The Postman’s Garden

On Saturday, I went on a free walk with Walk London, sponsored by the Mayor, good old Boris.
I highly recommend one of these walks to any visitor to the city, but even more so for those who have lived here forever.  I honestly believe that you could live in London for years and not discover all it’s secrets!
For example, thanks to this walk, yesterday I discovered possibly the greatest secret viewing platform of the London skyline, completely free! (Take THAT13 quid to get into St Pauls and goodness knows how much to get into the London Eye).
But even more so, I discovered an incredible, tranquil garden hidden away in the busy Square Mile. The Postman’s Gardens, is not high up on the list of people’s must-see’s when they visit the city, despite it having been featured in the movie Closer (the one where Natalie Portman is a stripper), but it has easily become one of my favourite places in the capital.

The garden, maintained by the Corporation of London, opened in 1880 and is a quaint green space and features the Watts Memorial. Funded out of a private citizens pocket, it is there to commemorate heroic self sacrifice.
Featuring simple tiled plaques, I was astonished at the number of children on there, who died trying to save their parents, sibling or school mates. Or strangers who jumped into swollen rivers to try and save someone from drowning. I’d say that half of these plaques, were to commemorate people laying down their own lives to save complete and utter strangers. The  romantic in me was particularly struck by a Gentleman who lost his life in 1869 trying to save a Lady whose horse carriage had become unmanageable.

Some memorials (not mentioning any marble statues of Steve Irwin in Mooloolaba) can be tacky, or too melancholy, this however was positively uplifting and heart-warming, reminding me that even in such a busy city, that there is still some good in the world.

PS. And no, I’m not going to reveal my new secret viewing spot. Just in case TOO many people find out about it. But I’ll give you a clue, it’s closest tube is St Pauls, there are free clean toilets, and it involves a lot of glass.

The Talk

When one enters a new relationship, eventually “The Talk” must be had. It’s always a bit nerve racking having to bring it up, but sometimes you just have to grab the bull by the horns and do it.

So on Friday, I met Mr W (I’m still trying to think of a good blog name for him) for an evening in town, and after a few cocktails, we had the conversation I was dreading.

As a writer, I’ve always found it easy to express myself on paper (or any form of written communication), but when it comes to face-to-face interaction, the tendency to freeze up and be irrational often overcomes me. Perhaps it was the social lubricant of 2-4-1 cocktails, or perhaps it’s because he is someone I am completely comfortable and can be myself with, but the talk was easy.

Turns out we are pretty much on the same page, and we promised to not be assholes to each other.  I’ll keep you posted x

Feet

London is many things, but one thing they don’t tell you is how hard it is on your feet.

Since I arrive, I have been walking constantly. Up early exercising, walking to get where I need to go and just general walking, walking everywhere.

My hardened Queensland feet are now even harder, with my heels now such a hard consistency that I doubt any amount Eluctal Gold heel balm will ever soften.

If I was employed, I’d take myself to a foot spa and soak my feet, getting a little Asian lady to make them pretty again. But instead, I shall buff them with my Boots Essentials Pumicestone, and rub them with Cocoa butter, before doing it all again tomorrow.

Waxing Lyrical

Today I went for a bikini wax for the first time in approximately 2 years.

As an Eastern European woman skillfully plucked and tugged at my lady parts, I pondered what a strange sort of thing it is to have done. I mean, clearly the cave woman didn’t have access to warm wax – and I’m sure that the cavemen didn’t mind one bit.

But today, the general consensus is that bush is bad. I mean fair enough, no man wants to get a a few stray hairs in their teeth when pleasuring their woman, but why all the way? I’ve heard that it makes you more sensitive when doing the deed, but quiet frankly, that area is sensitive enough as it is.

Why the fascination of a perfectly bare hoo-ha? How is a pre-pubescent bald area sexier than a well maintained thatch of hair? Please enlighten me! Because this is pain I’m not entirely sure I can bear to go through again.

Day 3

Day 3 in London, and it was like mother nature knew that it was my final day of freedom before the gruelling job hunt.

A glimpse of sun and all the Londoners come out to play, with the pavements outside pubs overflowing with drinkers, the commons full of bare-chested men enjoying the sun, and everyone has a smile upon there face.

And it’s only the beginning, months of Summer fun times are stretched out before me, and I, for one, am looking forward to many a lazy Sunday drinking Pimms in the park.

But alas, tomorrow, I must turn a blind eye to all of the city’s charms, avoid the shops like the plague and keep myself glued to my laptop until I find a job.

Home Again

I am in love. And no, not with a man (although I am one rather smitten kitten at the moment, but that’s another story), but with this city.

Today I walked around the streets of London, just admiring how much the city has to offer and thinking about how excited I am to be here again in my new home.

My only predicament is that I am homeless and jobless. A situation which needs to be rectified soon because:

a) there are far too many pretty things to buy.. Spring / Summer 2011 clothes are making my mouth water
b) my suitcases are heavy and I want to unpack
c) there are so many fun things to do that cost money.

So as of Monday I shall turn a blind eye to the charms of summertime in Hyde Park and focus on my epic job / room hunt. Well done me.

Welcome to Brunei

As the song-like call to prayer rings out through the tiny transit lounge of Brunei Airport, I am weary, tired and uncomfortable after Part 1 of my journey to London.
For those who have not travelled with Royal Brunei Airways before, I thoroughly recommend their service, however, I would not fly again for the simple reason of this is possibly the worst airport I have ever encountered.
I’ve been to many airports in my time, and so far, Split Airport in Croatia has held the position of worst. But this one, I think, is the new winner.
When I went for my traditional transit loo break, I entered a smelly, soaking wet room. Why soaking wet? Well, the lady was cleaning it, by throwing buckets of water all over the toilets. As I was wearing skinny jeans I was unable to use the squatting facilities, and therefore waited in line for the one Western toilet.
Having washed my hands three times, I set off in search of something to eat. Alas, once again all I could find was One Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf with a sole overwhelmed barrista attempting to make coffee for what seemed like the entire passenger load of a Boeing 777, or an old school diner, where the entire menu was not available.
I made do with the convenience shop, and purchased a Starbucks Vanilla Frappacino (half of which was disposed due to it’s disgustingness) and a packet of Twisties. That’s right, Twisties. Similar packaging, same shape, ever so slightly less orange and a rather different taste, but still Australian Twisties. In hindsight I wish I had gone for Dr Joy’s Original Joy Juice (hee hee!)
But what baffles me the most, is that on a completely dry airline and airport, they are selling souvenir shot-glasses.
Stay Classy, Brunei. 

Airport

So here I sit, at Brisbane International airport, awaiting to board my plane.

Whilst I usually love airports, I must admit I’m not hugely impressed with Brisbane. For starters, the shopping is attrocious. Pure Merino? Why would I want wool? And I’m also rather frustrated that I just paid $10.05 for a 500ml bottle of water and a 24 pack of Panadol (dehydrated from all the tearful goodbyes this morning with my parents and dog). Also, the duty free shop reminds me of how horribly expensive Australia is. No shopping for me on this trip, in fact no shopping at all until I have found gainful employment.

My plane however looks completely respectable as I watch it awaiting my arrival.  We shall see if I feel the same after 23 hours.

See you on the other side xoxox

May the 4th be with you

My mother surprised me in the car driving home by making a reference to popular culture.

She all of a sudden flapped her arms and went.. “Oh, Star Wars Day, May the 4th!”

Today is in fact, International Star Wars Day. May the 4th. Because when you say it it sounds like “May the force be with you” (Thank you Captain Obvious I hear you say).

What a delightful interlude with my mother on my last day in the country!

May the 4th be with you..

Excess baggage

Bit melancholy today as I ponder what the future holds and what I am leaving behind.

But the thing that is bothering me most is that my suitcase is overweight. My carry on luggage is overweight, and heaven forbid that they check my handbag. Not to mention that I will be spending the next 23 hours looking like I am dressed for the Arctic.

In fact, this is what I will be wearing on the plane:

Blue Skinny Jeans.. not the most comfortable choice but need to be worn so I can in turn wear my knee high leather boots.

On top you’ll find me in crop bra + singlet vest + t-shirt + shirt + cardigan + scarf + Puffy coat.

Inside my coat pocket is my camera charger, a belt, my phone charger, and whatever else I can manage to shove in there without looking like I am packing some explosives.

Inside my handbag is full to bursting with heavy things like books and hard drives, and a selection of carry on cosmetics.

I have come to the conclusion that it is heavy work being a woman.

Heels – heavy, make up – heavy, toiletries – heavy, bras – not heavy but an absolute bitch to pack

But in 48 hours, I’ll be there and this crisis will be over, only for the next one to begin!

Affirmation

So my belongings are now safely stowed away, my suitcase is packed (and slightly overweight), goodbyes have been said and there isn’t much left to do but eat the delicious roast lamb my mother is cooking for me tonight.

As I drove around a sun-kissed coast yesterday, I realised that part of me will miss it. However, when that drive took me past closed cocktail bars, closed restaurants, closed shops, more closed restaurants, more closed shops and an open (but empty) pub I knew that my decision to leave is the right one.

Ramifications?

Dear terrorists of all nationalities,

So Osama is now dead, and I’m sure that you’ll somehow want to revenge his passing.

May I please ask a small favour? I’m sure you are not aware that I am a very nervous flyer. Petrified in the best of conditions, I’d really appreciate it if you don’t make any threats or plans to destroy planes (specifically Royal Brunei Airways), airports (Brunei, Dubai, Brisbane or Heathrow), or the city I am relocating to (London). Your assistance would be very much appreciated in this matter.

Kind Regards,

Miss Ginger

Packing crisis

Despite my best intentions, the purchase of space bags and the culling of my belongings, I am in a dilly of a pickle.

My suitcase is holding a quarter of what I want to take with me. And is full. With no shoes, underwear, toiletries or appliances left to be packed. A parcel has been packed up and will be shipped tomorrow care of sofa number two.

So here I am, in my room, in a state of shear panic. Clothes and bags scattered around me and I just can’t quite face it. Hence sitting down to write in an attempt to clear my head.

Do I NEED to take two pairs of pink heels? No. Do I WANT them? Yes. Do I NEED to take 3 white blouses? Well yes actually I do, I need clothes for interviews and for when I start my new fabulous job I’m going to get straight away.

However, it’s such a nice day. And this is all far too hard.. so bugger it I think I’m going to enjoy my last few days of Queensland sunshine.