The grass is greener?

On Tuesday I’m off to the my favourite city in the world. But it’s not without some trepidation.

A couple of sleepless nights have got me thinking about whether or not the grass is always greener.

Do I love the place so much for what it was two years ago.. or do I love the place for what it is?  What if I get there and it’s nowhere near as awesome as I remember?

The three years I lived there were pretty jam packed, with some of the biggest highs and lows of my life.  It was the place I first fell in love, the place where I first had a friend die. The place where I first had a group of friends of my very own, and the place where I had my very first heartbreak.  Events like these put pretty fixed memories and impressions about places in your mind.

Part of me hopes that this trip gets the place out of my system for awhile, so I can commit to settling at home in Australia for awhile.  Another part of me hopes that by going back to the place where things started, I’ll finally get some closure from baggage I just can’t seem to shake.

As usual I have over thought things and placed great expectations on this trip.  For once though, I know I’m not setting myself up for disappointment.  Because in London are some of the things I love the most – shops, men (with accents), booze, history and some of my very best friends. 

It’s hard not to love somewhere that has all those things, even amidst a tube strike in summer.

See you on Wednesday London x

Summertime

Summertime, and the living is easy.

We're all going on a Summer Holiday.

Summer Lovin', had me a blast.

Summer - immortalised in songs, movies, magazines and books as the season to end all seasons. A time of love, fun, parties.  A time when childhood fantasies come true.

What a load of codswallop.

Summer is a time when it's so hot that when you get into your car you get third degree burns on your backside and you end up steering with your knees, because your hands are likely to come out in blisters if you touch the wheel.  

Summer is a time when it is best to stay indoors, with the curtains drawn and the air-con blazing. Because if you do go outside, not only will you be  sunburnt within twenty minutes, you will be eaten alive by a swarm of mosquitos.

Summer is a time when girls should wear lovely floral dresses. But in fact, what happens is you have a lot of thighs on display that really shouldn't see the light of day (including mine). 

Summer is a time when people sweat. I, unfortunately am a sweater. Behind your knees sweat is bad, but not as bad as cleavage, crotch and but crack sweat.  My fair English skin also glows brighter than Rudolph's nose at the slight exertion. 

Summer is a time when the only thing on television is cricket and tennis.  Which despite your natural dislike of both games, you end up watching because it's too hot to do anything.

So, with much gratitude to my boss for granting my annual leave, I am fleeing the heat, escaping to colder climates if only for a month.  Jack Frost will be nipping at my nose while chestnuts roast on an open fire.  Bliss.

Maternal Confessions.

I have a confession.

One that may not surprise those who know me well.

Between you and me readers, I am not as opposed to children as I insist I am.

It hit me today when I was looking at photos of my good friends baby girl. Babies are ok really. Apart from the screaming, crying, pooing, vomiting, feeding side.  There's something quite joyful about watching a teeny tiny human enjoying themselves and discovering things.

And there is something slightly magical when they hold their chubby little arms up to you.  Even more magical when they attempt saying your name or they sit enthralled as you read them a book.   

It is entirely possible that certain circumstances involving my current relationship status and the relationship status of certain significant others (mainly he-who-must-not-be-named) let me to deny the fact that the biological clock is slowly ticking away and put up an icy exterior. 

Whilst screaming children in supermarkets make my thighs shut with a force greater than Obi Wan Kenobi and misbehaved brats at parties have me triple checking I have taken my pill when I get home.. despite this, perhaps, just maybe.. certain children aren't so bad. 

I love my two nephews to bits.  I adore the very stylish Miss Browns' (especially when the eldest complements my shoes).  I have a huge amount of affection for Master Charlie & Miss Indi, offspring of my former housemates.  I have a picture of my Godson Liam on my desk. I'm strangely protective of my teenage niece, despite having only met once (we are Facebook friends though). And with much reluctance I'll admit I'm also rather fond of some of my colleagues children (I'll stress some here though).    

All it takes is a stupid grin and they have Aunty Ginger wrapped around their teeny tiny fingers. 

Let's keep this between us though.. and never speak of it again.

Matrimony in the Monarchy

Earlier this week, Prince William announced his engagement to Kate Middleton.  Whilst this news comes as no surprise, I am slightly gleeful at the guarantee of another Royal Wedding.

Much to many of my workmates disgust I adore the royal family.  I love the grandeur and the mystery. The old-fashioned part of me enjoys that they still wear hats and gloves.

The history of the royal family reads better than any Mills & Boon and is full of more scandal, adultery, murder and skulduggery than a week on Bold and the Beautiful.

Unlike many people, I am enjoying all the women's magazines doing 12 page specials on the happy couple.  If anything it makes a damn nice change from reality TV stars. 

So to the future King and Queen of England I wish you a lifetime of happiness.

And a royal wedding may give me just the excuse I need for another trip to London…

Over the Rainbow

On this lazy Sunday, with a bad headache, lady cramps and a humid grey sky I know there is only one thing to do.. put on my favourite movie. 

I still remember the first time I ever sat down to watch The Wizard of Oz.  It was 1989, I was 5 years old in and my Father was pleased as punch at the purchase of our very first VCR.  And the first video he rented was the tale of young Dorothy Gale and her dream to go over the rainbow.

Too young to understand much of it, I loved the songs and the cast of sidekicks.  Today, 22 years later I love the kitch production quality, the references to opium and occasional sly adult remarks, the history of the film and the magical moment when life turns to vivid colour.  

L. Frank Baum was on to something.  He wrote the Oz series of books in the late 19th Century, and 40 years later MGM strapped down Judy Garland’s boobs, hired some drunken midgets, loaded up the Technicolour and made possibly the greatest film of all time.

I think, at some stage or other we’ve all wanted to click our heels three times and we’ve all had the occasional wistful longing that somewhere, over the rainbow, life is a little bit brighter. 

When conversation turns to film, as it frequently does, not once since I was 5 has my answer to the question “What’s your favourite film” changed.

The Wizard Of Oz. Always.

27 Today

Today with much trepidation I turned 27.. leaving the era of "mid-twenties" behind and officially entering my "late-twenties".

I feel that a lady of my age, should perhaps be a little less excited about my birthday.  But this morning at 6 am I was awake and knocking on my parents door (that's right.. 27, single and living with my parents) to see what presents awaited me.

The sad thing is as you get older, the less fuss is made, when really I think more fuss should be made. I mean, I have survived 27 years in this dangerous world. A ten year old has only made ten.  Surely I have more reason to celebrate than them?

An entitlement to celebrate myself and the year that has been I think is completely valid.

So today I celebrate that since I turned 26 I have:

• Left my crappy supermarket job and got a real job
• Erased my debt with UK credit card providers, Australian credit card providers and Bank of Daddy
• Been on 4 dates
• Kissed only 3 boys
• Resolved to stop allowing unworthy gentleman access to my lady parts (and hence have gone through many packets of batteries)
• Completed half of a diploma in journalism and feature writing
• Almost decided on what I want to do with my life
• Put on 7 kilos and lost 4 (3 to go! Woo!)
• Attended 1 High School Reunion
• Battled with a stubborn case of adult acne
• Got my very first family dog.. in fact my very first family pet ever
• Have welcomed 4 friends babies into the world
• Seen 6 of my lovely friends deal with nasty break-ups
• Have been on 3 awesome trips – Bundaberg, Sydney & Byron
• Watched many, many hours of The Tudors, Gossip Girl, How I Met Your Mother, Big Bang Theory and Modern Family
• Spent countless hours daydreaming about the men of The Tudors and Gossip Girl (Chuck Bass, if you're reading.. feel free to have your way with me)

So as I prepare for a lovely home-cooked birthday dinner with traditional birthday trifle I’m thinking, despite first appearances, I’ve actually done alright for myself this year.

Foolishly Optimistic? Or Hopeless Romantic?

I’m starting to wonder whether my love of romantic comedies isn’t doing me, and other single girls around the world, irreparable harm.

Cause lets face it the following will never happen:

1. A young hot Prime Minister will never fall in love with me (his tea-lady) and track me down on Christmas Eve.  Mainly because I would never be a tea-lady.

2. A hot movie star will not walk into my store, and fall in love with me, giving me a priceless painting and declaring that they are only a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking him to love her.

3. A rich, handsome and intelligent Mr Darcy will not fall in love with my idiotic self, tracking me down at Christmas to tell me he loves me. I would also not chase him down the street in my leopard print knickers after a misunderstanding with a diary.  Mainly because I would not own leopard print knickers (I do love sexy undies, but as a lady prefer black lacy french knickers over your slutty animal print satin).  Likewise, he would not in a sequel, track me down in a Thai jail to rescue me from utter despair.

4. The male escort I paid $5,000 too to be my date at a relatives wedding would most likely not fall in love with me. They might shag me, but would most likely charge me at the end of it.

5. A journalist would not do a story about me being in 27 weddings, and then after a drunken Elton John sing-a-long fall madly in love with me. Probably because I don’t have 27 friends I could be bridesmaid for.

And yet, despite my realisation that they are not real life, I still, deep down, want to be swept off my feet in romantic-comedy fashion.  When you meet a boy in the pub who drunkenly tries to have a conversation with you its just not quite the same as Colin Firth telling you he like you very much, just the way you are.

But you know what. Despite trying to inject some realism into my life, I’ll never ever stop watching them.  Because, on the worst of days they make me smile.