so that she could exercise her ankle, rather than rest and risk it swelling up like a grapefruit. I wasn't so sure we should be pushing things, given that she was due to fly back home tonight, but I do as I'm told. We compromised a bit and caught the Tube back to Covent Garden. I stuffed in a meat pie for lunch at a very cute little place on the lower ground level, and then we browsed the Jubilee Market, in search of some Banksy artwork. EG didn't find the exact piece she was looking for, but she still came away with a couple of small canvases for her bedroom wall. Score! Taking the rambling, direction-less route for which I am now famous, we eventually found Neal's Yard (a first for EG), and we paused for a coffee in the colourful courtyard area in between funky fashion boutiques and world food delis.

More walking followed and we meandered through China Town (celebrating the Mid-Autumn Festival), down Haymarket and through Trafalgar Square. Writing this and thinking about the route we took, I still can't believe EG wandered all this way on her poor ankle - compression bandage or not! I took EG to witness the subterranean eeriness of Gordon's Wine Bar (another first for EG), but apparently the cat is well and truly out of the bag and now EVERYBODY wants to go there. Jerks. We couldn't get a seat and the place was packed, so we left. As the grey clouds looked more and more menacing, we called into a nearby Italian restaurant and split a pizza - well, I ate most of it but that's hardly surprising really.

The day went really quickly and it was quite sad for me to leave EG on the Tube, as she headed back to Heathrow. The visit was really brief but I hope it will be the first of many - fingers crossed. I just need to keep thinking of places I can take her when she comes back - she's not interested in the tourist traps; rather, she wants local sites. If I'm supposed to be the local here, it's time I stepped up to the plate. Eek, the pressure!

Out-geeking myself...again

A few weeks ago, you might recall I had a night out with J and her friends at The Club With The Invisible Toilets.

Tonight I met up with them again, but this time we went to Las Iguanas, a delicious Latin American place by Waterloo Station. The restaurant's lights were dimmed at 5pm, I'm not sure why, but the awesome music in the background had me doing some in-seat dancing with deep shoulder action. It was the worst solo samba/ramba/zumba routine you've ever seen but I was having a good time. Sadly the happy hour included every cocktail except the one that I wanted, so I settled for a huge glass of merlot instead. The first quarter-glass was pretty average, but it improved exponentially as I sipped. I couldn't decide what I wanted to eat- the whole menu looked pretty good, and very cheap, so I settled on a steak burrito. This was pretty unimaginative of me, I'll admit, but I was not disappointed. I wasn't too hungry when I ordered it but by the time the burrito arrived, I happily stuffed it in - and the side salad too. Perhaps it was garnish. Whatever it was, it was delicious.

After dinner, we shuffled across the footpath and into London's Southbank Centre, to listen to readings by the six finalists in the Man Booker Prize 2010. J and her friends met in a writing class about two years ago, so they are all rather literary sorts. I like to read and write and whatnot too, but I had not done any background research into tonight. I had heard of The Man Booker Prize (or The Prize Formally Known As The Booker Prize), but I hadn't read any of the finalist books, nor did I know who might be reading tonight.

From a longlist, the six finalists were selected and the final winner will be announced on Tuesday. It was weird listening to each finalist answer one question from the Emcee about his or her inspiration etc, and then stand up to read a self-selected passage from their work. Why did they choose the particular passage that they did? How could judges shortlist six works that seemed so very different - surely judging the Man Booker Prize is like comparing apples and oranges....well, that's how it seemed to me.

I didn't think that any of the authors were particularly brilliant, which sounds obnoxious I know, because i'm not exactly a Pulitzer-winner, but I just mean that none of the finalists made me feel like running for the nearest bookstore. I have to say that I was very pleased to see Peter Carey up on stage, not only because he is a fellow Aussie (whose past 20 years in the US I cannot hold against him), but also because I loved "Oscar and Lucinda". I will probably buy his nominated book, but I have a small bookcase of novels to get through first.

The tickets for tonight's event was 15GBP and so I was a bit let-down that the organisers didn't factor in audience Q&A, as they apparently did last year. I think that probably would have been better value for money, but only if done properly. To be honest, I normally hate the audience Q&A part of events, as most people do. I mean, they're always the same. You always get some moron that dominates the question time, asking some bone-headed question that makes everyone roll their eyes. Or else you get that frustrated postgrad weirdo who demonstrates that they've read everything the panelists have ever written, and then uses the opportunity to grandstand about their own unrealised thoughts, dreams and feelings and then forgets what their bone-headed question even was, until everyone in the audience, and everyone up on stage, either lapses into unconsciousness or contemplates mob justice. The lady in front of me had read all six finalists and she didn't look like a frustrated postgrad weirdo, but I still wouldn't have given her a microphone. Just in case.

As a compromise, I suggested (to J) that perhaps the organisers could have opened an online forum asking people what questions they might like the panel to address. Then the organisers could have selected 20 or so questions and posed them to finalists at random. See? Brilliant. I should totally be on the Organising Committee for this thing next year.

So after the book readings, the authors were in the main ballroom downstairs selling copies of their books and signing them. J told that once the winner is announced, you can usually buy the finalist books at half-price online - so I think I'll just wait for that and re-assess later.

Caveat Emptor

The UK Government has come up with a cunning way to make me dress like an Englishwoman. It has made it totally cost prohibitive for me to shop for clothes online, from websites outside of the country.

While I lived in the US and back home, I would order cute dresses and jewellery from a great online boutique whose link I found on one of my all-time favourite websites. I am not naming the boutique or my favourite website, because I don't want either company to think I'm being nasty about them - that's not what this rant is about. I only refer to the sites incidentally. In truth, this post describes yet another pitfall of living abroad that I have only discovered by face-planting directly into it.

So the other day I placed my first order from the boutique website, to be shipped to me in the UK. Inside the box destined for me was a gorgeous dress that I wanted to wear to a friend's wedding back home in November; plus some other really cute tops I wanted to wear for work.

The UPS dude delivered the package to my office today, but wouldn't hand it over because there were outstanding fees on it that still needed to be paid. The look on my face must have been priceless, because the guy took great pains to describe the concepts of customs tax, import duty and VAT. I can't tell you exactly what he said, but in my case, those three concepts added up to over 100 British pounds, that he clearly expected me to pay on the spot.

So there the UPS guy and I stood, in the office foyer, at an impasse. I couldn't work out how the high cost of the clothes plus the high cost of international shipping still resulted in such high additional charges. As it was, the extra fees amounted to a significant percentage of the overall cost of the contents. I was outraged, my friends.

The delivery guy promised to return with the box tomorrow, giving me 24 hours to swing into administrative action sort out what I wanted to do. Back at my desk, I placed phone calls to the necessary parties in a swift attempt to right the wrongs, insofar as I saw them.

The delivery company helpdesk lady was responsive (the best adjective I can find for her), because she simply re-explained to me the three concepts of customs tax, import duty and VAT - all the while I patiently listed to her explanation. I then asked her to at least admit to me that all three charges, while understandable in a legal sense, were nevertheless completely excessive in my case. Fortunately she conceded that - a minor victory on my part. Still, the law is the law and if I want my purchases, I have to pay them. Then I asked her what my recourse might be, and she confirmed I could officially reject the package as long as the online boutique was willing to accept the box back and process my refund.

I double-checked the international shipping conditions of the online boutique and while they caution their global customers about some countries charging extra import fees, they never estimate them, nor do they suggest that the charges can be anywhere near 100 British pounds.

So the next call I made was therefore to the online boutique, which was naturally 5 hours behind London and obviously unresponsive at the time that I was calling. A few emails and calls later, I had succeeded in sharing my tale with the voicemail boxes of just about every poor sod who works for the boutique, no doubt ensuring that I have a spectacular black mark against my name on their books forevermore.

On principle, I refused to accept the third (and perhaps most obvious) resolution; namely, that I could just simply pay the extra charges. I have had a really bad week at work and remedying this situation to my financial satisfaction was the only thing I could think of that would make happy quickly.

Later tonight I called the online boutique back and got through to a customer service person almost immediately. She confirmed that the boutique would indeed accept the package back (as long as it was clearly marked Return to Sender), and they would process my refund accordingly.

So while this little purchaser is financially restored, she is still sans outfits and Cinderella ain't got no dress for the November wedding. When that refund comes through, I guess I'll be hitting the London shops. Something tells me this will take more tolerance (and Valium) than understanding customs tax, import duty and VAT combined!

The AFL Grand Finale

I am house sitting at the moment and, joy of joys, the house comes with a cable TV package that includes ESPN. This is not normally a cause for celebration as far as I'm concerned; however, this morning I was super happy about it. This morning was Part 2 of the AFL Grand Final and kickoff was at 5am. ESPN was screening the game live, which meant that I still had to get up early, on a Saturday, but the rain could fall outside as much as it wanted - and I could sit smugly on the couch - in my pyjamas. Perfect.

LW came over to watch the game too, wearing her brand new Collingwood football shirt courtesy of her family. It must have been a very good omen because the Pies stormed home victorious - in fact, the game wasn't all that exciting - certainly not as nail-biting as last week's.

When the game ended and I had made us a greasy cooked breakfast, LW headed home and I stared at the walls trying to work out how to spend my day. The rain started and basically made my decision for me - definitely a DVD day. It's funny how cable TV has about 200 channels and yet you can still find absolutely nothing to watch. It hardly seems fair really.

Tonight I'm heading out to see my cousin & his gf who are back from their UK Contiki tour. I'm seeing them for a beer at their hotel, and then I suspect they will have an early night because they are flying out to Munich bright and early tomorrow morning. I hope they realise that I am coming out in the rain to meet them - that's friendship right there!

Before all that, I'm going to relax with "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure" and try and ignore the fact that on the other 199 channels, there is literally nothing worth watching.

The AFL Grand Final - Part 1 of 2

Earlier in the week, I had made a commitment to LW to meet her at a bar in Putney this morning to watch the AFL Grand Final telecast. First bounce was at some ungodly hour - 5.30am or something, so I figured that making such plans any day - let alone a Saturday - was about as close to crazy as you can get.

Still, when my alarm sounded at 0400 hours, I managed to hear it and get out of bed without grumbling too much. It was a freezing cold morning, as far as I was concerned anyway, and I had to make a cup of tea before even thinking about heading into the bathroom.

I got out of the house ahead of schedule, which was a good thing too because the bus turned up early. The bus driver didn't use his brake the whole way to Putney, so my usual 15 minute commute was pretty much cut in half. It was great. I caught up with LW out the front of the Putney train station and together we power-walked up the High Street in the direction of the pubs we felt fairly certain would be open.

We got to the last bar on the street, a ridiculously-named place called The Wahoo. The last of the crowd was milling outside, lining up to get in and it was then that LW and I wondered whether we should have bought tickets in advance. I seem to recall making a rather loud pronouncement at the beginning of the week that I would never enter an establishment with such a ridiculous name as Wahoo, but I have to say that at 0525 on a cold Saturday morning, it seemed a pretty good spot to me.

But of course the universe has a bitchy sense of humour and as it turned out, the bar had reached capacity. Because we didn't have tickets, the bouncer wouldn't let us in. He told us that the closest bar - as a backup plan - was The King's Arms, across the Putney Bridge, at the top of the Fulham High Street. So across the bridge we went (again in record time), marvelling at how peaceful the Thames looked in the pre-dawn - a sick joke really, as neither of us could really see the River, as everywhere was still pitch black.

Showing some brilliant hospitality, The King's Arms welcomed us warmly, and charged us 5GBP each admission - we gladly paid it. There were loads of people seated around huge flat-screen TVs on either side of the pub, but hardly anyone was standing in the middle of the room. There was nobody lining the bar either, so that's precisely where LW and I stood - with an uninterrupted view of the TV screen behind the bar.

LW is a one-eyed, completely raucous Collingwood supporter and so I obviously wore black and white to keep her company. We chatted a bit during the commercial breaks, we screamed at the TV, we perved on the players, we alternately criticised and praised them; it was a great morning. The fourth quarter was so tense, I don't think either of us breathed and when it was all over - with the scores tied for the first time since 1977 - neither of us could follow what was actually happening. Would they go into extra time? Do they play until the first team scores? We had no idea. Then the players started leaving the ground and giving media interviews etc and we realised the game was over - well not only that, but it dawned on us that we'd both have to come back next week and do it again. Crikey! Talk about an emotional rollercoaster...

We left the pub pretty much straight after the game ended, and wandered slowly back the way we'd come. We crossed the Putney Bridge, marvelling (for real this time) that the Thames really did look peaceful after all. We stopped off at a small Italian cafe by the Putney train station for a greasy cooked breakfast and we both declared ourselves to be ready for a nana nap.

Sure it was tiring to be up and out that early today, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. The atmosphere at the pub was really good and I think a lot of that was because the pub wasn't too crowded and what crowd their was, was really fun. I'm sure next week's adventure will be just as good.

Three down

Up until last week, whenever anybody asked me how long I'd been in London, I told them in weeks. It was never "two months", it was "8 weeks"; never "nearly three months", but "10 weeks". Precise, but weird. I know.

So last week I had my three month anniversary of living here. Appropriately enough it passed by uneventfully, and I didn't mention it at work lest they make me bring in cupcakes or something.

To be honest, three months is a long time (though let's face it, 12 weeks sounds a lot longer). Still, a lot has happened in that time, much of which I have shared on this site. Bits of the adventure have been stored in my brain for future recall to my therapist, while the rest - things like grocery shopping and eyebrow waxes - have been cast into the "too boring even to mention" category.

As I type this, I am shovelling forkfuls of Marks & Spencer heat & eat risotto into my mouth. I have become quite a devotee of these microwave meals - they're cheap; healthy; and accessible to me. I usually pick them up at the M&S at Waterloo station, before the nightly commute reduces my will to live and basically sucks my soul out through my ass. I think the promise of a delicious M&S spinster meal is the only thing that keeps me from going postal on those commutes.

I've slackened off on my theatre outings lately, partly because I was waiting until my cousin & his gf got here (we still plan on going together to see something). But partly I've been saving money because I need to look for another place to live at the start of November. According to an Aussie lady I spoke to the other day, the London rental/sharing market dries up towards the end of November, so I'm heading into busy time. Over the last 3 months I've also developed a bit of a snobby list of things I want (and don't want) in a sharing arrangement. Boring things like a double bed I can walk around; a shower that is hot and powerful; and room mates that keep the house clean and know how to wash (themselves and their dishes). Note that this is not an exhaustive list.

I guess what I'm saying is, I feel like I've had my settling-in period so the next three months will most likely be my settling-DOWN period. With the power of fantastical foresight, I suspect the next three months will be about finding somewhere more permanent to live; trying not to hurt myself (or others) on public transportation; and - perhaps most exciting of all - sampling new and exciting M&S meals. Uh-oh, that all seems like much of the same, doesn't it?

Well let's make a deal then. Over the next three months, I'll do all those things I mentioned above, but I will also:

• Go outdoor ice skating at Somerset House, across the street from my Office (even though I lived in Chi-town for nearly 4 years and never once did this);
• See more live theatre (with or without my cousin and his gf);
• See Europe (nowhere specific at the moment - just Europe in general, since it's right there and all); and
• Go back to Oz for a visit in November.

I cheated with the last one of course - my tickets are already booked. But it still counts.

We're in for a dynamic three months, friends. Just you wait and see...

Survival in three letters

"If you want a really good burger when you're living in London," my friend KB advised, "then look no further than GBK". And she pointed to the store on our right. Gourmet Burger Kitchen is known to the locals as GBK and those three simple initials are totally worth remembering.

GBK is actually a chain of stores that was started by 3 New Zealanders back in 2001 (I read this on the website). The first store that I saw that day with KB was in the Clapham High Street. Today I visited the store at Putney, tucked away down a little side street but I must have sensed it somehow. It's simple signage basically jumped out at me and I knew we had to go there. "Just to taste," as Crazy Granny would say.

Sundays at the Putney GBK is apparently Family Day. We got seated and then the useless waitresses asked us to move tables so that they could accommodate a family of mother, father and about 4,000 kids. At first I was irritated by this but then I realised they were asking us to move to the other side of the restaurant and that suited me just fine.

My burger was delicious. I ordered a Greek Mint burger, which is basically made of lamb mince with mint (duh), plus the usual salads and some chilli sauce with mild tzatziki added in. The best of the souvlaki and burger worlds, all mixed together. How could I lose?! As I stuffed in the piping hot chips I forgot about the screaming kids, even the charming child who decided to kick her mother in the shins at the cash register.

LW ordered a bacon & avocado burger (with the customary beef pattie) which she said was very tasty, though she hastened to add that in her expert opinion, Australian bacon is far superior to the British varieties. The only bacon I've ingested here has been in bacon sarnies stuffed in to fend off nasty hangovers, so admittedly I have not really savoured its flavour. Perhaps I need to work on this so that I can draw an educated conclusion of my own? Literally food for thought, no?

Anyway to walk off the burgers we wandered down the Putney High Street and it's great. It boasts loads of great boutiques, even ones you'd find on busy Oxford Street in the city - just without the ridiculous crowds. The cold air is starting to creep in to London now, so admittedly my post-lunch retail therapy focussed on warm fleeces and snuggly woollen goodies but I exercised discipline and came away empty-handed. Next time, maybe.

You say "exile" like it's a bad thing

It's Sunday morning and I'm already up, nursing a hot cup of tea and some pretty classy bed hair.

Yesterday I placed myself under house arrest - something I do when I need to catch up on sleeping/watching TV/reading (circle whichever is appropriate). In this case, I did a bit of all those things - and managed to knock off a fair bit of my latest Ken Folland reading project, the sequel to his amazing literary paperweight, Pillars of the Earth. My week had been a busy one and so in my view at least, the voluntary exile was necessary and very, very welcome indeed.

The week in review? Well let's check the highlights:

• Monday was a visit to a cocktail bar near work, where the barmen were evidently having way more fun than the patrons (weird). The bartender at said establishment did something pretty disgusting with the cocktail shaker when I told him I didn't mind "dirty" martinis. And so, in thinly-disguised revulsion, and is my usual way anyway, I ordered a French martini.
• Tuesday was pretty much a standard work day, but I knew what was coming in my week so I laid pretty low.
• Wednesday, S&C got to London and I took a half-day off work to go out to Heathrow to meet them. I wasn't sure how many people would be in the T3 Arrivals Hall, so I borrowed an Australian flag to wave - more so S&C would have no trouble seeing me in the crowd. One of my bosses found this tactic slightly amusing and made an offhanded remark about my "uniqueness", and I'm still trying to figure out if it was a compliment or not. Ensuring my weary travellers got booked into their hotel OK, I took them for a really long walk through Trafalgar Square and up into Piccadilly Circus, where we had a really tasty Italian dinner.
• Thursday was work happy hour day and because my office was hosting it, I worked behind the bar. S&C's Contiki trip was starting bright and early the next day, so I didn't get to see them but I wished them a safe trip and encouraged them to text me news as they tootled around the UK. Normally I don't drink when I work behind the bar at office happy hours (you're allowed to, I just don't like to do it), but obviously on this particular Thursday night I was influenced by the company I was keeping (oh isn't it so often that way?!). Fast forward to a rather boisterous Thai dinner after the happy hour, followed by a giggly commute home on the last train around for miles.
• Friday morning was horrible and I would have complained about it, but I had lost the power of coherent speech until at least lunchtime. The office was vewy, vewy qwiet. There is something to be said for hangovers in your 30s - they are a vicious, horrible thing. Needless to say I was in no state to go anywhere after work but I made it through the whole day (hurrah!) and about 20 seconds after walking through my front door, I was in my pyjamas again.
• Saturday, as we already know, was a day of rest and recuperation - not just from Thursday night, but from the whole week that was.

Today is different. Today I have rebounded and I'm actually going to leave the house and enjoy a delicious brunch in Putney, a lovely part of the city just southwest of where I'm living (only 1 train stop further on the line). It's not a particularly sunny Sunday today, but once this load of laundry has finished, I'm going to head out and face the day anyway. Bring it on.

Happy Roald Dahl Day!

September 13 is Roald Dahl Day - but you knew that, didn't you?

I knew it too, I had just momentarily forgotten about it and therefore missed all the celebrations going on this past weekend at the Roald Dahl Museum up in North Missenden, about 45 minutes on the train from London.

I think everyone my age has their own memories of growing up with Roald Dahl and reaping the benefits of his amazing imagination. My favourite of his books remains The BFG but then again I was partial to The Twits and James and the Giant Peach too. It is probably unfortunate that I rember the movie versions of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory better than the original book, but there's nothing I can do about that now. I read once that Dahl was a particularly grouchy old man, but I can't reconcile that impression of him with the author of such wonderful books. I dunno, it just doesn't fit.

So I'm going out tonight to toast this auspicious day, and enjoy something scrumdiddlyumptious in his honour, to celebrate the man whose creativity brought us all some much-loved characters and tales. Here's cheers, to Mr.D!

And PS on a literally related front, I read on the weekend that RD's grand-daughter Sophie is expecting her first baby, with her adorable husband Jamie Cullum. Aww, bless!

Mimosas in Marylebone, and then some...

I had an early start yesterday thanks to Gus the Wonderdog, but I had always planned to get up early anyway because I knew that K & C would be coming to town, from Paris and Brussels, respectively. Both girls caught the Eurostar to London and that is a journey I must try someday soon. From Paris the journey is just short of 3 hours, and from Brussels it is much less than that. I maintain that any time I can remove airport queues and security screenings from a journey, it has to be a sensible decision.

So after coming back to my place to take a shower and get changed, I found myself on the train again heading back up to Marylebone. Talk about deja vu! It didn't matter to me though, because as we all know I love that neighbourhood. While I was waiting for the girls to meet me, I discovered another reason why I need to live there: Daunt Books. You must visit their online site by clicking here because the store (and the site) are fabulous - virtual tour included! The store features walls and walls of amazing travel books, biographies, as well as the usual works of fiction. I only called in because I wanted to read the blurb for the book they are currently advertising, West End Girls, by Barbara Tate. Needless to say I bought it, plus the re-released edition of Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade by Patrick Dennis; and the new Bill Bryson book, At Home. It's so crazy that I will hesitate and cogitate about the purchase of a pair of shoes or a dress, but will think nothing about spending cash on books. G.E.E.K. I know, I know.

With my wallet a little lighter, I met the girls for brunch at Cafe Luc on the Marylebone High Street. It calls itself a Modern European Brasserie, but whatever - the eggs benedict and mimosa that I had sorted me out perfectly. It certainly gave me enough energy to face the afternoon ahead, that's for sure!

The girls and I walked down to Oxford Street, past the boutiques and cafes that I love (and I think K can now see why this neighbourhood appeals to me). Oxford Street was a whole different story, however. It was a real case of "elbows out" just so that we could navigate our way through the gorgeous shops - designers like Ted Baker and Karen Millen. If money were no object I could have seriously done some damage in those stores; their autumn/winter collections are so gorgeous.

We gave up on retail and sat down at a cafe to catch our breath (aided by a couple of cocktails each, naturally). It was getting close to dinner time, so we tried to think of where we might like to eat. [Are you getting the theme of the day? Eating/Drinking/Shopping? Perfect for a sunny Saturday, no?]

We caught the Tube to Canteen on the Southbank, by Waterloo Station. We got there just as the pre-theatre crowds were clearing out, so we didn't have to line up or else squeeze on to the end of long dining tables (these are characteristic of the low-key vibe of the restaurant). Canteen specialises in British cuisine, so the menu has pies, fish & chips, Eton mess, and the like. I enjoyed bangers & mash for my main meal and then split a dessert with Kate - we chose the Eton mess (a mashed up pavlova, minus the fruit but with jam drizzled over the top of it).

It was a long day out but we did a lot of things and it was great to just wander, without any tourist agenda, and visit brand new places with K&C. It's a shame that they both leave London this afternoon but what a send off we had.

Making friends with a four-legged fiend

Late last week and then again last night I looked after Gus, who belongs to one of my colleagues. I stayed at her place both times and the pooch and I got along famously. Gus is a nine-year old Jack Russell who came over to London with his owners about three years ago and he has made himself quite at home.

Gus lives in Marylebone, which I discovered is pronounced "Marla-bone", not "Mary-lee-bone" or "Marl-bun" (as I had first thought). Marylebone is my kind of neighbourhood: expensive; exclusive; and totally adorable. The High Street is home to some fabulous restaurants, coffee shops and boutiques that I've seen around the city. I don't think I could afford to live in Marylebone of course, but I love spending time up there.

Last night was a bit of a mess though, because Gus was very restless and woke me up 4 times in the night so he could bark and chase burglars (all of whom fortunately turned out to be invisible). Obviously I did not sleep very well and woke up early this morning feeling quite cranky, but what can you do?

I took Gus on a really lovely walk through the Paddington Street Gardens (his usual haunt). Google tells me that these Gardens used to be the burial ground for the nearby St Marylebone Church, which is a little creepy but also secretly awesome. Though they are public spaces, the Gardens nevertheless remind me of the residents-only spot that Julia Roberts & Hugh Grant break into in "Notting Hill". I think it's because the Gardens are tucked away off the hustle & bustle of the High Street and you'd hardly know they were there. I suspect that most people in search of green spaces would likely head for nearby Regent's Park, so smaller parks like the Paddington Street Gardens are really for those "in the know" (like Gus).

Aside from getting to know another London neighbourhood, the good thing about looking after Gus is that I have been able to get my 'puppy love' fix. I have been missing Annie-Bot terribly and so it has been great to spend some time with another four-legged fiend again. I know that throwing a slobbery ball and picking up steaming poo is all part and parcel of dog ownership, but I could totally give those bits a miss!

Road trippin' with Tom & Katie

This past weekend I enjoyed a fantastic road trip with K, who was visiting from NYC. Truth be told, K has more friends in London than I do, but we decided to spend the first few days together on a road trip up north to visit two of her friends back from her high school days in France, J and L.

I have been friends with K for 15 years and throughout our friendship, K has told me all about her English friends, J&L who she met during her high school years in France. Indeed most of K's French high school stories are punctuated with laughs shared with J&L and antics revolving around J&L, to the point where in my mind at least, J&L almost become one wonderful person, whose influence and friendship still means so much to K today. The fact that J&L have recently had baby boys within just a few weeks of each other means it was a perfect time to visit them.

I went out to Heathrow to meet K on Saturday morning and I must be turning into a giant basket case in my old age. All around me, families were reuniting. It was literally the opening & closing credits of "Love Actually" and of course I felt like bawling. I am lousy at airport goodbyes and now I discovered that airport greetings slay me just as much. Hopeless. Ultimately K came through the arrivals gate and I spared her my old-lady blubbering and instead, I took the route of a friendly hug and the purchase of a ultra-large, very strong coffee for my jet lagged friend.

K had hired a Ford Focus to transport us around on the weekend. She also made the last minute BRILLIANT decision to throw in a TomTom satellite navigation thingy to make absolutely sure we made it to our destinations - and back to London again. I gratefully accepted the role of Navigator (aka Chief TomTom Programmer).

Having successfully charged Tom with plotting our journey, K brought out her car ipod radio tuner thingy and I set about tuning us in to Amy Winehouse. My success in this regard was limited, but I blamed the poor radio reception on that stretch of the motorway. By the time we hit the more open roads, we had a clear sound and we were as cheerful as Thelma and Louise. Well, at the start of the movie anyway; you know, the bits up to that part where they shoot that guy and it all starts to go downhill. You know what I mean. Move on.

If you're interested, I can give you a full report of the "services" along the motorway - those delightful oases of truck stop coffee; lukewarm toasted sandwiches; and public toilets of varying cleanliness. We stopped at a couple of these places along the motorway, more to mess with Tom than anything else. By this stage I had changed Tom's voice to a rather debonair Englishman's accent. Every time we veered off the motorway into a "services" stop, Tom would gently scold us and then chide us more firmly, all in his delightful, dulcet tones. We loved it! Tom wasn't coping well with our disobedience and our constant deviation from his carefully-planned route. It was classic.

We spent Saturday night with L and her family in Manchester. We didn't see anything of the city itself but it was lovely to finally meet L, her partner and their adorable baby boy. We had a delicious meal and a great catchup before it was time for bed - for all of us. The next morning we all enjoyed a bit of a sleep in and then we were on the move again, heading south in the direction of J's house.

En route we decided Tom needed an extra challenge and we wanted him to navigate somewhere interesting that we could visit along the way. At this point I had to resort to old fashioned means and review the atlas I had brought along with us, and we decided to detour to Nottingham. K and I decided that we were more interested to see Sherwood Forest of course, but as that sits just north of the city of Nottingham itself, we figured we'd ask Tom to plot us there.

Nottingham is...well, it's easier to say what Nottingham is not. Nottingham is not busy, even on a Sunday. It is also not as full of Robin Hood paraphernalia as you might think (and as I had so dearly hoped it would be). Nottingham is also not a well signposted city and as such, Tom nearly found himself flung out the window as he insisted on taking us down one-way streets and parts of town torn apart by roadworks and dead ends. Though it did not occur to me at the time, perhaps Tom was punishing us for our earlier unscheduled motorway pit-stops....

In any case, we pulled into a public carpark and visited the Nottingham Castle, just to say we did something during our visit. Truth is, we would have visited Nottingham Castle, but for the fact that it no longer exists. Obviously this is something we found our after we had paid our 5GBP entry fee. No wonder the ticket booth girls were surprised when we wanted to buy tickets! The old mansion on the site of the former medieval castle is now a Museum and Art Gallery, currently showing a very small exhibition of movie props and a few costumes from Russell Crowe's Robin Hood movie. Continuing the poor signposting that had come to characterise Nottingham, the signs in the Museum pointed to nowhere in particular and Kate and I became very quickly lost and irritated by the whole experience. I bought some postcards in the gift shop, and we headed back to the car.

Declaring a truce with us, Tom navigated us off the motorway and through gorgeous little English villages and gave us safe passage to J's house in the small but very charming little village of Whitchurch, in Buckinghamshire. J and her husband have been steadily doing up their house over the past few years and it is truly stunning. Their other labour of love, their baby boy, is especially gorgeous and quite the little charmer, cheeky grin and all.

After our uneventful detour to Nottingham (which caused J's husband a great deal of amusement), we ate a delicious curry dinner and again, it was time for bed. The next morning, J's husband had to work but J took us out to lunch at The Betsey Wynne pub in nearby Swanbourne and then we drove to the picture-postcard town of Haddenham, with its gorgeous thatched cottages, cobbled streets, and a lovely pond with white ducks.

By the time we said our goodbyes to J, both of us were feeling pretty tired so K and I deferred to Tom to get us safely back to Heathrow. He did of course, just as the rain started to fall. I was relieved for that because I wouldn't have liked to be out on those motorways in drizzly weather.

Weekends, but especially those spent out of town, always recharge my batteries and even though today at work was busy and my in-tray was almost overflowing, I'm glad that K and I had the chance to get away, see her lovely friends, and explore a bit more of this pretty country.

It's not ridiculous when it's fabulous!

Last night I went to a girl’s night out organised by my boss’s wife (J). In the four years that she’s been in London, J has made some really lovely friends so I was happy to have been invited along to meet them.

We arranged to catch up at Crazy Bear restaurant & bar in the Fitzrovia neighbourhood – all new things for me. Naturally I walked in the wrong direction when I came out of the Tottenham Court Road station, but my trusty A-Z Guide saved the day – as it so often does. Once I was heading in the right direction, I found the restaurant without a problem.

Crazy Bear is one of those fancy-looking places that takes its fabulousness so seriously that it doesn’t even bother to advertise itself outside. You could so easily walk past it without even realising and perhaps that is the point. Maybe it’s a place only for patrons in the know? Fortunately last night I was one such patron and once I found the place and head inside, the décor is sleek and modern, offering its young & hip clientele some quirky footstool/ottoman chairs to sit on, some snug booths to hide in, and – best of all – dim lighting to add to the mystique. The wine list is great, the cocktails are strong and the yum cha are cheap and plentiful. No complaints on those fronts at all.

Hands down the craziest thing about Crazy Bear are the toilets. I’m serious! First of all, there is no signage on the toilet doors. In fact, there are no HANDLES on the toilet doors. You need to just feel your way along the wall, pushing it as you go, and hope that you get to the door. Then you hope (again) that you’ve pushed the door to the ladies – and not the alternative, as happened to me at least twice. If this isn’t anxiety-ridden enough, you go INSIDE the toilets and everything is dimly lit and mirrored. I ended up cross-eyed and totally confused. I couldn’t tell if the toilets were occupied; I couldn’t work out whether to push or pull the mirrored cubicle doors – it was like something out of Alice in Wonderland. With the job done, and time to wash your hands, the sink is some sort of temperamental sensor-driven, rainforest-inspired dribble of water that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. I was desperate to declare it all ridiculous, but I couldn’t – it was simply too fabulous for that.

I love places with character, don’t get me wrong. And Crazy Bear has character in spades. I certainly won’t be forgetting my visit any time soon. But perhaps there IS such a thing as too much fabulous?

All the world's a stage

Yesterday was one of the more hedonistic days I've had in London since arriving here about 10 weeks ago. I woke up feeling a little dusty, and so very tempted to stay in bed all day. I am so glad that I ignored that little voice because as it turned out, today was amazing.

Actually the word that most accurately captures my day today is overstimulating. I cannot adequately describe to you the excitement I felt getting off the train at London Bridge, walking along the River Thames towards Shakespeare's Globe Theatre.

I had bought myself tickets to see both parts of "Henry IV" and it was weird going into the productions not knowing a thing about them (beyond what I read in the program). We hadn't studied these plays at school or Uni, so I was flying a little blind. I did know that the famous character of Falstaff appears in these works, so I was really looking forward to meeting him.

The Globe is such an unusual building. The first thing I noticed is that the chairs are mostly wooden benches and not at all comfortable. For 1GBP you can rent a cushion to sit on, and that's precisely what I did. Because I bought my ticket at relatively short notice, my seat for Part 1 was all the way at the very top of the theatre, in what they call the "restricted view" seats. I'm not sure what I missed out on though, because I felt like I could see everything.

The ground-level area is where "the groundlings" hang out - tickets in that area are only about 5GBP but you have to stand for the whole production. I'd probably find it quite uncomfortable after a while and yet, there is something to be said for being right up against the stage, with all the actors playing right to you. Trouble with being a groundling is that when the rain starts, as it did at intermission today, you get drenched. The Globe is a round theatre with an open roof you see, so everyone in the audience is really exposed to the elements. Plus it's a little distracting when the onstage drama reaches fever pitch and a QANTAS jet bound for Heathrow rumbles overhead.

"Henry IV - Part 1" was fantastic; full of boundless energy and lots of laughs. The audience profile was so random too. Lots of grandparents, a couple of couples (!), and quite a few teenagers which threw me a little. But everyone seemed to enjoy themselves and I think we all agreed that Falstaff totally stole the show, as I'm sure he does every time.

With a two-hour break between productions, I wandered down the street to Tas Pide, a nearby Turkish restaurant that was offering inexpensive 2-course meals. I am still not a fan of eating alone but I didn't really have a choice and in any case, I enjoyed sitting still for a while in the warmth of a restaurant and pre-reading about "Henry IV - Part 2" while stuffing myself with red lentil soup and a spinach and mushroom pide pizza.

Returning to The Globe, I had a different seat for the second show. This time I was in what they call The Gentleman's Quarters, which basically just means box seats - with padded chairs, do you mind?! I was so excited because my view was so much better than it had been for Part 1 and the sky had cleared so I knew there wasn't likely to be any more rain. That said, the cold wind off the Thames rolled in so I rented a blanket for 3GBP and it turned out to be an absolute winner. I snuggled in and wrapped myself up, leaning onto the balcony and in no time at all, I was utterly absorbed in the production.

The content of Part 2 is much darker than Part 1 - it's mostly about the evils of getting old and having to surrender your control over things. It talks about what kind of legacy you'll leave to your loved ones and how it becomes important how you've treated people during your lifetime. Falstaff again stole the show and it's little wonder really. The part is terribly physical and relies so much on physical comedy, wit and wordplay. The actor playing Falstaff had the audience in the palm of his hand and with a raised eyebrow here, and a sly wink there, we were all in fits of laughter. Not bad for a play that was first performed around 1586, eh?

At the end of Part 2, I was still marveling at how talented the actors were to have remembered all of those lines so flawlessly - and before I knew it, we were filing out into the streets to begin the journey home.

In total today I spent 6 hours absorbed in all things Shakespeare and while I am a bit Bard-ed out at the moment, I wouldn't have done things any other way.

Cider Saturdays

Yesterday was one of those unexpected days; both in terms of the weather and the entertainment. Weather-wise the week itself had been quite annoying. We had grey skies, drizzly rain, but not so much cold so as a result, London had a tropical feel about it which did not seem to suit at all. Entertainment-wise, I had a really busy week at work, preparing for my first formal event that I'm hosting this coming Tuesday. I collapsed into bed on Friday night really quite exhausted, and wanting to sleep for 100 years.

Saturday rolls around, as it always does, and London residents were rewarded with clear blue skies, and no sign of the rain or humidity that had been dogging us earlier on. I too awoke to Saturday feeling bright, refreshed and ready to face the weekend.

I met up with LW at the Borough Market for an early breakfast. LW works across the hall from me and is still new to London too. I had been raving about the Markets and the delicious bubble breakfast I'd had a few weeks before so LW agreed to come with me and see what all the fuss was about. Fortunately the bacon, cheese and bubble breakfast got a big gold star from both of us. LW's family is also back in Australia and we toasted her Dad's birthday with a half-pint of medium English cider, which I'd never had before but I really enjoyed. I hope LW's Dad appreciated that we were toasting him at 10.05 on a Saturday morning but that goes to show it's never too early for London cider, right? We wandered around the market stalls and tried a bunch of free samples. My favourites were the traditional Turkish delight (took me right back to the spice markets in Istanbul); and the 'Ubriaco' (drunk) cheese, from the Veneto region in Italy and is actually fermented in red wine. The flavour of the wine really does influence the cheese and it was delicious, if not a little intense.

LW volunteered to help me find the Bramah Museum of Tea & Coffee, which is somewhere I have wanted to go for weeks and can never find. I know the place exists, because there are street signs for it, and websites for it (even though the latter has not been updated in a while). Sadly even with LW's help, I came up empty. We followed the street signs as directed, but we must have walked past it or something, because we found nothing.

Well it's not entirely true that we found nothing. We ended up wandering down to the Embankment, looking out over the Thames and along the riverfront precinct leading up to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. I'm spending much of my day there today, so I'll write about that separately, but it was fun to actually be up there and looking at the signs for all the upcoming productions. The authentic mood was kinda shattered for me when a woman playing a lute, in full Shakespearean garb rollerbladed past us. Yes, you read that right. I guess it takes all kinds!

LW and I bonded over our love for Bridget Jones as we walked across the pedestrian-only Millennium Bridge, with the imposing dome of St Paul's Cathedral up ahead. We stuck our head in the Church, but neither of us was particularly inspired to pay the admission fee to look around properly. There wasn't even an old lady on the steps charging tuppance a bag to feed the birds, so we left! Wandering up Fleet Street in the direction of our office, I've never seen so few people around. Normally you can barely move, what with all the lawyers and office workers shuffling past you. LW and I enjoyed the reprieve from all that and just sauntered up the street and along The Strand which again, was eerily deserted.

We called into a pub fixture on that street called The Coal Hole. I'd been there before for work drinks and there's nothing fancy about the pub, it's just been around for a long time (since the early 1830s) and it has retained its English 'pubbiness', for want of a better description. LW and I knew we were in the right place when the first people we encountered at the pub were Oompah Loompahs. In full regalia, orange face paint and green wigs and all, these guys took authenticity to a whole new extreme. Sadly they did not join in when LW tried to show me the Oompah Loompah dance. I don't think they saw her actually but it would have been amazing if they did. Patrons were taking photos of the Oompah Loompahs, but we didn't actually talk to them so I've no idea why there were dressed that way. They didn't stay too long though, and neither did we really - just long enough to enjoy some ice-cold ciders, and we were on our way.

We rounded the corner onto Villiers Street in the direction of the Charing Cross Station, and I asked LW if she would come with me to the oldest wine bar in London. We descended the skinny, rather dodgy (but obviously original condition) stairs down into the depths of Gordon's Wine Bar. The atmosphere is quite creepy - middle of the day, but you're literally in an underground grotto so the whole place is lit with candles that lend an air of magic to the mood. The flirty French bartender sorted us out with some pinot noir, with the most generous pour I've yet had in this fair city. The delicious wine paired beautifully with the grilled steak sandwiches that we enjoyed - fresh from the outdoor BBQ in the courtyard. I swear this wine bar had everything but I have to confess, it's rather unsettling being in such a dark, mysterious place when you know that at street level, the sun is shining brightly.

From there the day is probably best not described in detail. It involves going to an evil bar by Waterloo Station called Hole in the Wall, which is about as pleasant as its name suggests. We then caught the train out to my neighbourhood and had a counter dinner in a pub where poor LW kept getting interrupted by some toothless man who I think had taken quite a shine to her. Actually he kept interrupting me about LW, presumably because he was too shy to talk to her himself. Classic. Where were the Oompah Loompahs when we needed them?!

Parting ways at the bus stop across the road from the pub, I went to the supermarket and reflected on what a great day out that I'd had. We'd done some exploring, some walking around, and a lot of drinking in pubs, but it was a great day. I thought it was a really promising start to a lovely long weekend.

Kenny Rogers and the art of conversation

On a cloudy autumn’s eve, in a lift bound for her house

Gab squished in with her neighbour, and she began to speak.

Some comments on the weather, and the clouds that looked like leaking.

And then she started rambling, and flushed a deep rose pink.

The businessman looked ashen, he knew he was a captive

In a tin can with a lunatic, who couldn’t zip her lip.

So he nodded with politeness, but didn’t answer her back,

Instead he made her feel like she was on an acid trip.

She doesn’t know when to hold it, know when to fold it

Know when to cut the crap, know when to cease.

She could tell that her neighbour was losing will to live,

And praying for the lift to stop so he could be released.

(Repeat until the memory fades)

Train trippin'

Every now and again I am seized by a truly geeky idea and I must follow through on it. Case in point today, I decided to take a train trip to Sandwich. To eat a sandwich.

Yeah okay fine, it's totally dumb but I never said it was a great idea; I just said it would be geeky. And I never expected that the sandwiches in Sandwich would be any better than you could buy elsewhere. I just thought that the idea of eating a sandwich IN Sandwich had a geeky poetry about it. I was all over it.

Sandwich is a little town in Kent, a little over 2 hours train ride from central London. My train left from Waterloo East station at 9.15am and I was almost immediately thrown into chaos by the train messages that suggested the train would soon be splitting in half. The conductor explained that the front 4 carriages of the train were destined for Ramsgate (the stop after Sandwich and therefore where I needed to be), but the rear 4 carriages were going to Canterbury. I walked backwards and forwards down the aisle for a few minutes, muttering to myself and trying to work out which carriage I was in, much less where I was supposed to be! Ridiculous. When I finally worked everything out, I sat down to watch the English countryside whoosh past.

Just over two relaxing hours later, the train pulled into Sandwich and I was so excited. Again, I think this is the geek in me coming out. Sandwich is a medieval town and I really love those. To me, medieval towns imply draughty churches, cobbled streets and interesting architecture. But they also mean ancient, barnacled residents who have never left the place where their ancestry can be traced back to Norman times. What's not to love about that sort of community? In these respects, Sandwich did not disappoint.

Indeed the tourist literature tells me that in its day, Sandwich was a busy fishing and trading centre. Along with Hastings, Romney, Hythe and Dover, Sandwich rounded out what was known as the Cinque Ports (cinque being French for five but in an interesting snub to the French, cinque is pronounced "sink" in Sandwich). These five towns were England's first line of defence against attacks from the sea and as major port cities in their own rights, they effectively controlled the trade and commerce that was undertaken along the shipping channels in the area. Such was the strategic and commercial importance of Sandwich in particular that a number of royals visited and stayed in the town for some time over the years. Queen Elizabeth I encouraged Dutch families to settle in Sandwich, and their influence is still apparent in the town's architecture today.

I took a one-hour boat trip on the Sandwich River Bus to putter along the River Stour. The weather was pretty rotten to be honest, but I only had to share the boat with one lady and her grandson, so I was willing to put up with a bit of rain. Unfortunately there is not much of the town visible from the River, so really all I got to see on the boat cruise were some old barges, the stinky marshes and some scrawny ducks. But it was a relaxing way to spend an hour, and I got a good feel for the town's geography but at the same time, I didn't have to worry about navigating so that was good for me. After the boat cruise, I visited St Mary's Church (1 of 4 churches in the town) and it was pleasantly draughty, ancient and in desperate need of restoration. The Guild Hall was similarly charming - a tiny museum that captures the history of Sandwich from its Roman roots to the present day. Well worth the 1GBP admission price.

One thing that did surprise me about Sandwich was the traffic. I couldn't believe a) how much traffic there was, and b) how fast motorists hooned around the tiny cobbled, one-way streets. I wanted to take photographs of some of the architecture but I was so worried about being knocked over that I didn't bother. Fortunately by virtue of its medieval-ness, Sandwich used to be a walled/fortified city. The remnants of the wall still exist and so I spent a lovely hour or so just wandering around the old city perimeter that has been beautifully landscaped to encourage walkers and cyclists alike to make good use of the paths.

I stopped in at a small pub on the waterfront, and honored my pledge of eating a sandwich in Sandwich. How disappointed I was that the pub did not offer any fancy sandwiches or even lay claim to serving the best sandwiches in Sandwich. They were literally just run-of-the-mill, garden-variety, buy-it-anywhere kind of sandwiches. So in protest, I ate half a sandwich and then ordered fish and chips instead, which were much more satisfying.

On the journey back to London, I must have slept for the first hour or so. When I woke up, we were still deep in the English countryside and I loved just sitting back and watching the fields and farmhouses pass by. Before I knew it though, the landscape changed and we were coming back to the real world where the traffic is chaotic, the people are merciless, and the sandwiches taste pretty much the same.

Happy Whatever

Today is my birthday and quite frankly, I’m totally ambivalent about it. At first I thought this disinterest might stem from the fact that I’m not at home to celebrate with my family and friends. Then I realised that I’m no stranger to birthdays in absentia, so being alone is not at the heart of it. More likely I’m just irritated about the very idea of getting older and in this respect, I know I’m definitely not alone.

When I opened this blog post, I fully intended writing something potentially meaningful about my hopes and dreams for this, my 33rd year on this earth. I seriously thought about sharing with you my reflections on getting older and (hopefully) wiser. Then I realised all of that was complete tosh and I totally couldn’t be bothered. You can thank me later.

Let’s instead spend our time much more fruitfully by wishing a happy birthday to the late Patrick Swayze, who would have turned 58 today. Happy Birthday, Johnny Castle. You never put Baby in a corner and for that (and for your topless scenes and especially the lift at the end of the movie), I know you’re still dancing dirty at the Sheldrake in the sky.

Even in the rafters, it's good theatre

Late last week, on a bit of a whim, I bought a ticket to see La Bete but when I slid out of bed this morning, I have to confess I wasn't feeling up to it. Like most things though, the effort of going along was totally worth it - the play was great.

I took my seat in the third to last row of the theatre, hovering rather precariously in the balcony seats, desperately trying not too lean too far forward. The usher had informed me that the play would be performed without an interval, so I amused myself wondering how my poor little sparrow bladder was likely to cope. Such was the disinterest I was still feeling before the house lights dimmed.

"Allo, my name is Jerome", said a voice in the semi-darkness. Turning to my right, there he was - the perfect French export. Well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-accented. Gay of course, but his all round fabulousness was immediately obvious. And as always happens when I am confronted with situations like this, I immediately forgot how to speak French, and proceeded to babble about boring crap to poor Jerome, who indulged my ramblings in a manner that can only be described as decidedly un-French. Turns out Jerome is a businessman in town for a visit to London, and he's spending the week here going to as many plays and musicals as he can. I loved him. The lights dimmed, Jerome wished me a good show (as if I was the principal actor!), and we were on our way.

It was immediately obvious to me that I had done zero research into this production, save for knowing that the cast included David Hyde Pierce (Niles from Frasier) and the ever-wonderful Joanna Lumley (Patsy from AbFab). Going into the show, I thought the play was a staging of a French classic, which of course it is not - thankfully I did not mention that to Jerome earlier (phew!). For the first 15 minutes of the production, only 1 character speaks. This is the fool Valere, who is played by the amazing Mark Rylance (sadly I've never seen him in anything before, which is entirely my loss, I assure you). Valere delivers a rambling, completely nonsensical but at the same time brilliant monologue that had all the audience cringing, then laughing, and then cringing again. Up and down it went, but the audience followed along because we were all on the edge of our seats in awe of his great talent for comedy. When Joanna Lumley ultimately comes in to the production, she too commands the stage and kicks the production into a whole new gear. The supporting cast are fantastic too and the plot moves at a really quick pace. My bladder didn't even notice that we didn't get a toilet break - THAT'S how good it was.

I lost sight of Jerome when the house lights went up and the crowd rushed for the exits. Good thing is that if I decided to find him again, he's going to see Dreamboats and Petticoats tomorrow night. Naturally.