Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open

Moving on

2009-12-03T09:02:00.003Z

After nearly a week of bus journeys, kangaroos (alive and dead) bunk beds, boxed "wine", toilet stops by the side of the road, emus, dolphins, pelicans, stingrays, sharks and sunsets, I have arrived in Coral Bay, 1132km north of Perth.

The best thing about the bus trip I chose was that it had a jump on, jump off option. And yeah, alright smart arse, I know most buses generally offer the option of getting on and off, but most tour buses don't. Usually there's a bit of apprehension as you reach the pick up point; desperately hoping the OAPs, odd balls and Germans standing nearby aren't headed for the same 8-day, no escape bus trip as you. Luckily, the small group waiting outside Perth station last Tuesday morning were predominantly 20-something, friendly and speaking in my native tongue: crude English sarcasm.

Aside from the possibility of Germans (fact: did you know that more Germans have been killed by saltwater crocodiles in Australia than any other nationality?), there's only one other thing that could set a bus trip on tenterhooks: couples. At first I was slightly miffed to find that four of the six initial passengers were travelling with their other halves. This is because generally, couples aren't that much fun. They think they are, but they're not. Apart from me and my boyfriend that is. Couples are all in-jokes, stolen kisses, 'ooh, I don't mind, what do you want to do?' and sneaking off to bed early. So when one couple jumped off at the first stop and was replaced by two blokes, eighteen and nineteen years old, I was pretty relieved. The fact that they were both badly sun burnt having spent the hottest hours of the day before on a windy beach with no suncream, and had both lost their new mobile phones and Aussie SIM cards less than half an hour after buying them screamed blatant irresponsibility. "Woohoo", thought I. Within minutes, the 'Your mum' jokes were flying across the bus. I had found Bill and Ted from Devon (only one of those names is made up); my first travel buddies of the trip.

Since arriving in Coral Bay on Saturday, my daily schedule has been rather hectic. In order: Get up. Eat. Snorkel. Eat. Snorkel. Chill. Drink. Repeat. And I absolutely love it. I'd have told you sooner but as you can imagine, internet is limited and expensive in the pretty end of nowhere, and something's got to give.

Finally, it's good to know that no matter where I go in the world, some things will never change. As I boarded each bus and entered each hostel, I was met with the same familiar greeting which, as ever, seems to have materialised out of thin air.

"Ahh, hello. You must be Joanne?"

Bah. Can't have it all.

Baackpacccck

2009-11-23T07:00:00.008Z

Having spent Friday and much of Saturday feeling all rubbish n that, I decided to sort myself out. Tomorrow I am meeting a bus at 7am in the city centre, which will deliver me to various locations up Australia's west coast.

I quickly realised that a 7am meeting means a pre-6am start, and most importantly, the maiden voyage of The Backpack. See, the Boyfriend carried it to check in at Heathrow. I then took it off the baggage belt and onto a trolley in Perth. Someone else picked it up, put it in a car, drove it to a house and brought it into my room, where it has laid open mouthed on the floor in various states of disarray ever since. Backpacking so far has been really rather easy on the back. In fact, all I've done, really, is packing.

Well, that's about to change. Tonight I zipped everything up and put a 70 litre virtual landmass the size of China on my back. Checking my reflection was a mistake really; I could have done without knowing that I'll resemble a knackered, grumpy, hot (someone flicked the switch from 25 degree spring to 35 degree summer today), sweaty obese hunchback tortoise when I walk to the station tomorrow morning.

And ah, yes...tonight's other point of contention. The walking bit. I tried to get away with the alternative until the Boyfriend set me straight. Apparently getting a $26 taxi to the meeting point instead of a $1 train, does not constitute backpacking or sit pretty with my favourite B word: "Budget".

Bloody backpacking. I emailed, minutes after cancelling the taxi. I'll be sending you my massage bill.

I wondered lonely as a, well...duck, actually.

2009-11-20T12:09:00.007Z

I've always found staying as a guest in someone elses house for any length of time quite hard. In many ways it should be the easiest thing in the world; you get a free bed, free nightly meals, local advice, suggestions, a living room and all manner of other home comforts.

Aside from saving money, staying in a house means that you can ease yourself into your first couple of weeks in a new country. I found adjusting to the time difference particularly hard and was grateful for my own quiet space when I was waking up throughout the night, as anyone on my Twitter at 4am Australian time would have discovered last week. The family I'm staying with are nothing short of lovely; extremely laid back and very much of the "help yourself to anything" school of hosting. The best kind, in my opinion.

However, no matter how many times you're told to make yourself at home, it's always difficult to relax completely. You find yourself hoping for a little bit of time to yourself, where you don't have to watch your manners, talk about your day or worry that you're eating the wrong thing from the fridge.

Today I took myself into the city and found myself in Perth's Kings Park with a book and a curious duck for company, purposefully staying out until the evening in the hope that everyone might be out when I got back to the house. As antisocial as it sounds, I didn't want to be invited out. I've spent the day with myself, talking to no one, watching couples canoodling in the park and soaking up whatever rays get through Factor 30 suncream. I've wondered around, written in my diary and walked off last night's excesses. But after a couple of weeks of wanting just that, here I am on my own, feeling quite lonely.

It's times like this when I wonder if I've done the right thing, if travelling on my own was something that suited me when I was single and 18, and not an attached 25 year old. I'm finding myself wanting company - but not just randoms - when I've been so adamant that it's not what I want at all.

I know this is a sign that it's time to move from the comfort of the house into the discomfort of hostels. I need to meet people and start travelling, find my way. But I suppose tonight, sitting on my own in my room, in a quiet house, in a country where I don't really know anyone, I'm finding the prospect all a little bit daunting.

Forgive me, but I'm a little overawed by technological advances tonight.

2009-11-18T13:48:00.005Z

The last time I went travelling to Australia was 2003. Hardly worthy of 'back in the day' or 'when I was a nipper' status, but it's mad how much things have changed in six years.

I don't mean the country itself, and I'm not referring to me and my rapidly evolving brain. I'm on about technology, my little warthogs. Technology.

Last time I set foot into the realm of the Bunk Beds, I didn't have internet banking. It was probably available, vaguely, but I didn't have it set up. This meant I had to keep track of whatever money I spent in a little notebook, something I was largely and repeatedly unsuccessful at doing (I do English, not maths).

Digital cameras were big clunky, rubbish things, so all my photos were taken on rolls of kodak film, developed and stuffed in a backpack as I went along. There was no Wifi. No netbooks. No facebook to share photos or keep track of newly made friends. No Skype. Webcams were primitive, fuzzy things used by paedophiles in chat rooms. Blogs were only just on the radar.

A relationship I was in at the time failed, partly due to the temptations an 18 year old backpacker faces, but mostly due to a severe lack of communication. Months would pass without a word from either of us. This time around, while I'm not so brave as to call it easy, my relationship certainly stands a better chance. This morning I woke up at 7am and chatted face to face with the Boyfriend whilst lying down in bed, using the crystal clear webcam of my netbook, hooked up to the wireless internet in the house I'm staying in, and transmitted through the vastly improved, telephone quality of a Skype-to-Skype call. All for free.

It's difficult, we miss each other and are counting down the days, weeks, months until I meet him in Sydney airport next April. Technology isn't the be all and end all, but it's a reassurance; a treat after you've spent the day making the effort to talk to people you don't know.

To be able to take a little 1.35kg machine out of your bag, switch it on and see a familiar face grinning back from the other side of the world - when you think about it, that's a little bit amazing really, isn't it?

Beached

2009-11-17T09:08:00.008Z

I arrived back in Perth on Monday after an altogether successful stay in the hostel. You know, minus the copulating Koreans.

In fact, I'd coerced enough people into talking to me over the weekend that on Sunday I was part of a group trip to the nearest beach. A convoy of us set off, including me in a huge Toyota 4x4 borrowed from the family I'm staying with, looking utterly pea-like and ridiculous behind the wheel.

Mention you're off to Australia and everyone goes nuts about the fact you'll be spending the whole time on a beach. I have to admit, the beaches here - particularly on the west coast - are nothing short of stunning. It's the vast expanses of white sand tickling the edges of topaz blue water, and the way the water can be calm and barely moving in one spot...

Then a few miles up the coast, that same water will be a surfer's sexytime...

The two things these places have in common? Firstly, there's no one on either of them; they are deserted. Secondly? Well, I can appreciate a good beach. Look at them both, they're amazing. But you don't go near these ones without factor 30 sunscreen. And sunscreen means lotion. Lotion is sticky. Sand loves sticky lotion. Plus it was windy, so you still can't tell if you're getting burned or not.

The wind caused another problem: the minute I left the house on Thursday, I knew I'd forgotten a couple of beach essentials. Razors and my hairbrush. I was doing alright until Sunday when I discovered the 'sexy beach hair' look promoted by all women's magazines was actually a massive lie, probably invented when Worzel Gummage was editor of Vogue. Bright white skin, covered, COVERED in sand, with stubbly legs and a head of matted hair? Believe me. I didn't look sexy.

I looked like the bloody Samiad.

“Ah yea, we’ve got a bed. You’re sharing with a lovely Korean couple”

2009-11-14T05:50:00.003Z

Lovely?! I thought, as I opened the locked dorm room door in time to see two figures immediately recoil from each other under the bottom bunk covers. Wonderful. Two minutes into my first hostel stay and I’ve already interrupted a couple mid-shag. Things are really going well. As I sat on the opposite bunk and unpacked my things, an embarrassed silence ensued. Them, still under the covers – not talking. Not moving. Me, cursing the fact that out of all the rooms in this bloody hostel, the only one with any vacancies, I get the gooseberry card. Two’s company...three’s just really sodding awkward.

I quickly excused myself, opting for a hot shower in a cold cubicle and braced myself for the next challenge. It was Friday night, and my half baked idea that I would spend it in my room, shying away from making the social effort required by all lone travellers, was now not an option. Plus, I had to eat. There was no other option: I had to go to the Communal Area. “Are you going to go out?” asked the Boyfriend from his office in Farringdon. “With WHO?” I replied exasperated, panic bubbling in my stomach. “I don’t KNOW anyone.”

There is truly nothing more intimidating than cooking pasta and pesto in a kitchen surrounded by people who are already laughing and chatting together, sitting eating together in groups, and knowing that if you aren’t going to spend Friday night listening to Korean porn, that you have to talk to someone. Anyone. You have to push against every bone in your tired brain which is saying “Cross your arms! Look down! Don’t...say...a...WORD!” and start a conversation which you hope they will continue.

I looked at the pan next to mine, filled with green things (I think they’re vegetables) and eventually, their owner returned. I caught her eye. Smiled. I said those eternal words “Blimey. Well, your meal puts my pasta and pesto to shame. Vegetables and everything. Good work”. I waited. Then she smiled back. Laughed! “Haha! You can’t beat pasta and pesto. Did you just get here?” Yep, I’m just in Margaret River for a few days, down from Perth. “Cool. Well, we’re all sitting outside having some drinks if you want to join us, there’s wine for $10 at reception”.

And at 2:30am, I stumbled into my room after a night swapping stories with people who aren’t ashamed to ask “What’s the cheapest drink you serve?” before ordering at the local bar. The Koreans were still up...well, I say up. They were in bed of course, but awake and chatty. Apparently I am the first English girl they’ve seen have a wash.

I bedded down under the supplied linen and fell asleep on my netbook case.

It’s been a night of firsts, it seems.

Fat ankles, seat choices, and unseasonal accessories.

2009-11-11T01:47:00.005Z

My journey was split into two bits. First was the 12 hour mission from London to Singapore, then a little break in plush Singapore airport before another 7 hours onto Perth. And yowza, even in the relative comfort of Singapore Air economy, where screens in front of the seats provide hours of entertainment and you are fed, watered and smiled at every hour, on the hour, it was still exhausting. Sitting on your arse watching your (f)ankles grow is tiring business.

Granted, most of the exhaustion was emotional. Having said a teary goodbye to the Boyfriend at Heathrow departures, I wondered through reluctantly as reality hit me; I’m not going to see him on anything other than a Skype screen for five months. I was too busy wiping away tears to realise I’d be flying into 30 degree heat clutching the big, woolly white winter scarf I’d worn to the airport and had forgotten to leave in the car. Brilliant.

I’d already checked in online where I could choose my seat, but was upset to discover that technology hasn't evolved enough for you to choose your neighbouring passenger. Both can make or break a long haul flight. Deciding on a seat is always a bit of a conundrum. You don't want a talker, or a fatty, or heaven forbid, a child within kicking distance. Then there's seats. Choose aisle, and face the prospect being woken up (that’s assuming you get to sleep at all, of course) for trips to the toilet and general cabin walkabouts. The middle seat – well – no one likes the middle seat, unless you’re 8 stone and 5 ft 3, in which case you’re used to getting that particular short straw by now in cars or anywhere there’s a lack of space. Or there’s the window seat. Choose window, and you get the view, somewhere to rest your head and no one disturbing you. To sit here though, you have to either have a huge bladder or a penchant for disturbing two complete strangers from their slumber. I was window, and luckily had very polite neighbours.

And so it goes, after 12...20...God, I don’t know how many non-sleeping hours, I arrived in Western Australia. I just woke up and it still feels a bit odd, to be honest. Excitement hasn't hit yet, I just feel a bit strange. A bit dozy. A bit alone. A bit dazed. A bit sans Boyfriend. A bit "god, I'm really far away".

Oh, and a bit "You massive plum. Why the hell have you brought a massive winter scarf?"

Annnnd...she's off!

2009-11-08T22:25:00.003Z

Tomorrow morning I fly to Australia. It's gone quick eh?

I'm pretty knackered - the leaving party didn't end til 4:30am this morning, and after a day of mostly eating, packing and hugging, creativity in any sense of the word is evading me.

So yeah. Next time I blog it'll be summer.

And I will be turning an attractive shade of rouge.

See you on the other side...

We've all done it, apparently

2009-11-05T15:52:00.003Z

Wednesday Evening Mission: couple of drinks, cheapy meal and home at respectable time.

Money withdrawn from cashpoint = £30
Bottle of white wine in Charlotte Street pub = £12
Food for two in Wagamamas on South Bank, plus more wine = £24
More wine in the BFI bar, South Bank = £15
~~Getting home = £3.70~~

Falling into a deep, drunken sleep the minute you get onto the (last) train, waking up 45 minutes later at the end of the tube line, wondering where the hell you are for about 5 minutes before realising there are no more southbound trains, then having to get more money out and a metered cab back home again at 12:30am = £25

And to think, I bought these for someone else earlier in the year...

Clever, Jo. And not at all ironic given the 'napping on the tube' label / mockery on this blog.

Restless

2009-11-04T14:24:00.002Z

I'm all of a jitter. Proper restless.

It's not even that I'm jittery about going away, I'm just bored because for the first time ever I'm unemployed and not looking. I'm sitting at home, bumbling about, ploughing my way through boxes of chocolate and staring at a half packed backpack.

Look kids, I shit you not:

Shut up, my carpet's well nice.

Anyway, I ordered a load of stuff off Amazon on Monday - you know, travelly type stuff such as the ever attractive navy fold up kagool... hoping it would arrive by the end of the week. Note I just hoped this would happen, and didn't think to order anything by express delivery given that I leave on Monday morning. No, no. That would be far too intelligent. Happily, I've received precisely sweet F.A so far, so things are really looking positive on that front. A great time for me to put my trust in Royal Mail.

Oh, while we're on the subject, can we all put our hands together and spank the Post Office for royally cocking up my Post Office credit card application? In 25 years, I've never had anything go missing at the hands of Royal Mail. Yet the one time I give my Post Office credit card application documents (nothing too personal, just a bank statement, account numbers and payslip. You know, standard, identity theft-proof items) to a member of Monument Post Office staff to submit on my behalf, they miraculously disappear into thin air. What's that? March into the branch and kick off in front of everyone, you say? What a marvellous idea. Consider it done. No, really.

Now common sense denotes the use of some kind of internal post system or special / recorded delivery might be in place for dealing with such documents. Apparently not. After telling me this week that my application has expired, the nice Irish Post Office Credit Card Customer Service Representative then suggested that in future, it's safer to post these things myself.

That's right, in future, don't give your Post Office credit card application documents to a Post Office member of staff to send off. They will send it first class, not recorded, not internally, and it will get "lost in the post". Then they'll blame the strikes, despite the fact that they hadn't happened yet back then.

It will then be too late for you to reapply. And no other credit card will touch you because the application wasn't concluded. So everyone, come on. Everyone give the Post Office - and Royal Mail - a biiiig round of a applause.

Useless turnips.

My favourite bit of London isn't a place, it's 7am on a Sunday morning.

2009-11-03T19:13:00.000Z

After a night of tequila with salt and no lemon, jagerbombs and some really dirty electro, we took a break from the dancefloor and headed outside. We'd gone into the club 6 hours ago, and now the fog had cleared and the flashing light on top of Canary Wharf's Citibank was visible again. We sat down on the floor, resting against the fence that surrounds the smokers' area, and talked. Or, more accurately, shouted. If there's one thing that keeps me coming back to that club, keeps me making the hike over to North Greenwich, it's the underfloor bass that tingles your nose and vibrates your chest, leaving your ears with a buzzing, low tinitus hum for the rest of the day.

When we go back inside, the crowd has dwindled and we decide to make a move. This is my favourite part of London. The sun hasn't risen yet and you can almost forget it's 6:30am. Then you leave a club and head to the tube station and there on the path are two people paid to stand outside, supplying us with free tea and coffee. Clutching steaming polystyrene cups, we head to North Greenwich tube with the intention of getting to Waterloo bridge in time for sunrise.

We wait a while then catch a bus which is full of pirates, vampires, witches and knackered, blood splattered faces. It's just a normal day.

He soon falls asleep but I'm awake, preoccupied with the London skyline. Nudge. "We're going to miss it!", the sky is tinged with pink and I can see it between buildings from the top of the bus, but that's all we're getting. He goes back to sleep and I rest my head on his shoulder. Last night seems ages ago, when we walked hand in hand into a pub where my uni friends were meeting, and I made a speedy, unexpected introduction to the Ex.

The early morning giggles get me 20 minutes later. I'm overtired and buzzing and laughing uncontrollably at nothing at all. It's 8am. Daylight is in full swing and the tube we get is occupied by people heading to or from work. For a while, I am quite taken with the sheer amount of stops on the Bakerloo line. Look! 25 stops! 25! Why so many? We lie down across the seats and I'm half sleeping, half laughing. 25 stops. Well we're not bloody doing that.

Eventually, Saturday comes to an end. We arrive home at 9am, still yelling over the ringing in our ears.

I draw the curtains and it's dark again. Bedtime.

Relationship

2009-10-29T17:21:00.000Z

I could bang on and on and on and on about the injustice of it all. The law of sod and the frustration of meeting someone just before you're due to leave the country. Then the slow realisation that this is maybe more than a fling; when it dawns on you that the unexpected, the thing we should have put distance between us to prevent happening, has happened. The commitment-phobe and the independent traveller are a couple in a relationship - and they're two months in.

But we do enough of that moping every day at the moment. We'll be staring at each other across a table, or wrapped up in a duvet, when one of us will let out a groan and the other will go "What?" and the answer will be simply "Don't go". Or alternatively, "Come with me".

In answer to that, today he booked his tickets to join me on the second half of my trip. Even as I type, it feels ridiculous to plan so far ahead. Written down, it looks silly. April 2010. April. Next year. 5 months. But in our heads, we think it could work. We know the risks, we've talked, and we're mutually anxious about the same things - but banking on things still being the same.

It's a long shot, a 11682 mile shot in fact, but you gotta give it a try, yeah?

This girl likes a party. NAY! This girl loves a party, as long as it ain't my own.

2009-10-28T10:46:00.000Z

I think my deep rooted fear of hosting a shindig comes from my youth. Cast your mind back to when I was a wee nipper at the tender age of 13. All spotty with a Rachel-From-Friends haircut, a penchant for multicoloured nails and Rimmel powder foundation. Clad in platform heels and a mini snakeskin number from Miss Selfridge, I embarked on the teenage ritual of a Joint Thirteenth Birthday Party with my best forever friend (or "Bes Fo Fri", if we're going by my half of the necklace), Michelle.

A school hall was booked, invites sent out. Strict 'no booze' instructions were issued, Panda Pops and sweets were supplied. All was going swimmingly for Michelle, who was getting fingered by a Year 9 boy outside on the grass. But the DJ wasn't playing the right music, and my people were slow to arrive. When they did, they were clutching forbidden alcohol and friends I didn't recognise. Although looking back the photos reveal a busy hall, inside I was panicking. Nerves, E numbers and a severe dislike for the Men In Black theme tune kicked in, producing one of the thumping headaches that plagued me through my teenage years. I was home by 8:30pm with a migraine, throwing up into a bucket with a flannel on my head in a darkened room. Happy Birthday Jo.

Even now, I'll endeavor to have my birthdays somewhere low key like a pub, where there's no pressure for people to turn up, no room to fill. I don't like fuss. So it is with trepidation that I have "organised" a leaving do at my house, thus depending on the invitees to make the journey not somewhere easy and anonymous, like a central London pub, but to my house in NW London (a process made near impossible thanks to Transport for London's weekend engineering works). There'll be no bar, no DJ, no frills and no avoiding the hosting duties.

Happily, my mum is busy filling the guestlist with her own strange suggestions. She thinks my low key, relaxed leaving party with close friends should include 'David and Barbara from round the corner, because they've known you since you were tiny'. Yes mum, but I haven't seen them for like a year, what difference will another 8 months make? And what about 'Edith and Terry?' Why, mum? 'Well, they always ask how you are'.

Bloody hell. Will someone please tell my mother that I'm going travelling, not getting married?

Gainfully unemployed

2009-10-26T13:51:00.001Z

I finished work on Friday and have given myself two weeks to get stuff together, say goodbyes and sort myself out before I jet off into the Australian summer. It's strange to be unemployed but not actively looking - or even thinking about looking - for another job. In fact, I'm not going to be regularly earning for the next 9 months or so, a prospect which makes me slightly uneasy.

A good thing then that I was on the receiving end of a cheque that will definitely help things along. There's been a lot of family deaths over the last few years which I've written about and referred to a few times. They caused a lot of grief, heartache and anger, not least because sudden deaths are bad enough, but when the people dying are young and in their 40s, it's a whole other painful story.

Death has never been just about losing someone though, there's the whole other business of estates, possessions, houses; a person's actual wealth that has to eventually be passed on. A couple of years have passed and it's now time for me to receive my share. This weekend me and the New Boy went to Hull and as well as seeing my horse (and giving the New Boy an inpromtu first riding lesson), there was a trip to my uncles house where I picked up a cheque.

It's probably the largest amount of money I'll ever receive in one go and I'm going to use it wisely. My auntie was a keen traveller and I know she'd approve of my plans to see the world - or certain parts of it - that she never got to visit. My only guilt comes from not being able to send a postcard from everywhere I go, as I did the last time I was away.

But deep down I know she'd say, 'Go on kid, get out there, enjoy yourself' and with a little posthumous help, that's what I fully intend to do.

Note to the sick

2009-10-22T11:41:00.000+01:00

They’re all ill.

Everyone around me; coughing, spluttering and staggering about the place like victims of a stapler borne mucus plague. And the air is thick with germs. Germy little sneezes and sniffs have travelled around my office this week in a snotty Mexican wave. Lemsip, daily tips and health assessments are shared in a particularly unsavoury form of team bonding. It’s 9am folks! Time for the fire alarm, cereal, coffee and the same daily conversations which begin with a tilt of the head and a “How are you feeling today?”. Well snotbag, at the moment I'm fine. Yesterday I sneezed because I inadvertantly inhaled some pepper, but today's another day. Oh, and I'd be a hell of a lot better if you stayed at home and stopped coughing your concern onto my keyboard.

Do they take a day off work? Do they hell. No, they come into work because taking time off, even when championing germ warfare, is not the done thing. Oh sure, they’re busy, they’ve got stuff to do, stuff that can’t wait. But this is the 21st century. Phones can be diverted to mobiles and emails can be checked remotely. Teleconferences are all the rage. Video conferencing is the new vogue. Office workers of the world, observe my message: Sick days are there to be taken. Clue's in the name: they’re days for when you’re sick. You know when you wake up and feel so groggy with a cold that you can’t face getting out of bed? Yes? Well that’s the first signal that you should stay in bed. That means don’t leave the house, don't transfer your cold onto a tube carriage and don't share the wealth at work.

Just stay in bed. Please. My throat demands it.

Impending travels

2009-10-20T09:58:00.003+01:00

My leaving date is drawing near.

With just over three weeks to go until I leave London, I am of course going through all the motions in preparing for my trip. Namely: royally shitting my pants, working 9-5, spending copious amounts of money on going out in London, making no travel or bed arrangements and postponing the leaving date by two weeks. So as you can see, it’s all been really productive. Let’s recap, shall we? In just over three weeks, I leave the country for eight months, where I will commence the absolute spanking of 6 months of hard-earned savings in various countries around the world. Booked on a whim after months of boredom, rain and unemployment; the minute the plan was cemented into place I found myself faced with numerous employment opportunities, in an entirely worry free relationship, during an autumn warm enough to rival...well, the British summer.

Clearly my romance could not have come at a worse time. For one, he is not the unreliable bastard fuckwit that most girls would hope for in a situation such as this. He is attentive, spontaneous, fun, will trek to Greenwich with me and rave until 7am (v. important quality), and regularly gets told he's the spitting image of "that bloke out of the Twilight film. Whatsisface. You know. Pattenson." What a hardship. Sure, his daily texts have dwindled from double figures into one or two...but that’s probably because he’s been going to sleep and waking up with me nearly every day since last Saturday.

I’m under no illusion; I know that for a carefree, laid back 22 year old, I am the ideal solution. Have a great two months with a girl, then she’s off, leaving him to enjoy the single life again. We've talked about what's going on and how his plans to join me next year for a South Pacific / American adventure could be thwarted if we both met someone else in the meantime. I know a lot can change in five months. I mean, god, look how much has changed in two.

I now leave on the 9th November. The countdown is on.

Vamp gone wrong

2009-10-13T23:45:00.002+01:00

I got bitten.

I remember emitting a little ‘Ow!’, as you’re likely do when a set of teeth clamp onto your neck, but for one reason or another it slipped from my mind. It was later on, as I stood in front of the mirror tying my hair up, that the collar of my polo shirt shifted slightly and revealed the results. “Nooooo...You bloody...arrrghhh!”

What with the whole vampire obsession that’s going on at the moment, you’d be forgiven for thinking that neck decorations were somehow cool. They’re not. In fact, Edward Cullen’s got nothing on this beauty. As I stood cringing in the mirror, tapping out an enraged text message to the perpetrator with one hand and dabbing Touche Eclat over the dark purple bruise with the other, I couldn’t help but feel fifteen again. Or, the kind of fifteen I would have been, had I been remotely attractive to boys and growing up in a Sweet Valley High book.

A love bite? Seriously? Surely this shouldn’t happen. And surely I’d have packed at least one scarf, high necked top or collared shirt for my week flat ‘n’ cat sitting away from home. Actually, thank god I’m not at home. Even worse than seeing that your parents have already set an extra place for Sunday breakfast to accommodate their daughter’s Saturday night err, guest...would be seeing your mothers face when you nonchalantly walk to the living room on a Monday night with a mouth-shaped bruise adorning your neck. In that respect, I’ve had a lucky escape.

But then I remembered work. Oh, god, work. Having established that low neck lines were clearly my brainwave for this week, I yanked my hair down and pulled it forward around the offending area. Ok, so as long as there isn’t a gust of wind, and I don’t tuck my hair behind my ears, I’ll be fine. Don’t be fooled; it’s not the looks of disapproval I fear. More the relentless ribbing I’d get from colleagues and indiscreet directors, who already sing the wedding march when I talk about impending cinema dates.

Still, better to be safe. Continuing the vampire theme, I walked to work with the collar up on my suitably purple mac, and made an early morning call to another work colleague, my sister.

“Err, have you left yet? No? Good. Can you grab me my shirt off the bathroom radiator, and my green scarf off the back of my door. Yep. Great. Just shove them in internal mail.”

Never mind the perils of living at home, looking trashy and / or fifteen. As I sit in the office wearing my scarf, all I can think is...this would look so much worse if it was summer.

West meets Far East

2009-10-12T14:47:00.000+01:00

Most born and bred Londoners will have a strong allegiance to their side of town and promote it to anyone who’ll listen. The Thames usually acts as a dividing line; those north of the river (like me) can be found hanging around Hampstead Heath and extolling the virtues of Islington bars, while south Londoners will more often than not be raving on and on and on and on about how they got some wicked cheese down Borough Market the other day, init.

In my case, north west London is my stomping ground. Simply put, I know how to get from A to B without getting stranded and / or mugged in the process. Put me south, and it’s back to square one. Put me east, and I might as well be in another country. So when a friend asked me to cat 'n' flat sit for a week, I agreed. Finally, a chance to sample life in zone 2. Just one thing...it's in Hackney; which is about as east as this westie girl goes.

Given my unfamiliar surroundings, yesterday I decided to do a trial walk to my nearest station, dragging the New Boy along for luck. We’d had a good nose at google maps before leaving the flat, established that we needed to turn left, then left again....or something. Basically, he assumed I knew where I was going, and I assumed he knew where he was going. We went left and ended up doing a huge, unnecessary loop through various council estates before ending up at the station about 45 minutes later (n.b. I discovered this morning that if you turn right, it only takes 10 minutes). Having royally un-mastered that journey, we decided to hop on a bus to Oxford Street for some Sunday shopping. Simple enough, yes? Check the front of the bus, see the words Oxford Street, and get on.

After 10 minutes on the bus, I tentatively said “I think we’re going the wrong way”, to which he replied “No we’re not, what other way is there?”. Well, perhaps the way the buses on the other side of the road are going. “We need to be going west, yes? Like to central west. But isn't Clapton east?” It was a few stops later that we admitted defeat, got off the bus, crossed the road and started back the other way.

Navigation failures aside, there are other issues to contend with. Like what to make of an area when you walk past a primary school at 8am and hear one child say to another “Shut up man, or I’m going to murk you til you die”.

In this instance, I can only hope there are language issues at play; that an east London "murk" has a different meaning to its western counterpart. Well, I can hope.

One Year

2009-10-08T14:51:00.000+01:00

That morning, I was the girl on the train who started crying for absolutely no reason.

Remember it? I do, it was a year today. I remember that horrible, awful feeling in the pit of my stomach which told me my relationship was coming to an end. The culmination of months spent worrying, panicking, being snapped at, then hearing reassurance that slowly got less and less convincing. I remember the last ditch attempts to make myself indispensable. I remember buying him things, researching gifts he’d like. That morning, I'd looked at a nice chess set which was about £40 and nearly bought it so we could play together. I don’t even like chess. I remember realising with a pang that there were no more events that year for us to attend together, that if something was to end, now would be the time. As if something as simple as a weekend away or joint invitation would change the fact that you don’t want to be with someone any more.

I remember being angry because I’d been right all along. I’d been insecure for months, questioning his feelings for me, yet every time he told me ‘Why are you crying? Don’t be silly. I love you’. But I knew it all along. You can always tell can’t you? Deep down, you know when things aren’t the same, when things start getting unbalanced. Someone once told me ‘one person always loves the other more in a relationship’, and my firm denials at the time had since withered into something resembling agreement. It used to be equal, but now I loved him more.

Now, a year on, I know you should never have to ask someone ‘Why can’t you act like you love me?’, and you should end it right away if their only answer is a shrug. If it happened again tomorrow, I’d have ended it the minute he shrugged. Sod the two weeks thinking time, what was I on? Why on earth would I have wanted someone to act like they loved me? It just shows what I would have put up with a year ago.

My favourite article was right, you do have to wallow & crash. For me, the crash wasn’t immediate. The bit where you cry all the time and stop eating, that’s not the crash. You think it is - but really that’s just shock. If you’re at that stage right now, here’s the bad news: the worst is yet to come. The crash is the bit where you think you’re alright, so you start contacting them more. You start doing all sorts of silly things, writing emails, texting, meeting up. I started crashing about 5 months after the break up, and didn’t stop until August. If you’re really lucky, they play along too. Before you know it they’re recommending albums on the basis that you’d once have listened to it together, and you’re responding with a smiley face and a kiss. That’s when your head really gets messed up. If you’re exceedingly fortunate, you get to top it off with a one night stand. Don’t worry, we were far too sensible for that.

You start wondering how you’ll ever get over him, whether he’ll ever leave your mind completely, whether you’ll ever get back together. Then a friend – one of his best friends -will say something blunt, like ‘come on, babe. It’s been 10 months. You must have moved on? Like, not with someone else...just in yourself?’ And even though you haven’t, it’s a wakeup call. You were expecting them to entertain your heartbroken thoughts like everyone else does. Next thing you know your whole outlook has changed. You realise it’s been all these months yet you’re still blaming every bit of bad luck that comes your way, every bad mood, every unhappy turn, on the fact that you’re not with that person any more. You realise you’ve got to take responsibility for your own happiness, and stop attributing it to someone else. The minute you do that, you’re sorted mate. Sorted.

“Then suddenly something as incidental as the sunset will catch your eye, and before you know it you'll be out there, heart racing, ready to take the plunge all over again”

True, that.

Responsible Drinking, Irresponsible Driving.

2009-10-06T15:19:00.001+01:00

The last thing I wanted to do on Saturday night was go out. I'd had a nice day wondering around Windsor with the New Boy, and I was tired from the excesses of the previous night. Safe to say, I wanted nothing more than to stay in, dribble curry down myself, burp and go to sleep. But I'm not good at bailing on plans, and I'm even worse at it when those plans are for a birthday.

So I reluctantly headed out to find a route into Piccadilly Circus that wasn't affected by the supremely irritating tube engineering works that blight every line into and out of NW London each weekend. I surfaced 40 minutes later into the pissing rain, which had done nothing to dissipate the mass of tourists and general selection of idiots that make me want to die whenever I'm in that area of London.

A couple of hours later and I'm still not really getting into the swing of things. We're in a horrendous bar. I'm flagging. I make plans to scoot for the last train, but the birthday boy talks me out of it; another friend is driving them all back home and there's a spare seat. We're leaving in an hour: stay? Please? Ohh, ok.

Error.

Had I realised that the designated driver had been partaking in the sambucca shots we were knocking back, had I clocked that his lemonade actually had vodka in it...that the brown stuff was whisky, not coke... maybe I wouldn't have found myself in Piccadilly Circus at 3am on Sunday morning, tired, trying to find a taxi. Luckily, another friend did realise, starting a long argument in which he threatened to hit the designated driver if he even considered giving us all a lift home. And make no mistake, he was more than considering it. It was a done deal.

Drinking and driving yourself is one thing. Drinking and driving your friends home is completely another.

I just don't understand the mentality.

This isn't fun

2009-10-01T09:17:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I was late into work. And for the first time since London got born, it wasn’t because TFL was having special funtime with a failing signal. It wasn’t because I woke up late. It wasn’t even because I forgot my wallet and had to go back to the house, although if anyone asks, that’s my official cover story.

The truth is, I had a wardrobe malfunction.

Ladies and gents, when you think of the words “hold ups”, you’ll either imagine bank robbers, that irritating person who talks to you while you’re trying to leave the office, or ladies in stockings. For clarity, I’m on about the last one. The type of “hold up” with the rubbery stuff round the top, which stops these nifty items of hosiery – essentially thigh high socks - slipping down your leg while you’re walking to the station.

You know the ones?

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to surreptitiously yank up a rebel stocking leg whilst walking down a busy road in front of passing traffic and morning commuters. But if you have, then you’ll know that there is no elegant way to do it. Your skirt could be Reiss, your shoes Paul Smith. Your hair might be glossy, and your nails neatly filed. But all that is guaranteed to mean absolutely nish all when one of your black hold ups is gravitating towards the pavement at a rate of “Oh, fack”.

And because turning back is the last thing you want to do when you’re already two roads away from your house and running late, (‘there must be a way to solve this’, you think, as you try taking lighter steps, slowing your pace, holding the wayward stocking up through your jacket pocket lining), you carry on walking. You carry on until you get further away from the quiet seclusion of your cul-de-sac and into the realm of people who have managed to dress themselves appropriately that morning. You’ll be literally round the corner from the tube station before, red faced and sweating, it dawns on you that if this is embarrassing in your quiet London suburb, it’s definitely going to be worse when you get to Baker Street.

I think the highlight of my uncomfortable waddle to the station came when the rogue stocking, complete with fancy trim, bagged down around my knee right in front of a mother and her two children. At that point, after another futile upwards yank, I admitted defeat. I hid behind a bush in the park like some sordid female incarnation of George Michael, hitched up the stocking and repeated the whole process back home.

Pretty Polly – you’ve got a lot to answer for. There are some things I shouldn't have to do, and a school child should never have to witness, at 8:20am in the morning.

Oooh wet leggings #sorry

2009-09-29T21:44:00.007+01:00

I love blogging, but sometimes it don't half get right on my noggin. I tell you why, listen close. If you're not blogging, I don't care. A blog apologising for not blogging is painful to read. It makes me want to click onto your blog and say 'Good, I'm glad you haven't been here, because you, my dear, are a boring sod when you are.' But I don't. I just get annoyed that they think I care. I know what you're thinking when you write it, but it's just one of those urges you have to surpass. You want to apologise for the fact you're not blogging every day, but in reality, there are a hundred more things more important going on in mine and your other readers' worlds. Namely, the next person down on my google reader who actually has something good to say.

Also, there's only three things that have ever made me delete content from this blog. One was a picture of an elephant having sex which I had in a post from about 2 years ago. It attracted an unhealthy amount of daily visitors (we're talking hundreds) all searching for elephant fornication. I took it down and embraced the four remaining readers like they were my own.

The next was snooping real life friends. They read, they didn't like, I removed. Done.

The final thing is more recent. I have a strange, returning reader. He (I'm assuming its a he) is from Germany. Hamburg, to be precise. Every few days, without fail, he types "sleepingeyes" into google. Although this week there was one variation where he typed in the whole web address. Then he goes to the search box and types in "wet", or occasionally "leggings", often "Oooh", hoping to find a photo that I took of myself in a changing room, mocking the fashion world's worryingly lengthy obsession with wet look leggings. He returns week after week, searching for the same photo which has now disappeared and been replaced with a 'sod off, you dirty German perv' type message.

I wish he would stop visiting this blog. He makes me feel all unclean in the same way that hashtags on Twitter make me want to try and get in the Guinness Book of Records for most number of magazines balanced on a girls head, just so I can compete for the Big Prize for Pointlessness, too. No one reads the hash tag pages. You'll know this because you'll find yourself adding a #hashtag to your tweet, but you'll never have checked where it's going. Or maybe you did once, before you got bored.

#Rant over.

Let's be friends again, blogging.

(Not you, German.)

Angry Half Hour

2009-09-28T14:50:00.002+01:00

The other night I got irritated. In fact, I was really, maddeningly annoyed for about half an hour. Something burned in me and I felt like crying. I sat on my bed, put music on - loud - and resisted the urge to throw something. Ten or fifteen simultaneous thoughts flashed through my head, all of them conflicting. I got up and paced my room. Then I stood by the window, completely silent but seething inside. I walked into my sister's room and started to vent my frustrations, but then stopped, realising that she was on the phone. Angry thoughts smacked against a barrier which read "you are being irrational".

I suppose when it comes to a break up, the mutual friends will always be stuck between a rock and a hard place. Invite me along, and he might not go. Invite him along, and I might not go. Invite us both, and things might get awkward. There's no evidence that this would be the case, yet our mutual friends still continue to tread unnecessary egg shells.

It's been almost a year, and I've moved on. I don't get upset thinking about him, I don't have regrets, even thinking of him with someone else doesn't hurt any more. Therefore, I can handle hearing that my ex is due to be at an event, equally I'm capable of hearing this information and deciding whether or not I want to go. Instead, what happens is a lie by omission. People go quiet about a previously mentioned event, and I hear no more about it. Then it becomes clear that he was there - and ah, the mystery is solved.

There are some people I don't expect total honesty from; namely the boys, the ones who were his friends first. Others I do; the girls, the ones who knew me first, and at the moment it's the latter who are letting me down.

After half an hour, the laid back attitude that is my current state of mind prevailed. C'est la vie. Or maybe the unthinkable has happened. Maybe it's not me they're protecting any more. Maybe it's him.

It is what it is what it is.

2009-09-23T12:01:00.003+01:00

These last few weeks have been fun. Friends' reactions to my last minute romance have been varied, but on the whole the consensus is "Just enjoy it for what it is". What exactly it is hasn't been talked about, but that's ok, I like quiet time. We both know I'm going away, but instead of this being a hindrance, everything seems accelerated.

A weekend away has been booked, brief introductions to the parents have been made. There's kissing in cars and cinema dates, coming round in the evening for DVDs. Lists made of things to do before I go, films to watch, places to go. Late night texts and day to day emails. And best of all, that insecure feeling that usually blights the first month of any "normal" relationship is absolutely not there. I'm not even waiting for something bad to happen or thinking 'it's all going to go tits up eventually' - because it can't.

Meeting someone new is all about the tingly excitement, but also ups, downs and overanalysing. Not so this time. There's no games, no 'I text him first so it's his turn now', no 'I can't ask him out', and no hard feelings if plans change. It's just easy. Going away is still happening (albeit a couple of days later than scheduled, due to a last minute temp job cropping up). Even though it's now with a bit of a heavy heart, travelling isn't something I can put off because of a bloke, no matter how hot I think he is. I spent the last few years building my life around someone else and changing my plans and ideals to fit in with his. I know that if I do it again then the whole year I've just spent trying to put myself first will have amounted to nothing. It's like a little test. It would be so easy to just say "Oh bugger it, I'll go next year" and change all my plans, but really I'm thinking "Nah, you know what…everything will work out alright in the end".

And it will. This can't go badly; if it does I'm leaving. If it doesn't, I'm still leaving. For the first time ever, I'm not reading into things because there's no point. It is what it is, and I like it.

Boldy going forwards. or backwards. Whatever.

2009-09-21T13:49:00.004+01:00

If these past three years have taught me anything, it's that Facebook should be used for mocking friends and not cultivating relationships. I think we've established that despite its obvious plus points, Facebook is, above all, a snivelling whiney attention seeking goat of an internet site developed by people who think Mafia Wars is what the world's been missing. Hurrr…no.

I stuck with it through the good times (terrorising a friend's account when they're passed out at a house party will never get old) and the bad (ex in post-breakup party photos shock). I've learnt that adding someone you met the night before in a club will open up their drunken photos for scrutiny, but not much in the way of conversation. It'll also show you three little words that will dash your hopes of getting with the hotty you met the night before who, it turns out, is "in a relationship". Whatever.

But now I've learnt my lesson. As I sat curled up on a sofa in a Hoxton bar dribbling a G&T down myself, the talk turned to Facebook. It's been almost 3 weeks, but so far me and the new boy have managed not to become 'friends'. He was telling me a story and the photos that accompanied it were online, so he suggested I look at his page. At this point, I made a suggestion so bold and against modern culture that all the cool kids announced I was no longer down with them.

"Nah, but…hmmm. I don't really like it. Can we... not add eachother on Facebook?" I said, boldly going where no girl had gone before.
"Why, what have you got to hide?" he replied with a grin.
"Haha! Nothing, I just don't like the way you automatically know everything about someone. Takes all the mystery away doesn't it. Like I want to ask you about your interests and what music you like, not just read about it..."
"Actually I don't like it much either. It's fine for keeping up with mates and stuff but not really much else."

And so it was that we agreed Not To Do Facebook. Actually, we high fived against it; cementing my position avec the cool kids again. Anyway, who needs Facebook stalking when you can find their Twitter (not that one), blog (not this one) and other random online writing you've put your name to?

"I've found your Twitter page"
"Urrghh, which means you've found my blog…"
"Should I be reading this?"
"Depends..where are you up to?"

Move over Facebook. I've got a new enemy, it's called Google.