Diary of an (ex-)Office Wench

Still read me?

2006-01-13T19:32:00.000+10:00

Do you still check this site? Or have you come here by searching for hookah pipes, which seems to be 99% of the traffic I'm getting?

The new blog is up and running. Sort of.

Girl. Blog. Etc.

Let me know if it's working for you.

Ta, darl.

There's mysterious brown stuff on my hands.

2005-12-04T11:21:00.000+10:00

And I don't know where it came from. And it doesn't bloody wash off. What the hell.

A few things of note:

I didn't go to the Christmas party. I'm sorry to disappoint you, because I know you wanted drunken stories involving sticking my tongue down my boss's throat. But I can't please everyone, and the sudden realisation that a Cocktail Party would probably require nice clothes, and that everything I own smells like mothballs, and that Thai fisherman pants and a Bonds singlet are not suitable, and that the cost of purchasing a LBD (Little Black Dress, of course - or is that too 1996?), heels, and a LBB (Little Black Bag, darling), would probably stick a minus sign in front of my account balance, well, it just changed my mind about the whole thing, but I'll be sure to get the gossip from the very gossipy gay man I catch the bus with every day.

And... breathe.

My heels are scabby, and have burst blisters on them, and they hurt lots.
ExBF is moving to Melbourne. And I have nothing to say on the matter.
Have I mentioned the mysterious brown stuff? It's like dye, and it's come from nowhere, and I'm freaking out.
I live on a diet of Subway, noodles, and curry.
Yesterday I bought four more singlets, to go with my singlet collection. In fact, I so often wear a singlet and jeans, that every time BeFri sees the following picture/footage of Michelle Leslie, she says, "It's you, it's you!" Because even though I look nothing like her, and don't have a Very Thin supermodel's body, the hair and clothes are absolutely spot on.

And then I say, "oh yeah, Bali jails are such a pain in the arse. I'm not popping eccies there ever again," and it's all very funny.

I'm sorry if I owe you an e-mail. I've having trouble with that right now.
When I woke up this morning, before I'd noticed the brown stuff, I rubbed my eyes and therefore rubbed brown stuff in my eyes, and it hurt.
I am damn good at boring insurance crap. Go on - ask me about your policy.
All of a sudden, I'm remembering how quickly weekends pass.
I walked out of my training room and into the foyer, directly into somebody I used to work with. I refrained from screaming, "what the hell are you doing in my new building?" and managed to be polite and cordial.
Mm. Cordial.
I'm not able to update as much as I'd like.

And this is where I make a Very Important Speech. Ahem. I'm not a once-a-week blogger. It makes me feel guilty, and I don't appreciate being guilt-tripped by my own blog. Screw you, blog. And I don't have my own computer, and I don't have a computer at work (yet), and my personal time is really limited right now, and I'm just trying to get my life sorted out, and what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to give the blog a break for a little while.

And it seems like the perfect opportunity for me to refurbish, and Style It Up a little bit, because it looks the same as it always has, and it has an outdated blurb under the title and in my profile, and numerous other things that piss me off.

I'm not sure how long it'll take for me to feel reasonably normal again, but I'm guessing at a month, and what I am TRYING to say is that if you would like me to send you an e-mail when I get back on track (because I may decide on a different blog altogether), then send me one now.

An e-mail, that is. To officewench at gmail.com.

And in one fell swoop, the guilt is GONE.

Pity about this brown stuff, though.

My feet are covered in blisters.

2005-11-30T20:40:00.000+10:00

And there's storms every night.

A new group of people, and I once again find myself in a position where nobody understands my sense of humour, or my sarcasm, or anything else, for that matter.

As an 'icebreaker', we listed a few things about ourselves. Hobbies, ambitions, etc. I can't pick a movie or book that I like above all others, so I just picked a couple I enjoyed and read them out, which drew a total blank from the rest of the group.

They all seemed to murmur in agreement when somebody said 'The Da Vinci Code,' though.

Our trainer told us to ask unambiguous, easy-to-understand questions to customers, with no big or difficult words.

"Like 'unambiguous'?" I asked, and everyone looked at me.

We drew up a chart, and had a lot of space to fill. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to draw some pictures," I said.

And everyone looked at me.

Note to self: Be More Normal.

Oh, and by the way.

2005-11-29T18:14:00.000+10:00

I had another one of those dreams the other night. About Raymond.

From Everybody Loves Raymond. Can you see why this is so embarrassing for me?

Seriously. Where does my mind get this shit?

My most sincere apologies.

2005-11-29T18:02:00.000+10:00

You see, I'm sort of off the air, but not voluntarily. I'm re-learning how to be an office-based wench with an insurance company, and they keep me locked in a small room with no computers and feed me a diet of bread, water, and policies.

And then I get home and collapse in a heap. Or, in the case of today, manage five minutes of internet time and then collapse in a heap.

So bear with me, pretty please. And I'll send you presents.

Warning: Too Much Info.

2005-11-25T11:14:00.000+10:00

Sexual deprivation. I'm discovering that there's pros and cons to this situation. For example, I don't have to worry about unplanned pregnancy, and I don't have to put up with anyone sharing my bed and nicking the sheets, or snoring. Or pissing me off in general.

As for cons, besides the obvious ones, I have recently discovered what is perhaps the worst one of all.

Semi-erotic dreams featuring people I DO NOT find attractive. Weird, freaky, vivid ones that wake me up and make me yell, "NO! What are you doing?! He has crap hair, and a weird face, and he's really annoying! Don't do that! Go away!"

Like the one last night. Which I can't tell you about, because I'm extremely ashamed to admit who featured.

BeFri, I'll tell you when you get home.

My shit day.

2005-11-23T09:15:00.000+10:00

Amongst other things, I'd bought two two-litre bottles of Coke. The cashier put them in a bag, handed it to me and said, "Be careful - that's heavy."

I smiled, took the bag and walked out of the shop. Three steps later, the bag snapped clean in half, sending one bottle in one direction, and the other in another. I stopped one with my foot and a lady picked up the other bottle, handed it to me and said, "Be careful when you open it!"

I placed the bottles in one of my other bags, which looked pretty strong, and made my way to the bus stop. I arrived, I began to sit down, and a great big hole tore in the bag, sending the contents spilling all over the floor.

Oh, joyous day.

I had two bags remaining, both of them already filled to overflowing. Squishing my newly-purchased work bag and two books I'd just bought, I wedged the Coke in on top of them, so I had one Extremely Heavy bag, and one Flimsy Piece of Shit bag.

After the bus ride, I waited to cross the road. I made it to the traffic island in the centre. And then I waited again. And I waited. And I waited. And my fingers fell off from Coke + Coke + Bag + Book + Book + Other Stuff pain. And I waited. And then I thought there was a clear bit, but a car pulled out, so I waited.

Then I swore, and waited.

And fifteen minutes later, I crossed the damn road, with white, dead fingers and dripping with humidity-induced sweat.

Other stuff happened.

My head hurt.

It was a shit, shit day.

The phone rings.

2005-11-22T10:25:00.000+10:00

Her: Hello, T! It's H. from Your New Job!
Me: Oh, hi, how are you? [WHERE'S MY CONTRACT?]
Her: Good! Everything I say ends in an exclamation mark!

Ok, so she didn't really say that.

Her: Good! I'd like to invite you to the Christmas party!
Me: Um.
Her: Oh, I know you haven't started working here yet!
Me: Oh. Good.
Her: It's a cocktail party! And all the drinks and nibbles are free!

Oh. Uh oh. UH OH.

I accepted, after learning that I'll have worked at the company for five days before the party, so I should hopefully know somebody there, at least a little bit. I'm sure it'll provide a fantastic opportunity for me to mingle with my new co-workers, and schmooze my superiors, and get ROTTEN DRUNK ON FREE BOOZE.

Oh, free booze. How evil thou art. For I see you in your various forms and tell myself that to get the most of the night I need to drink you and drink you and DRINK YOU and DRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNK youuuu and why ish everything shpinninnnggggg?

And perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions here, but getting royally shitfaced in front of new bosses and co-workers is probably Not. Very. Clever.

Oh, well. What the hell, eh?

These days:

2005-11-21T10:05:00.000+10:00

I refer to men aged 18-21 as 'jailbait'. And I'm 22.
I drink less than I used to, but the hangover is always worse.
I can probably pick up hot coals with the fingers on my left hand, because they're solid and scaly from Too Much Guitar.
I'm more likely to be hit on by the balding, middle-aged, pot-bellied man at the bar than anyone else.
I'm lacking imagination.
I still can't wear heels. They make me fall over.
My mother tells me my brother misses me.
I can't kick my addiction to Vanilla Coke.
I have fallen into an evil Reality TV-watching cycle.
I wish I had infinite funds for unlimited travel.
I'm bored bored bored BORED bored bored.
I still don't know what I want to do with my life. But I'm guessing my forthcoming insurance job isn't it.
I'm having trouble finding things to write about.

Deck the halls with something something.

2005-11-18T10:28:00.000+10:00

Christmas this year is going to be a little different. For the past three years, there's been a routine, you see. ExBF and I would go and have dinner at his parents' house, and see my mum either before or afterwards. But suddenly, the date is growing forever closer and I'm realising that it's just me and mum this year, and that I'll be reliant on infrequent public transport (I'm assuming at least one bus will be running?) to ship me to her house (a four hour round trip).

So it's a little different, but not necessarily bad - I just need to adjust. I'm good at adjusting. "Hey, you!" I tell myself. "You spent your birthday by yourself in a Berlin hostel, and didn't tell anyone there that it was your birthday because you hate the thought of people feeling obligated to make a fuss over you! And that was ok!"

Seriously, though. It was ok. And I felt a little better for thinking it.

And then I spoke to J.

"I'm thinking of visiting you over Christmas," he said.

I tried to absorb this information rationally, while my inner voice screamed, 'THAT WOULD BE VERY WONDERFUL.' Because, even though I'd still be making the trip to see my mother, J. would be there, and the whole journey would be a million times nicer.

I kept my voice calm.

"That's an awful lot of money to spend on a short visit, especially when you're planning on coming back here early next year. Don't you think?"

With my inner voice still screaming, and me feeling all the more selfish for it, I waited for his response.

"I'd like to see you. I'll check around for some flight deals."

Hello there.

2005-11-17T11:12:00.000+10:00

Don't mind me. I'm just sitting here for a while, because I'm bored shitless.

Go about your business.

Would you like to hear:

A. About my quest to find chicken and avocado sushi?
B. How I inadvertently managed to be a horrible bitch to J. this morning?
C. That I'm waiting for my God Damn Contract to arrive, and until they send it, I will be convinced that they have rescinded their offer?
D. How all of the mothballs I put in with my clothes seven months ago have completely disappeared? Is that supposed to happen?
E. That I cannot, for the life of me, think of a new name for this blog?
F. That I have pubbing plans tomorrow night?
G. What I'm wearing?

Didn't think so.

Lovely.

2005-11-16T13:15:00.000+10:00

'The Phantom is a bit odd-looking, and a musical genius - not unlike Andrew Lloyd Webber,' I thought, feeling very profound. As the movie climaxed, tears started rolling down my cheeks to accompany my loud wailing. "Why didn't you [choke] marry the Phantom? [gag, sob] He's a genius, and [wail, whine] that Raoul guy has flicky, poncey hair and looks funny and, well, he ISN'T a genius."

I rubbed my hand across my tears-and-snot face and thought, 'Hello, hormones. Back again so soon?'

'Yes,' replied my hormones. 'Welcome to HELL. Muahahahaaaa.'

That afternoon, a man came to the door, wielding (yes, wielding) a large bunch of flowers. I opened the door, and he said my name, questioningly.

'What? I don't even know this guy. He's bought me flowers? I should ask his name. I wonder if he'll ask me to dinner...'

'These are for you,' he said, thrusting them towards me, and scuttling back towards his delivery van.

Oh.

Oh! Flowers! Delivered! I pulled off the card.

I wanted to buy you flowers, and didn't see why 10 000 miles should stop me...

Lovely lovely lovely lovely lovely J. is lovely.

Lovely.

Plans for today.

2005-11-15T11:30:00.000+10:00

1. Watch the rest of Phantom of the Opera.

2. Play X-Box.

3. Um.

I did mention that I'm bored, didn't I?

If I don't get some content soon, I'm going to start making shit up.

An old crush, an old boyfriend, and sushi.

2005-11-14T08:37:00.000+10:00

Of all the people we could have bumped into, it was The Lad we spied through the window of a bar in which we'd never, ever seen eachother before. We knocked and waved, he gaped in surprised and frantically gestured for us to come inside.

We did.

Some general chit-chat went on, some alcohol was consumed, and despite being as gorgeous as ever, The Lad is still an utter twat when he's pissed.

We drank pints, we drank shots, and I defended a man wearing a sweatband on his head when everyone started making tennis jokes. "There's nothing wrong with looking a little different," I said, which he took as a pick-up line, and in return decided to bore the shit out of me with a story that I can't actually remember, it was that boring.

"I don't know which Pick-Up School that guy went to."

"Maybe he was deliberately boring you, in the hope that you would kiss him to shut him up."

"Maybe."

My mind went fuzzy, and I lolled in the back of a taxi, singing along to the radio with a cracked and broken voice.

That was my night, and this was the day after the day after, because the day in between consisted of greasy food and nothingness.

I continued with the Bumping Into People theme by running directly into exBF on our way to fetch sushi (Sushi! How I have missed thee!). Un-fricking-comfortable, to say the least. He sms's me a lot, and asks me to movies because we said we'd stay friends. So far I have been skillfully noncommittal.

How do I say, "I don't think it'll work, because seeing you is so uncomfortable?" when I made The Promise?

"I'm sorry, but seeing you makes me freak out, because you look at me funny and still have pictures of us on your desk."

I don't know.

Sorry this post is so wishy-washy.

My job doesn't start for two weeks. I'm bored.

She loves me too.

2005-11-11T15:51:00.000+10:00

I landed a job, and BeFri landed a promotion.

A night of beering is in order. As we contemplate what time to go out, BeFri tells me her plans for the evening.

"Tonight, I'm going to tell really ugly boys that you're single. Ones who are 40, with beerguts, and greasy pervert hair..."

"...and ones who smell like vomit and old sweat, and are wearing tight jeans and flannos."

...

I love that girl.

As I headbutt my way back into society...

2005-11-10T12:51:00.000+10:00

They called, and said they wanted to see me in person. So I went along, to show them my person, and to try and sound cleverer than I actually am.

My interviewer was a lady, and she asked me questions. They weren't difficult questions, and I managed to answer all of them, though not particularly well. I think I managed to indirectly call my old boss a dishonest woman, which must surely bode well with a future boss, and I stuttered and stammered and buggered up in general.

She shook my hand.

"Goodbye," she said.

"Goodbye," I said.

My work shoes, which I had been trying so hard to break in, were killing me. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited impatiently for my bus, aware that I probably looked like I was desperate for a pee. The bus came, I got on, and then my phone rang.

Her: [Fzzzzzz noise]..ello, is this T?
Me: Yes. I can't hear you very well.
Her: [adjusts volume] Is th[fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz] ..etter?
Me: Um.
Her: [Fzzzzzzzzz]..alling to off..[Fzzzzzzz]..osition!
Me: [thinks a moment] You're offering me the position?!
Her: [Fzzzzzzzzzzz]
Me: You're offering me the position!
Her: [Fzz]..es.

Whoo! Whoo whoo hoo whoo! Whoooooooooooooooooo!

Come on. Give me a whoo.

So, I received an e-mail.

2005-11-09T11:23:00.000+10:00

And it was a good e-mail, because it offered me a telephone interview for a job, which I graciously accepted.

I'd forgotten about interviews. Why didn't you remind me about interviews? Why didn't somebody say, "Have you got answers prepared for questions like 'What can you bring to our company?' and 'Can you tell me about your best customer service experience?'"

Because I didn't have anything prepared. And said stupid things as a consequence.

Interviewer: What can you bring to our company?
Me: Oh. Um. I'm, you know, nice, and I work hard. Um. Oh, I type pretty good.
I'er: Uh, ok. What were some aspects of your previous job that you didn't enjoy?
Me: [resists the urge to scream 'EVERYTHING! IT WAS ALL SHIT!'] Well, we often dealt with law firms, and I've found that lawyers are really horrible people.

Oh. My. God.

"Lawyers are really horrible people," I say to a girl who is probably married to a lawyer, has lawyer parents and future-lawyer babies. I try and find something hard to ram my head into.

I'er: Oh, ok.
Me: Oh, that wasn't very nice of me! [giggles maniacally]

I hear her tap-tap-tappety-tapping away on the keyboard, and know that she's just typed 'Interviewee is disrespectful and opinionated' as a sidenote.

I'er: Now, occasionally the work can be quite repetitive. Would that be a problem?
Me: No, my last job was crap and repetitive, too.

What? No! Somebody tape my mouth closed!

I'er: Ok, I think we'll leave it there. Here's some information about the position, [blah blah blah], somebody will give you a call tomorrow and set up a face-to-face interview.

So now I'm staring at my phone. Waiting. Hoping. Knowing that if I do go in for a face-to-face interview, I'm going to have to pray that the interviewer is a lecherous old man who likes 22-year-old girls with crap hair, if I want to stand a chance of getting the job.

But, hey. You never know.

Something happy, something happy...

2005-11-07T08:51:00.000+10:00

One week I'm traipsing across foreign lands; the next, I'm playing Doom 3 on the X-Box. Lots. And walking around the room in new 'work shoes' that are incredibly uncomfortable, but look very professional with thick, grey socks and a pair of tracky dacks.

Occasionally, I have combined the two, and looked very professional wearing my work shoes with thick grey socks and tracky dacks, whilst playing X-Box.

Yes, I know how to make the most out of life.

Don't think that my mention of 'work shoes' means I've got a job. No. They should really be called 'In Preparation For Work Shoes'. Assuming I ever find work. Oh, that reminds me:

Available for employment: Nice girl, hard worker, likes travel and books and, um, other stuff, two and a half years experience as office wench (which involved dealing with total bastards, so good 'customer service' skills), likes to finish hard days of work with a few cold pints, mildly pedantic, habitually uses too many commas, see examples at: officewench.blogspot.com, available for immediate start, assuming you pay me enough and aren't an arsehole. The end.

There we go. I knew I was supposed to whore myself in one way or another.

As soon as I got over my Imported Flu, I started applying for jobs, and have already received my first knock-back. Hey, Well-Known Travel Company, did you even READ my application? Because if you did, you would've hired me, because I know stuff! Yeah, stuff! Travel stuff, and all. But you obviously didn't, and you're obviously a pack of shits, and do you think I take these things too personally?

Yeah. Well.

I'm slowly catching up.

2005-11-06T08:50:00.000+10:00

The flight was bumpy, not only due to turbulence but due to the old man two seats over, who spent the majority of his time trying to express how racist Australians are. The old bastard wouldn't let me sleep (not that I would've had much luck anyway), and kept handing me newspapers and making comments every time I felt like I was just on the verge of unconsciousness.

We landed, and I knew it was Australia by the airport workers wearing nothing but shorts and fluorescent vests, sitting on eskies and in their airport buggy cart things with their arms behind their heads, most likely chatting about footy. I almost died when passport control greeted me warmly, and smiled and laughed and were just, well, nice, because that isn't the way in other places.

And exBF was on the other side of customs. He hugged me so tightly I thought I'd break, and we got in his car and started driving to his (and my old) house.

And then he started.

He was always melodramatic. If he stubbed his toe, he'd complain about it for days, and say that it was possible he might have to have it amputated, and how agonisingly painful it was. When he went to the gym, he'd complain that he'd done so much that he couldn't move at all, and every time he took a step he'd let out a loud wail and groan, and look at me desperately for sympathy.

If he had a bad day at work, he'd tell me a fantasty-laden story in which he was the hero/martyr, and soon after I'd discover how much he'd embellished. So when I asked him how he'd been, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Bad. Really, REALLY bad."

And that was the start.

We arrived at the house and it was so incredibly familiar, and we chatted pleasantly enough about travel and cracked lines from Team America: World Police. I found my guitar and hugged it tightly, before pulling it out of its hard case.

"My neighbour came over and really wanted to play it, but I said no," he said, and I looked at the dust all over it and wondered why he was lying. I sat it on my knee, a well of eager anticipation inside me, and plucked the first string to begin tuning.

And he TURNED THE VOLUME UP ON THE TV.

In one fell swoop, I was transported back in time. Just like that, I remembered why I couldn't be with him anymore. I looked at him and said, "I'm going outside," and he shrugged and said, "ok".

The pain came when I saw the photos of us sitting on his desk. That bit hurt. Knowing he hadn't moved on hurt. But being apart from him, and knowing we weren't right for eachother - that bit became a hell of a lot easier.

Brought to you by the letter 'J'.

2005-11-05T19:41:00.000+10:00

I'd wrenched myself away from exBF, after heartache and misery and sorrow and realising that despite how much I cared for him, we just weren't right for eachother. I told him that I didn't think I could ever be with him again, and jumped on a plane, and arrived on the other side of the world. I cried into the arms of a friend, who hugged me and cared for me and loved me.

And when this friend told me he loved me, I said, "No." I said, "I don't want to be with anyone." I said, "I care for you very much, and thank you for everything, but I want to be alone." And he was hurt, and I was hurt because he was hurt, and sometimes I was angry when I felt like he expected too much of me, and sometimes I cried.

I spent time away from this friend, and saw parts of the world, and met other people, and enjoyed myself in general. I stayed with him while in between visits to other places, and enjoyed his company, because it was nice to speak to a man who actually 'got' me, and could pick up on my obscure sarcasm, and who laughed at my terrible jokes and Australian bluntness.

I felt I hadn't explored the continent enough, and flew to Berlin. I arrived, I explored, and I felt royally ill. I travelled to Paris and discovered that I still felt ill, and that wandering a city in extreme heat whilst stumbling in dog shit doesn't help illness, and that I didn't like being sick and alone.

And there was a change.

Right at that moment.

When I suddenly felt lonely, and dizzy, and sick, but most of all lonely. And that's when I called him, and asked him to bring me back to him, and he booked the next available ticket.

I may not be making sense, but I want you to understand the change, so you'll know what I mean when I tell you that saying goodbye to him last Saturday was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. When I cast aside my duty free shopping plans, because I hadn't taken into account my hurt when I'd made them. When I held him and held him and cried into his neck. When I felt like my heart wasn't just breaking, but being torn and ripped and shattered and hammered.

He said he didn't read this blog any more, but I don't mind if he reads this.

I just wanted you to know.

Cough. Snot.

2005-11-02T07:52:00.000+10:00

I'm not jetlagged. Not even a little bit. But I am, cough, sick.

I think I can safely associate long-haul flights with feeling like death.

The airport staff checked my belongings for anything that will infect Australia, when they should've just locked me in a quarantine box for a week or two.

God knows what I've brought into this country.

I'll tell you all about the heart-wrenching agony and the crying and the old man on the plane and looking at the Great Barrier Reef from my window and suddenly remembering how much I love this country and smelling flowers and hearing birds and seeing exBF again and moving in with BeFri and being sick, um, soon.

Or maybe I just did?

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

2005-10-29T07:03:00.000+10:00

That title has nothing to do with this post, and everything to do with what's in my head at the moment. It's been there for two days, and has made me croon Elton in public too many times to mention, including: at a wine reception I meant to tell you about, and a beer festival I meant to tell you about, and the train ride back to Norfolk this evening.

Count the headlights on the highwayyyyy.

This is it, my dear. Tomorrow I'm hopping on a plane, and you're going to have to cut me some slack. Because, see, it takes me two days to get home, and then I'll be jetlagged for about three days, and then I'll be at the pub with BeFri for about two days, and then... well, then I'll be updating.

Ballerina-a, you must've seen her.

But, if I manage to update as soon as I arrive home, then, um, just pretend you never read this.

Is Elton John stuck in your head and not coming out? Send complaints to: officewench at gmail.com.

Who wants a kiss?

2005-10-28T04:29:00.000+10:00

My face, in preparation/celebration/devastation of my impending Return to Oz (what a very frightening movie), has decided to go on a trip down memory lane. All the way back to adolescence.

The only dermatological disasters I suffered growing up were occasional pimples, which would show up one at a time and mar my pasty white complexion with a volcanic welt, causing endless anxiety and many "but the boys won't like me!" moments.

But it didn't happen that often, thanks to some freakish anti-zit gene my mother gave me (along with the crap hair gene and the always on time gene), and the boys had more of them than me, so I didn't really give a toss.

And then, of course, I got past the growing bit, and my hormones decided to settle down and the volcanoes started leaving me alone, only recurring in moments of extreme stress.

(Example of Moment of Extreme Stress: Jim the Sleaze trying to put his hand up my shirt and telling everyone that I was his girlfriend.)

While I am mildly freaked out at my sudden (it feels sudden) flight home this Saturday, I have been pushing it out of my mind, and would not currently class it as a moment of extreme stress. But my face has continued on regardless, and given me the most mammoth, volatile, red, volcanic zit that I have seen on my face since 1998.

What's worse is that it's sitting right above my lip, and looks like a cross between a festering pimple, a welt, a coldsore, and herpes.

Suddenly I'm 14 again, and holding my hand up to my face whenever a cute boy walks past.

To my hormones, or my stress level, or the demons of hell residing in my pores: Screw You.

Pictures, London, leaving.

2005-10-26T22:29:00.000+10:00

This is most likely to be my last picture post from the the northern hemisphere. Until the next time I visit, that is.

The Egyptian bit of the British Museum appeals to sad nerds like myself. Hieroglyphics make written English look very boring.

I'm thinking about making this my new profile picture. The likeness is astounding.

Hey! Look! It's a famous bridge thing in London!

And I'm spent.

London was full of dirt, bums, smashed bus shelters, noisy trains, famous things, and it's got a big, muddy river running through it. Everyone is trendy. Even the 'alternative' gangs who have tried their hardest to show how non-conformist they are.

"Hey, you! Mr. Alternative! I know that you paid £150 for a brand-new jacket with scraggy bits on it, in the hope of it looking like it's come from an op-shop! You can't fool me!"

I didn't actually say that. I was far too busy not fitting in.

This Saturday I'm flying home. Interspersing periods of laziness with visits to exotic countries for the last seven months (where has the time gone?) has been bloody cushy, but all good things must come to an end.

Next week marks the beginning of my job hunt; my attempt to scrounge some things together and call it My Life.

exBF: I can pick you up from the airport no problem, but I might be called into work.
Me: That's ok. I think BeFri is picking me up after she finishes work.
exBF: I take it you're not staying here on Monday night, then?

WHAT? WHAT WHAT WHAT? NO! NO NO NO!

I don't know what the next couple of months will bring, but they probably won't be easy.

Ooh. Feel better now.

I'll probably post again before I go, but if not, I'll see you on the other side.

Just quickly.

2005-10-26T21:08:00.000+10:00

[Scene: Watching an antiques show on TV. Yes, very sad, I realise.]

Me: Wedgwood. Hmm. My mum had some wedgwood.
J.: [uninterestedly] Oh, yeah?
Me: Yeah, and because I was a kid and had no concept of value, I used to play with it. I drew all over it. With chalk.
J.: Really?
Me: Yeah, chalk goes good on wedgwood.

[A moment of silence.]

J.: I can't believe you just said 'chalk goes good on wedgwood.'
Me: Well. It does.

And now I'm going to sleep.

2005-10-26T07:51:00.000+10:00

We watched Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and does it have one H, or two?

Afterwards:

"I'm sorry, but where the hell was the story?"

...

(This will only make sense to people who have read the books and seen the movie. Sorry.)

Trains. Trains are good.

2005-10-26T07:31:00.000+10:00

When I flew to Glasgow, I commented that it was a terrible flight, and closed my eyes and held the armrests, only opening my eyes to focus on the words on the glossy pages of the complimentary magazine on my lap. Because it was bumpy, see. And I don't like bumps.

When I flew from Glasgow, I crunched my eyes closed, and listened to the distressed passengers voicing their concerns, and tried not to be ill as the plane lurched from side to side and jolted me in my seat. I vowed to stick to land-based travel whenever possible, and wiped my sweat-covered palms on my jeans, and ALMOST CRAPPED MYSELF.

I hate flying. I used to like flying, but then I had too many scary things happen, and now I hate flying.

Sleep calls. Update tomorrow.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

2005-10-23T23:23:00.000+10:00

I have to go to Glasgow. For a couple of days. And then I'll be back and as boring as ever. I have pictures of museum exhibits (and other exciting things) to show you.

Incidentally, I am not trendy enough for London.

I'm buggering off again.

2005-10-20T18:20:00.000+10:00

And won't be back for a day or three.

I'm off to London to indecently assault the Queen's guards and develop a cockney accent.

I'll ply you with pictures later.

I don't have anything to say.

2005-10-19T21:13:00.000+10:00

Hey, look - a camel.

There's no way to describe the smell of a camel. 'Really quite bad' might begin to cover it, but it just isn't enough. We brought home a bottle of boukha, which is made of figs, but we refer to it as 'distilled camel'. Yes, it's that mingy.

Having discovered that I have only read eight of the 100 greatest novels, as listed by Time Magazine (link via bluishorange), I am feeling incredibly inadequate and quite thick, so I must finish Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell ASAP. Silence, please.

Fricking hormones.

2005-10-19T01:43:00.000+10:00

There's things that make being a girl great. I can't be arsed listing them, because this post is a whinge about things that make being a girl utter shit.

Hormones. Screw you, hormones.

I've had quite a good day. I haven't done much, but it's been good. There's a bunch of flowers next to the window and they brighten up the room, even if the sky is dismal and grey. I've been reading blogs, sending e-mails, arsing about, and eating breakfast bars. Not a bad day.

J. dropped in on his break. I said 'hi', asked how his day was going, 'oh it's going shit? I'm sorry', and then I followed it up by bursting into tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently, with undertones of worry and what-the-hell-ness.

I've never been able to understand how people who are crying severely can intersperse their tears and wails with a full description of what is ailing them at that particular moment. When I cry, I cry. I don't do Crying Plus Talking. This is Very Impossible.

Gasping for air, wiping away snot and tears, and sobbing furiously, I managed to spit out the word 'nothing' before reverting back to my former, choking state.

He hugged me tightly and said, "I hate to see you upset. Please tell me if there's something wrong."

The tears slowed down and I looked up and saw his face, full of concern and love.

I promptly started bawling again.

You see, the thing is, there is actually nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Tears just started squirting out of my eyes. Hormones make me cry when I see Greenpeace ads on TV, when I watch sci-fi movies, and for no reason at all.

And it's a gigantic pain in the arse.

If you'll excuse me, I have to fetch a fresh box of tissues.

I'm giving it another go.

2005-10-18T21:18:00.000+10:00

This weekend, I am finally going to London to act like a tourist and take photos of that big clock thing and the giant ferris wheel. And I'm hoping that this time I won't end up in Hackney, confused and frightened.

If any Londoners happen to see this, and have any marvellous suggestions for me, I'd be ever so grateful...

I'm back from Tunisia...

2005-10-17T22:55:00.000+10:00

...and can honestly and sincerely say that I NEVER want to go there again.

I have never been so confronted by dishonesty and moneylust. I wanted to see what Tunisia was like but was blinded by men forcing scarves around my neck and clamping their hands around my wrist; dragging me towards lamps and hookah pipes and leather shoes and other things I didn't need.

"I don't want to see that. I want to see Tunisia."

"GOOD PRICE! GOOD PRICE GOOD PRICE FOR ENGLISH GOOD PRICE COME COME COME!"

Trying to sell me their goods by brute force was quite an experience, but it was completely overshadowed by their blatant dishonesty and blunt theft.

"I'm sorry, but this taxi has cost us twice as much as the last three times we made this journey."

"Fine, I will drop the price," he said, and the bastard had the nerve to look upset.

"Come on my camel journey! COMECOMECOMECOMECOME! GOOD PRICE!"

"No."

"Oh." He turns to J. "You want to come, don't you. This girl, she spoiling your holiday, yes? It's ok, my friend. Next time, I make you good price."

J. was having such a hard time with the accent that he had no time to react before the man had turned on his heel and walked away with a sneer.

"Hey, you! Camel man! Since I'm on HOLIDAY and you're harrassing me in MY HOTEL, how about you do everyone a God Damn Favour and JAM YOUR CAMELS UP YOUR ARSE!"

Except I didn't say that. I should have said that. By the end of my time there, I would've said that, but I didn't see him again.

"Passport please. Do you have any Tunisian Dinars?"

I handed over my passport to the official. "Just a couple of coins."

"How much?"

"Maybe three."

"Hand it over please."

"Oh, ok."

He was an airport employee. I didn't know he was putting it in his pocket.

Somebody please tell me that there's more to Tunisia than this. I'm just so incredibly disappointed, and tired, and exhausted, and unspeakably furious. But disappointed, most of all.

I wanted more than this.

Let me know if you want anything.

2005-10-12T19:40:00.000+10:00

[Scene: I've just slammed my thigh into the corner of a cabinet. A corner-shaped bruise has already popped up and I'm moaning like a sissy.]

Me: Ow.
J.: You poor thing. Wish I could make it better.
Me: What would you sacrifice to make it better? If having one of your fingers chopped off would make it better, would you do it?
J.: Um. Well, since it's only a bruise and will be gone in a couple of days, I'll have to say no...
Me: Geez, if that's how you feel. [feigns hurt feelings and sniffs]
J.: It's like having my finger chopped off for a packet of breakfast bars. Completely unnecessary.
Me: What if they were the last packet of breakfast bars in the world?
J.: Oh, God.
Me: What if there was loads of meat and veg and that sort of thing, but only one packet of breakfast bars, one packet of French Fancies, one pint of Guinness, and one packet of Happy Hippos? Would you lose a finger to get those for me?
J.: For £1's worth of groceries?
Me: But they'd be priceless! You could sell them on e-bay and buy yourself a billion fingers!
J.: Um.
Me: You could buy a metal, Terminator finger. And it could have stuff built in, like a laser pointer. And you could conduct meetings using your metal finger. Oh, you could have a Stanley Knife Finger! With a flip-out blade for cutting up veg, and stuff...
J.: You mean a Swiss Army Knife Finger.
Me: Yeah, that's what I said. And it could have one of those blunt saws that can't cut anything, and one of those things for getting the stones out of horses' hooves...
J.: And the one for getting boy scouts out of girl guides...
Me: ...and the... what did you say? And the plastic magnifying glass, and a pair of tweezers, and...
J.: I'm going to sleep now.

I'm leaving for the airport in three hours and shall return on Monday morning, laden with hookah pipes and fake designer handbags. And perhaps a camel.

In case you haven't spotted them yet, there's a few new links on the sidebar, which are all very good. So go look, and I'll be back next week to tell you all about my sunburn, having camels spit on me, and getting the Sahara Desert in my eyes.

Get your 'awwww's ready.

2005-10-11T21:00:00.000+10:00

KITTEN WAR!

(NB: Does not actually contain any sort of physical kitten battling. If you're expecting kittens with spears and swords, you will be disappointed.)

Why am I not tired of this yet?

It's booked.

2005-10-11T19:35:00.000+10:00

"You're perfect!" he insisted.

"You're the only girl I would ever marry," he declared.

"I need you," he whispered.

...

"I'm flying home on October 29th," I said.

...

"I'll fly over in January," he promised.

They grow up too quickly.

2005-10-10T19:38:00.000+10:00

I sit in the overstuffed lounge chair, enveloped in blue cushions and fending off a hyperactive terrier. One of the triplets bounds in, a bundle of 11-year old enthusiasm and energy. She pushes a few blonde strands out of her eyes so I can see her silver glitter eyeshadow. After planting a kiss on my cheek, she plonks down in the adjacent chair, heaving a sigh of exhaustion.

"No, you know what, like, we've been playing games, right, and I'm getting the highest score in all of them. There's me, Emma, Sian, Charlotte..."

I zone out momentarily to divert the terrier's tongue away from my mouth.

"...and Emma said the FUNNIEST thing. Where have you been, Aunty T?"

"Oh, gosh. Everywhere."

"Where are you going next then?"

"Tunisia, on Wednesday."

She pulls a face that tells me that she has no idea where Tunisia is, but it sounds Very Far Away.

Another triplet walks into the room and stands in front of the TV. "Say hello," says his dad. "Hi," he murmurs, not bothering to look away from the screen, because he's The One Who Doesn't Like Talking. A lad after my own heart. He prefers to sneak shy glances when he thinks people aren't looking.

"I'm going out," he says, in a voice so low that I only just catch it, and shoots out of the room.

The first triplet looks me up and down. She's at least a couple of inches taller than the last time I saw her. She looks at her dad. "Can I go back to the party, dad?"

"Oh. Go on then," he says, looking mildly embarrassed.

She leaps out of the chair and hugs me tightly. She'll probably be a few years older when I get to see her again.

"Kids these days. They just want to spend their time with their mates. The Other Triplet is in town somewhere."

He looks apologetic. It's ok; I understand. Kids are kids. And I didn't even bring them any presents. Everyone knows that in order to fulfil the role of Favourite Aunt, you need to provide presents.

I gently push the dog off my lap, ignoring its Pay Attention To Me expression. We say our goodbyes, and we're soon speeding along the M4, back towards Sunny Ol' England.

Cups of tea consumed: Zero.
Welsh cakes consumed: Zero.

I know. I can't believe it either.

It's funnier if you're pissed.

2005-10-10T18:29:00.000+10:00

When you mix booze with trivia, you come up with silly answers, and then giggle and giggle and giggle until you start snorting embarrassingly.

Me: Who killed Billy the Kid?
J.: Pfft. John the Grown-Up.

Oh. God. Giggling. Giggling Lots.

J.: Who led Sweden to its first Davis Cup victory?

If I'd thought about this, I would've actually been able to get it.

Me: Dunno.
J.: Think "Abba".
Me: Bjorn?
J.: Mm...
Me: Um. Bjorn... Again?

Oh. Giggling. Oh God. Snort. Giggle.

There were other ones, but I kept forgetting them, and then the keyboard went all swirly and I couldn't type any more, so I ate the bacon out of a bacon sandwich and then I went to bed and fell asleep.

The end.

There's no pieces involved, see.

2005-10-10T05:44:00.000+10:00

[Scene: Alcoholic Trivial Pursuit on Sunday night. J. and I are sitting at a table with a drink in one hand and a heap of cards in the other.]

J.: Who played the title role in A Man Called Horse?
Me: Horse!
J.: Yeah, that was my first thought, too. It was Richard Harrison.
Me: Bah. Who was Australia's most infamous bush ranger? [groans]
J.: I don't bloody know. The bloke who drove the cars around.
Me: It's not Mad Max.
J.: I don't know.
Me: Ned Kelly!
J.: Oh. No, that's not right.
Me: Eh?
J.: He's not famous for being a bushranger. He's famous for making armour out of metal bins.

Oh. I have taught that lad so well.

What your clothes say about you.

2005-10-10T01:53:00.000+10:00

Very nearly bought this book, in the hope of finding out exactly what it says about you when you wear (what looks like) a WILD BEEHIVE around your neck.

Come on, Trinny or Susannah. I may live in jeans and t-shirts, but even I feel confident saying there's something wrong with that.

I've been tagged, like a newly-born calf.

2005-10-06T20:42:00.000+10:00

I know I'm posting too much. But it's rude to ignore taggage.

I've changed the format a bit. I don't know if that's against the rules.

Before I die, I would like to explore the rest of the world. Except for, you know, the really cold bits. Like Antarctica. I don't want to go there. Also, I'd like to read every book considered to be a 'classic', modern or otherwise. I'd quite like my own house, too. And a pony named 'Sparkle'.

I am quite good at typing. I type over 100wpm. That's about it as far as talent goes. And that's not even really a talent. I'm pretty good at drinking beer. Um. Oh, I remember stuff pretty well. Names, and conversations, etc. Also, I can type pretty quickly.

I am absolutely shit at looking like a girl. My hair pokes out in the wrong directions, make-up smears, heels make me trip over, and skirts blow up and everyone sees my underpants. And I can't drive. I am spoilt by Brisbane's kick-arse public transport system. I'm also crap at talking to people. I like secluded corners, and books, and things.

I am attracted to intelligence. You need to be able to read and write, sonny. Shyness is hot. Active pursual is hot, too. Whoever invented 'play hard to get' was an absolute tosser. But not, you know, on stalker level. That is decidedly un-hot. Does my use of 'hot' make me sound 14? On a more physical level, dark hair and eyes, all smouldery-like, HOT.

I'm nearly always saying, "You're dumped." It's a recent thing. Do something stupid, and you're dumped. Doesn't matter if we're 'together' or not. Dumped. "Oh, well done, KNOBBO." When I'm in a car, you see. I get road rage from the passenger seat. "Bollocks," "Arse," and "Bugger off" are probably up there, too. I refer to a lot of people as 'Sunshine'. Oh, and how could I forget, "CHUG-A-FREAKING-LUG." That's also a car thing, meaning, "Excuse me, but would you mind accelerating?" In fact, you might hear me say, "Chug-a-freaking-lug, Sunshine". My vocabulary does change depending on who I'm with, mind you.

Celebrities I find attractive are: Scarlett Johansson, Kate Winslet, Audrey Tautou, Natalie Portman, because you can't really get much more beautiful than her, and Colin Firth, and Tom Cruise - Ha, I am kidding, for Tom Cruise is a strange hobbit-like creature composed solely of arrogance and teeth - and that's all I can think of at the moment, really.

Did I do it right?

I'm off to see family, who will ply me with tea and Welsh cakes, and will return in a couple of days.

Revolver: the movie for clever people.

2005-10-06T20:14:00.000+10:00

Apparently.

(That 'Apparently' bit was supposed to link to the interview in which Guy Ritchie said something along those lines, but I can't find it.)

It doesn't deserve the slating it's getting. It doesn't deserve unlimited praise, either. And it's true - it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

But, hey, I've got my excuses prepared. I mean, it's tough to read subtitles when you're focusing on a million things happening at once, and brash, abrupt visuals that drill themselves into your psyche. And when the fantastic use of sound is knocking your socks off.

And, excuse number two, it's tough to focus when you're waiting for one of the central characters to break into the chorus of Hey Ya.

Basically, my dear, I can no longer think proper-like, because I have seen Revolver.

It doesn't make sense, but hey, neither do other movies, like, you know, that one. That one I can't think of right now.

It's tough to explain the cool bits. The way the camera jerks and juts in sync with an angry character's screaming. The anime-style animation, which is destined for a million comparisons to Tarantino, but was still fantastic and incorporated with the live-action shots in a way I've never seen before. The use of colour, and the subtle implications of a character living in perpetual UV.

But maybe I just like that sort of thing.

If I watched it 12 times normally, and 35 times in slow-motion (to get all of the just-too-quick-for-the-eye-but-slow-enough-for-you-to-know-it-was-there references), I would still have no idea what it was about.

If you see this movie, and you get to the bit where everything goes dark and music starts playing, that's actually the end of the movie. There's no credits. Just so you don't sit the whole way through it, like, ahem, some people did. Thinking it was going to suddenly jump back onto the screen and make you leap out of your seat. Like some people did. Ahem. But then they realised that a 5-minute stint of just blackness with music was too long, even for the artiest of movies, and then they left. Silly people. Ahem.

I arks you to join me on a trip down memory lane...

2005-10-06T19:32:00.000+10:00

It wasn't a normal wedding. Both families were pretty bloody wealthy, but to walk into the church, you wouldn't have known it.

God, I already know this is going to make me sound horrible.

They both came from religious families, which I'm not criticising in any way. It's all good. It's very likely their parents had paired them up moments after they'd popped out of their respective wombs. No expense had been spared on the dress, or the groom's suit, or the bridesmaids or groomsmen, but it just didn't look like a wedding.

Maybe TV has influenced me too much. No flowers, or decoration, or anything. So we sat down, at the back, and the sermon began.

Oh, sorry, I mean 'wedding'.

The minister stood up and began preaching. For about 45 minutes. And you see, that's all good, that's to do with their beliefs and all that, but there was this thing about him. Call me fickle, but here goes.

He had a minor speech impediment. Instead of saying 'ask', he said 'arks'. And God, did he need to arks a lot of things.

"Let us ARKS the Lord to bless this happy couple, and may they ARKS for his blessing also. Now, if I can ARKS you to bow your heads for a moment, while I ARKS the Lord to bless this ceremony and ARKS him for forgiveness for us all."

NO. No no NO.

"Dear Lord, I must ARKS you..."

NOOOO. Ask, ASK.

I sat through 45 minutes of arksing.

Ok, so fast-forward. She traipses down the aisle, looks gorgeous, they get hitched and we all sing hymns.

It was at that point that I realised that absolutely everyone in that church, bar a few people, were Regulars at that church. They threw their lyrics cards aside, raised their arms, and switched to Hymn Mode. I sort of clapped and bobbed a bit, because they were those sort of hymns, and personally thanked God that I was sitting at the back.

So, to the reception. We all turned around, and at the back of church, was a small table with a white tablecloth on it. Welcome to the alcohol-free reception. A small container of orange juice was passed around and emptied within seconds. Two plates of triangle sandwiches did the rounds.

"I wonder where the wedding cake is?" I pondered, because I'm always thinking of the important things.

But, you see, there wasn't one.

First, you deprive me of the booze that is rightfully mine, and then you don't even give me cake to compensate? Dude.

But, it was genuinely lovely and she was lovely and looked like a princess. And I went home and got pissed, instead. So it was all good.

Do I still sound like an awful person?

Another wedding? Already?

2005-10-06T02:00:00.000+10:00

A while ago, I registered with one of those Friends Reunited-type websites. About three years ago, I think. Since then, I didn't check it once. I went through the listings, saw a few names I recognised, but there wasn't anyone I felt compelled to contact. Every time they sent me updates, I'd look at them, and delete them. I just couldn't be arsed.

Until today.

I had a look through the listings, and saw that an old friend had signed up a couple of months ago. She was part of our 'group' in high school. I'm not going to start on The Group, because that requires its own post (or twelve) (or its own blog, perhaps), and I'd spend forever telling you how they all grew up to fit the perfect housewife mould, while BeFri and I grew up and embraced beer and chocolate.

Getting off track. I read her profile, and discovered that she's getting married next month. And God, the memories started flowing. She was definitely next on the list, as the Most Likely Candidate has already been married for a year or two, now. And it's the Most Likely Candidate I'm remembering. And that wedding. Oh, God.

Well, to start...

No, you know what? I'm going to continue this tomorrow. I've blogged too much today.

Another movie evening?

2005-10-05T22:04:00.000+10:00

I know I've done this before, but copying and pasting from e-mails is loads easier than typing a post from scratch.

Sender: J.
To: T.
Subject: This evening...

Fancy seeing a movie?

***

Sender: T.
To: J.
Subject: Re: This evening...

Certainly. Here's what's on:

Goal
5:15pm and 7:45pm
Plot: Blah blah blah football, blah blah blah boring, "it's my life's
dream to kick a ball around and give people a right kicking when they
oppose me", etc. i.e. we're not seeing it.

A History of Violence
6:05pm and 9:00pm
Bloke saves family from nasty robbers and becomes famous. Then
somebody decides they want to kill him. Who has ever heard of this movie before?

Pride and Prejudice
5:00pm and 7:40pm
Terribly terribly jolly well posh drama based on the novel by Jane "I
lived in Bath" Austen. Mr. Darcy is smitten with Lizzie but she's a
shit and dances with other blokes in front of him and things like
that. Very romantic tosh.

Land of the Dead
5:00pm and 7:00pm
Blah blah blah zombies, blah blah blah attractive women with guns,
blah blah blah brain-eating, blah blah blah me shitting my pants.

Revolver
8:45pm
Might actually be a contender...

***

Because, you know, it's been slated by absolutely everyone, and then Guy Ritchie went on radio and basically said, "If you're slating it, you're too stupid to understand it," so I want to see it. To see if I'm stupid or not, you see.

Paree in pictures.

2005-10-05T20:30:00.000+10:00

Alternatively titled: I don't have any content today.

This pointy thing is apparently very famous.

Walk through that, chuck a left, and you get to more posh shops than you can poke a stick at.

If you go into that triangular glass thing, there's lots of paintings and sculptures and things.

Like this.

And this.

And finally: Quasimodo's place.

(If you are actually interested in what these places/things are, hover over the pictures.)

This time next week, I'm on my way to Tunisia.

Right. Back to Photobucket's Recently Uploaded Photos page I go.

The Oh-See is Bee-Ess.

2005-10-05T02:37:00.000+10:00

While I was away, I discovered that TV show that everyone's been talking about: The OC. That is, I watched one episode. It was the episode where they'd run out of heterosexual couple combinations and decide to pair up two of the girls, instead.

I wish I could just turn lesbianism on when I felt like it. Wouldn't that solve an awful lot of problems? "Today, men have annoyed me, so I think I'll be gay. Hooray!" I bloody wish.

It really was a terrible load of shit. I've liked shit TV shows before, knowing full well that they were shit, but not this one. No. I had my fair share of Dawson's Creek bollocks back in the late 90's, thank you very much. But if I want to watch teenagers with names like 'Sabian' and 'Thorntree' shagging eachother senseless, I know where to look.

...

Did I just offically turn into an old woman?

I don't know how it started.

2005-10-04T22:46:00.000+10:00

We'd had pina coladas, with so much coconut I smelled like an elderly lady's kitchen before a fete for the rest of the day (and most of the next one). After finishing the first one, I was already slurring. I guess that's what happens when you put in a fifth of a bottle of Bacardi. We started making the next batch and I didn't fix the lid on the blender properly. I guess that's what happens when you've already had a fifth of a bottle of Bacardi. Soon, I was wearing pina colada. I smelt like coconut.

We sat down and channel surfed. "Hey, I wonder what you'd look like with make-up," said J., because I never wear it. You know when you're a kid and you go through your mum's make-up, and smother your face with everything she's got? You know how ridiculous you look afterwards?

That's how I still feel. My face doesn't look normal when I've got make-up on. I look like a 9-year old who's been playing with grown-up things.

Probably not to other people, mind you.

"I look like a kid who's been playing with her mummy's make-up," I reply, drinking some more coconutty goodness. "I think I'll put more cream in this next time."

He looked pensive, and I could tell that he'd got the idea in his head. So we got some make-up. The cheapest all-inclusive kit we could find was by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Those gelfling twins from Full House. A kit designed for 12-14 year olds.

J. was like a kid at Christmas. "What's this?" he said, excitedly pulling open a tube of mascara. "Ooh, that eye stuff," he said, with a frown. "Don't like that."

"Ooh, what's this?" he said, pulling open another tube. I took it out of his hands and examined it. "Oh dear God. That goes on eyelids," I explained.

The 'oh dear God' was with very good reason. You see, the Stuff for Eyelids was a very shiny gold colour. The sort of colour that should not be allowed in make-up kits. Ever.

Three pina coladas later:

Oh yes. Very flattering. Drag queendom here I come. Screw you, Mashley-Kate.

The Great Big British Pile of Shit Quiz.

2005-10-04T05:05:00.000+10:00

I stayed at the house a little longer than expected, and ate crumpets, and became completely infuriated with the most ridiculously unfair gameshow on earth: The Great Big British Quiz. There's a 146-page (and counting) rant here. And I did some cleaning, to try and make the house look as though nobody had been spilling Happy Hippo meringue crumbs on the carpet and leaving their hair in the drain, but mainly I watched the Quiz from Hell.

I won't go on about it, though.

So, yeah, I did some cleaning and ok, I'll just tell you this one thing about this incredibly horrible quiz, though I'm not obsessed or anything.

Example Quiz Question: 1 + 1. Add the numbers!

A zillion people call in, and at £1 per call, they're making a pretty penny. The first caller comes on. "Hello!" says perky Emily. "Who have I got on the line?"

"Beryl," replies Beryl, a 73-year old pensioner from Chipping Sodbury.

"Hello Betty! What's your answer?"

"Um, two."

"Two?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Is 'two' the right answer?" says Emily, waiting for the Almighty Red Stripe to make or break Beryl's spirit.

'UNLUCKY' flashes across the screen.

"Oh, I'm sorry Bethel, that's the wrong answer!"

So then people start thinking 'well maybe there's some other way of working this out, and maybe I can do it because I'm awfully clever.' And people start phoning in after working out the numerical value of the letters in 'Add the numbers!' and adding them together. And people who have just tuned in call in and say 'two' because they don't know any better.

Beryl calls back after spending £45 trying to get through again.

"Hello! Who's on the line?" says Emily, a perfect smile masking the contempt she must surely feel for the Worst Job in Television.

"Beryl from Chippi..."

"Oh, hello again! What have you got for me this time?"

"Three."

"Three?"

"Yes."

"Is three right?"

'BAD LUCK' says the Red Stripe.

This will go on for hours upon hours upon hours (or in the case of the most recent puzzle, OVER TWO DAYS AND COUNTING) until suddenly, completely out of the blue, Emily will take a call from Matthew, an 33-year old man who lives with his mother and divides his time up between playing Warcraft, and watching The Great Big British Quiz.

"Hello Matthew! What's your answer?"

"Three thousand, four hundred and ninety-three."

"Three-Four-Nine-Three?" repeats Emily, smiling sweetly.

"Yeah."

"Is that the right answer...? YES IT IS! Well done! Let's move onto our next puzzle!"

And that's it. No explanation. Nothing.

And we're (ok, I'm) left sitting there, wondering if 1+1 really does equal 3493, and I'm actually incredibly stupid for thinking it equalled two in the first place.

But, you know, I'm not going to go on about it. Or anything.

Ahem.

Sounds alright to me.

2005-10-02T23:26:00.000+10:00

[Scene: J. and I are watching MTV. Goldfrapp's new single comes on.]

Me: She doesn't have an arse.
J.: Doesn't she?
Me: Nope.
J.: What does she have in lieu of?
Me: Nothing. See?
J.: Right.
Me: Hot little bod, just no arse. If she put on a pair of jeans, there'd be nothing there. Ha ha, I WIN, GOLDFRAPP.

Mildly busy weekend. I've been housesitting, and learning to make pina coladas, and drinking pina coladas until I almost puke, and rediscovering Pay TV, and sleeping in until 11am, and having garish gold make-up painted on my face, and that sort of thing. And the thing is, I'm still doing it. Well, not making/drinking pina coladas bit, obviously. Or the make-up bit. But the rest of it, yeah. Which is why this isn't a proper post. I'll have a go at one of those tomorrow.

You know what that is? A Grey Hair. You know where I found that? ON MY HEAD. Attached to my scalp. Growing. I'm 22 years old. Have I mentioned that before? I'm twenty-fricking-two years old.

But I have this theory, right, that it's not actually A Grey Hair, but a Freak Hair With No Pigment. And it's just a freakish, accidental thing. Yeah?

That was Paris.

2005-09-30T19:46:00.000+10:00

There's accordian players playing, and croissant sellers selling, and dog walkers walking.

There's French men who devour every inch of your body with their eyes, and there's coffee shops that charge €9 for two coffees, and a multitude of people who buy very long French bread sticks and munch on them as a snack.

There's beautiful words sliding around my ears, and I don't know the meaning of any of them, besides bonjour and oui. I discover that being able to say 'Bonjour' in a passable Parisian accent means that the French speaker will launch into a massive French spiel, leaving me very confused and muttering 'oh, um, oui?'

There's architecture straight from a postcard, tall and grand and old and spectacular, and there's tourists, so many tourists, and there's glass cases full of cakes that I could happily gorge on until I passed out from too much sugar, or until nausea took hold.

There's the Champs-Elysées, which I keep pronouncing incorrectly, with its Very Expensive Shops and Extremely Stylish People and me standing there in old jeans and a black singlet, my camera bag over my shoulder and not fitting in at all. There's the Louis Vuitton shop which is undergoing renovation, and even the safety barriers have designer print on them.

J. and I cruise along the Seine, listening to our English audio guide and marvelling at our hostess, who can speak French, English, German, Italian, Spanish, and Japanese. The river is lined with lovers, embracing and kissing and whispering secrets and watching the passing boats filled with tourists who eye them with interest. The sun sets as the cruise ends and I curse at the man who has stood up in every single one of my photos.

This is the Paris that made me long for a diet of pastries and chocolat chaud, that burnt a hole in my pocket, that made me suggest a Poop-Scooping Law for dog owners, that made me jealous of stunning girls who can walk, run marathons, and play tennis in stiletto heels, that made me enjoy my weekend immensely.

Does anyone want my leftover metro tickets?

Parlay voo Onglay?

2005-09-29T21:09:00.000+10:00

Back from Paris, stuffed with pain au chocolat and smelling faintly of dog shit. I sincerely promise to update properly. Tomorrow.

Cowardly Brisbanites!

2005-09-22T23:19:00.000+10:00

1. You know those blogs that are full of stories about the author's kids, and how they don't like certain foods, and how they did this really funny thing the other day, and the hilarious ways in which they go potty?

Instead of saying "kids, pfft," I actually read them. And laugh.

What the hell is happening to me?

2. I was stuck for something to read and dished out £2 for a dodgy magazine, which promised tales of sexual promiscuity and How To Get That Look For Less Than £25. It tells me that the latest fashion trend is the cape.

Yes, the cape. You too can hold a lamp and act all magnanimous, à la Florence fricking Nightingale.

(Apologies for any copyright laws I have just broken.)

3. Look what I found in the fridge:

See, now, what you do is you take pig and veal liver, and grind them up, and stick them in a little tub. The purchaser of the tub then opens it, puts in the fridge once they've decided it's mingy, and four days later, this is the result.

I'm thinking of making this a running series.

Obviously with different fridge items. Not just the progress of the ground-up innards.

4. I am never speaking of the fish again, because Twat is pissing me off by her refusal to have fish babies. I have decided that she is not pregnant; she is just a greedy bitch.

5. Tomorrow evening, you'll find me in Paris. Again. Because I was sick and had a shitty time last time. And because I'm going to take more pictures, I need to get through a few more dodgy travel photos. Hooray!

Whoever spots the most boobies wins a prize. Nice, France.

I don't know who the man on the bench is, and he doesn't know he's on the internet.

In Granada, Spain, the cats and geese have formed an unnatural alliance.

Who puts that much detail into a wall? The folks who built the Alhambra's Nasrid Palace - that's who.

Right. Lunch time.

I know there's no reason for it...

2005-09-22T18:23:00.000+10:00

...but if you're from Brisbane, and you read me, every time I see you in my stats I mildly freak out.

Me: Do I know them? Is it exBF? Am I offending them? Oh my God. OhmyGod. Breathe. Breathe, woman, breathe.

Famous by association.

2005-09-21T23:03:00.000+10:00

If you're in the UK and happened to catch the news the other night, you may have seen a very interesting segment about a strange-looking fish that washed up on the Norfolk coast a few days ago.

If you watched this, I'm sure you were fascinated, and probably thought 'wow' and 'ooh', because it was a very strange fish. You may have even thought 'I wonder who on earth managed to identify that creature in the first place, long before somebody posh identified it 'officially', as stated in that article?'

I'm sure that's what you thought.

And this, you see, is where I come in.

While everyone was pointing and saying 'that's horrible' and 'throw it away', I said, rather nonchalantly, 'oh, that's a puffer fish. In Japan, specially-qualified chefs lop it up and serve it as 'fugu', because if you eat the wrong bit, you DIE.'

'Oooooooh,' they said, and called the Posh Fish People to come and have a look.

I may have learnt that bit about fugu off The Simpsons, but that is beside the point. The point is, that I'm practically famous.

I wasn't actually shown on the TV, and was therefore robbed of my 12 seconds of fame, but I'm sort of famous by association. Sorta. Kinda. Right?

Just as exciting, but without Colin Firth.

2005-09-20T02:49:00.000+10:00

Oh, gosh (yes, gosh), I'm terribly confused.

Have been reading Bridget Jones's Diary and am leaning towards telling you number of cigarettes smoked (0, due to being non-smoker) and calories consumed (as if I'd count calories, pfft). Am self-assured, confident woman with clear career path and mild obsession with...

Sorry, what a load of arse. I'll stop now.

Seriously though, I'm having a crisis. The sort of bullshit that happens when you spend too much time thinking and staring at fish, and not enough time expanding your mind with very clever books and re-runs of Beyond 2000.

You see, a while ago, I had a Life Plan. God, that really was a long time ago. And then, everything went exactly the way it should, and I was accepted into uni, and I deferred the course, and I packed my bags and jumped on a plane and flew here, and then I saw lots of lovely things and I'm still in the process of seeing lovely things, and here I am now.

And then, because I'm me and can't ever stick to anything, I started changing my mind a bit and thinking "ooh-er, do I really want to do that?" and "perhaps I should just travel forever and ever and ever" and got a bit confused. And because I'm utterly shit at making important decisions (and when I do, I end up changing my mind anyway), I'm going to tell you my choices, in the hope that you can arrange my life for me. Deal?

Choice Number One: Stick to exactly what I decided ages ago. Go home, go to uni, become Clever Person with Degree and then perhaps go to medical school and get loads and loads of dosh.

Choice Number Two: Stick to exactly what I decided, EXCEPT only go to uni part-time, even though it'll take years and years and years to get a degree, and then get a Proper Job so I don't have to live out of a cardboard box.

Choice Number Three: Move to a very far-away country, learn different languages, and then prance around the world, becoming the proverbial Rolling Stone. Like the Stone that Rolls around a lot - not a member of a very old rock band. Which is what I mean by 'proverbial'. Though by the time the Rolling Stones have retired, there may be proverbs about them, too. Sorry, rambling.

Choice Number Four: Stay here with J. Even though there's no jobs in east Norfolk, unless I want to harvest potatoes. But I'd be with J., who is lovely, and would bring me cups of tea when I was nursing the sore back I'd get after harvesting potatoes all day.

Choice Number Five: Sit in front of telly all day, become familiar with daytime TV (at least then I'd be able to answer more questions on the pub quiz), and get a very lardy arse.

Choice Number Six: Run home to my mummy. Because she'll make me roast dinner and stew and watch the Gilmore Girls with me.

I appear to have resorted to making stuff up, so I guess that's the end of my list. So, um, if you could pick one of them (or feel free to make one up of your own) and let me know your decision, I'd be very grateful. Ta.

I HATE QUIZZES.

2005-09-19T18:42:00.000+10:00

What a load of arse. Arse, bollocks, arse. Why, why, WHY?

I'd had two pints, which isn't enough to get me pissed. I'd watched episodes of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and The Weakest Link, and I'm good at them, damn it. I'd prepped my brain, I'd avoided alcohol, and I'd even taken my own bloody pen.

Pub quizzes are sent from Satan to make me feel like a big, inadequate thicko.

J. and I sat in the smoke haze, pen poised at the ready. The QuizMaster tested his microphone. "One, two, three. One, two, one, two. Three." I jittered in anticipation.

Jittered?

"Ok, Question One," he began, clearing his throat. "Who lives at Number One, Coronation Street?"

What? No. Piss off. I'm allowed to get that one wrong because I don't watch it.

"Question Two: What is a 'polygraph' better known as?"

Ah hah! Yes! They use them on Jerry Springer all the time!

"Question Three: Which TV presenter had a hit with 'Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini?'"

Me: [smashing ashtrays, gnashing teeth, swearing profusely] I DON'T BLOODY KNOW!
J.: Calm down, T. We don't know these answers because we're not old. Would you rather do badly at the quiz, or smell of wee?
Me: [quietly] Smellofwee.
J.: Hmm?
Me: [equally quietly] Quiz.
J.: Come on, we'll get the next one.

"Question Four: Which internet auction site boasts over 55 million items for sale?"

Me: [dances ecstatically, retrieves pen from other side of pub] I know that one! Ha, take THAT, old people!

"Question Five: Which very, very old person did this very old thing a very long time ago?"

Me: Hey, Question Number One: Why are your questions so shitty? Hmm?

Conclusion: Quizzes are only ever any good when combined with a Triple Word Score.

I hate quizzes. Have I mentioned that I hate quizzes?

For the stalker-types:

2005-09-17T20:25:00.000+10:00

No time for blogging; just something to have a look at if you're bored.

Forget-me-not Panties.

My favourite bit is on the Testimonials page, where 'David' basically says, "Rather than becoming an over-protective father, I decided to fit GPS tracking and heart rate/temperature monitors to my daughter's underpants!"

Dear God.

The stuff that matters.

2005-09-16T20:21:00.000+10:00

I have a couple of things I should be writing about. I should be writing about sitting in a Hackney school staff room, after being rescued by a nice man ("I'm genuinely surprised you haven't been mugged") and having random people walk in and speak to me like I've worked there my whole life.

"How is it? You haven't seen Glen, have you?"
"Um, no, can't say that I have..."
"God, can you believe I'm already in trouble?"
"Well, um. Uh."
"Hey, I'll see you later, alright?"
"Oh. Um. Bye."

And I should be writing about J. asking me to stay until February, and me having to say no, and feeling torn apart on the inside because of it.

But I don't feel like it today.

Note to self:

2005-09-16T19:47:00.000+10:00

When thoroughly pissed on German rum and English coke, DO NOT spin in circles on one of those spinning computer chairs, despite how tempting it may be, because chair-induced head spinning plus alcohol-induced head spinning equals A WHOLE LOT OF SPINNING.

I do have proper content. I'm just saving it.

2005-09-15T20:27:00.000+10:00

There once was a fishy called 'Twat',
Whose gut was excessively fat,
Many a geezer,
Tried to reach in and squeeze 'er,
But Gobby would have none of that.

-The Chronicles of Gobby and Twat (2005)

I named another one. His name is Bastard. He aggressively attacks weed.

"What a bastard," I said.

The only one who remains nameless has no distinguishing features or personality (fishality?) flaws, except he's a bit more orangey than the others. He is lamely called 'Goldy'. All suggestions welcome.

And yes, I took photos of fish. That doesn't necessarily make me a sad, boring person, you know.

...

It's a pain in the arse when I can't manage to believe myself.

Hackney is a shithole.

2005-09-15T04:16:00.000+10:00

To some, I may be simply stating the obvious. To others, please allow me to explain...

J. had some work to do in the area, and since I haven't done all that much exploration in the London area (despite being in England for quite a while), I thought I'd tag along. He dropped me off and I made my way directly to the train station, to try and make my way into the Famous Bit of London.

There was a list of all possible destinations, and I didn't recognise one of them. A man behind a counter kept yelling at people who were buying tickets, and since there was another station just a few minutes away, I decided to go there, instead.

That is, I ran away like a big sissy.

Second station. I recognise a station name on the list of destinations ('Liverpool Street') but don't know if that's where I should be going. The ticket machine is broken, there's nobody working there, and a gang of thuggy girls wearing lycra eye me off with contempt.

'Buy your ticket on the train' says a sign. I glance in my wallet and see £5. Is that enough to buy a return ticket to wherever the hell I'm going?

Rather than picking a destination and hoping I have enough money, I decide to walk to the library, which is near the town hall, which is probably near an information centre, or something.

WRONG.

I sigh and head for a sign that says 'Museum', because museums kill time and are sometimes informative. I'm feeling quite arsed about at this point.

I learnt about Hackney's history, which was basically this:

"Hackney was a lovely town, then it became infested with prostitutes and thieves a couple of hundred years ago. Since then, it's been a big shithole."

I am also irked that I am unable to remember the name of the bloody place. Every time I'm told, it goes in one ear and out the other. Hackby, Hackdon, HackshitbloodyhellforGodssake, Hackarse Hackgahhh Hackhackhack.

Then I sat in a park with the derelicts.
J. got a parking ticket.
Some other things happened.
Then J. said "you make bad days good" and it was all ok.

Chocolate and Coke does not a good breakfast make.

2005-09-13T19:13:00.000+10:00

Today, I am wearing an oversized dressing gown.

Today, my hair is drying after my shower and looking rather bird nesty.

Today, I'm going through an Enya phase and wishing I could play a million instruments, too.

Today, I am impatiently tapping the fishtank and yelling 'hurry it up, Twat' and 'damn you, fishy'.

Today, the roses are wilting.

Today, somebody is ringing the church bells.

Today, there's some sort of loud siren going and I'm hoping it doesn't signify the start of a war, or anything, because the people opposite are running to their car and looking very anxious.

I suspect it's some sort of power tool, actually.

Oh shit, that one didn't start with 'Today'.

Neither did that one.

Oh, arse.

Today, today today today. Today.

Today, I don't have anything to say.

Could you guess?

It's an Italian extravaganza.

2005-09-12T19:57:00.000+10:00

Well, not really. I don't have any content, so here's some photos. They are all of Italy, though.

Did you believe me when I told you that Venice was jam-packed-chocka-block full of masks? This was one of the smaller shops.

If you can guess what this building is, I'll give you... well, nothing at all, actually, because it's so bloody easy.

On the way to the Garibaldi Monument, which took us bloody ages to find (thanks to our incredibly dodgy map), I spotted this. A park full of busts. Most of them were related to Mr. Garibaldi in one way or another.

Pillars. Big pillars. Very big pillars. Very big ancient pillars.

One of loads of optical illusions on the way to the Sistine Chapel. See that room with the green, tiled floor? That's the ceiling. What the.

If I eat chocolatetoffeenougat rice krispies for breakfast purely because of the cereal content, does it count as a proper breakfast?

We had had beer.

2005-09-12T08:14:00.000+10:00

Actually, I'm still under the influence.

Me: Hey, what's the definition of 'henge'?
J.: Dunno.
Me: I'll look it up.

I do.

Me: Ooh, it's a 'roughly circular or oval-shaped flat area enclosed and delimited by a boundary earthwork - usually a ditch with an external bank'.

I spend some time whining that I hadn't seen a ditch with an external bank (or any other boundary earthwork) at Stonehenge.

And then, I find this.

I'm sorry, but What. The. Hell.

Seriously, somebody fill me in here.

Ow.

2005-09-09T19:06:00.000+10:00

Firstly, I apologise for my drunken post last night and am afraid I will have to retract my Best Friends Forever and Ever promise, because, well, I don't really know you, and there could be major personality clashes, and I just don't think it would work out.

Secondly, this internet connection is driving me nuts, because it's up and down like a whore's drawers.

Thirdly, I have to go to bed now, and curl up into a ball and call for my mummy, because flu is from the devil.

Beer + head = owie.

2005-09-09T06:22:00.000+10:00

Because I'm posting lots of posts, and because I'm a bit bored, and because I've had a pint of beer which I really shouldn't have had because I'm actually very fluey and snotty and headachey and it's only made it worse, I'm going to show you my favourite picture (with the exception of some other pictures, including the flash-illuminated-raindrops shot on this post, which I didn't make a big deal about at the time, because I was hoping somebody would like it too and tell me and then I could point out that we're soulmates).

It's in Ljubljana, Slovenia, on the very aptly-titled 'Dragon Bridge' (along with three others) (dragons, that is). And I love it because I love skies. I think. Or dragons, maybe.

But, um, I think it's a good photo. And if you like it too, tell me and we can be best friends forever and ever. Ok?

Um.

Questioning my cleveressness.

2005-09-09T04:08:00.000+10:00

I don't understand why I am so completely incapable of scoring well in a pub quiz. I mean, it's not as though I'm drinking seven pints before taking it. And I'm not thicker than the big-print version of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens. And the questions aren't tougher than the ones Eddie McGuire never gets to ask.

(Is Who Wants to be a Millionaire still around?)

I know it doesn't help when there's an entire round dedicated to English counties, and several questions about Eastenders and The Bill, and really, who knows anything about the Queen, anyway? But still. Come on. I normally do good on tests and other intelligerent-type thingies.

Where was the Literature round, you bastards?

Now, if one of the questions had been 'how long does it take for a fish to have babies?' I would've been set, because the answer is, of course, 'absolutely bloody ages'. Hurry up, Twat.

I am dismayed.

2005-09-09T02:39:00.000+10:00

Could somebody please tell me why there's suddenly a number of songs using 'chipmunk' voices? WHY? Was that album with The Chipmunks singing Christmas carols not enough? Is somebody out there deluded enough to think that it sounds good, or improves a song, or doesn't make my ears bleed?

Dear God.

La de dee, la de daa.

2005-09-06T20:29:00.000+10:00

Hey, you know that Sean Paul song called 'Get Busy' that they play at the pub all the time which goes 'let's get it on, let's get it on, til a early morn'?

When BeFri and I sing that, we change the words to: 'my name's Sean Paul and I sing in a monotone, in a monotone, in a monotone, and I sing in a monotone.'

And it's very, very funny when there's beer involved. You'll have to trust me on this one. Try it next time.

Over the past week, I have visited a village called Street, which is quite aptly named because it seems to consist of one big street. Of course there's ones with houses and stuff, but they don't count. It's just a long street with some pubs and a pool and some shops.

I can't get my head around the name, though. A town called Street? It's like having a child and naming it 'Toe'. Or 'Forearm'. Or any other thing that is just a small part of the whole. You know what I mean, right?

I've been drinking too much.

At the moment, I'm in Cardiff, and there's a very nice castle here and other things, too.

Wednesday is Photo Day.

2005-08-31T19:26:00.000+10:00

For the next week, I'll be plodding around the country and may not have the time to update an awful lot, so here's some dodgy photos.

(I'll use any excuse, really. I've got to take a shower, so here's some dodgy photos. I haven't had my breakfast yet, so here's some dodgy photos. A loaf of bread costs 40p, so here's some dodgy photos.)

So I'm sitting on a bench in Budapest, and J. is reeling some information off about where we've got to go next, when I turn around and see this garden, and see that it's infested with little birds. Everywhere I look, they're poking their heads out. So I start desperately snapping photos, trying to catch the little buggers. And this is the best I could get.

Me: How about this hotel?
J.: Mm, looks ok.
Me: Oh, wait. Check out this one.
J.: Oh, God.
Me: We've got to stay there.
J.: Um.
Me: We've got to stay there!
J.: They give out free nutritional advice to every guest, I see.
Me: We're staying there.

So, we did.

In Budapest, you're apparently not allowed to take your gun into the bank. Isn't that a bugger.

J.: If they had that sticker on every bank door, it would stop robberies worldwide...

The sun shining through the Slovenian flag, sitting atop the castle tower. Sometimes I'm so artistic it hurts. Ahem.

Out the window of yet another train. Pretty self-explanatory, if you can read backwards.

I wasn't kidding about the 'plodding around the country' bit. So I'm going to start that now, if that's ok.

The meanderings of my mind.

2005-08-31T02:04:00.000+10:00

When I get home, I'm thinking about living by myself.

And getting a cat.

And being one of those people who lives by themselves and has a cat.

Blogging:

2005-08-30T20:32:00.000+10:00

Utter crap. Sorry.

Reading: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Because it was there and it was £5.

Trying: to justify spending a third of the money left in my account on a trip to Morocco (the flights are extortionate, you see. Well, they seem it, because I'm used to Ryanair's 99p flights.).

Yesterday: I watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and that's 116 minutes of my life I won't get back. Why did Johnny Depp have to act so weird? I'll take Gene Wilder, any day.

Today: I'm adding JonnyB's private secret diary to my links list, because I've been experiencing a bit of Norfolk village life myself, and boy, is it exciting.

Tomorrow: I'm... sorry, I haven't got that far, yet.

Watching: Twat and Gobby with much suspicion, because they still haven't had any babies. Curse that stubborn fish for not giving birth, or whatever the correct terminology is for fish, when I want it to.

Cursing: my bad luck, because last night I gingerly pushed my hand into some washing up water, only to have to remove it immediately (accompanied by a string of obscenities) because my thumb had collided with the serrated edge of an awkwardly-positioned knife, making blood spurt and me pout.

Thinking: about finding work when I get home, which I really shouldn't be worrying about yet.

Planning: South America 2006, because the thought of living any part of my life without a definite travel goal in mind is unbearable.

Worrying: about saying goodbye to J. at the end of October, but trying to pretend I'm not.

Wondering: whether I still want to go to uni, or if it was an escape from my terrible job, which I have now escaped.

Pissed: about aforementioned terrible job, because they're such a bunch of slackers they haven't sent my group certificate out, meaning I can't lodge my tax return.

Running: out of things to say.

Leaving: now.

Bear with me.

2005-08-28T03:48:00.000+10:00

Presenting what is perhaps the most convoluted, messed-up pile of crap to ever invade my mind during the nighttime hours:

I'm at a train station with J. (which is understandable, because we've been at lots, lately) and the train turns up. I hop on, and J. decides to take his sweet time and ends up missing the train.

'Oh dear me, what I am going to do now?' I say.

I turn around and sitting in front of me are a pair of Swedish twins. I'm guessing they're Swedish, because they're blonde and look Swedish. They both have hair like somebody's dumped a very large mixing bowl on their head and cut around it. The twins decide that they like me and that because I'm a girl sitting on a train by myself, it would be a fantastic idea to proposition me and try and encourage me to do rude things.

'No!' I say, and the train pulls to a stop. I hop off and before I know it, the train's gone and I realise I really would like to be on the train, after all. How silly of me to get off because of some scary Swedish twins. So I start chasing after it on my pogo stick.

Uh huh. My pogo stick.

I realise soon that my pogo stick is no match for a very fast train, but luckily I've pogoed my way to the next station, where there is another train waiting for me.

And once I've hopped on that, I ask the girl next to me where it's going, and she says 'Canada'. And then I wonder where in Canada I'm going to get off, and then I wake up.

You didn't really want to know any of that, did you?

I'm sorry. I'll go to the corner now.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

2005-08-26T21:45:00.000+10:00

That title actually has nothing to do with this post, and everything to do with this song, which is pretty bloody cool.

This post also has nothing to do with Jude Law's willy. Which I really don't see the fuss about.

(Don't be clicking that link if you're at work, kids.)

What this post is about, is more of my dodgy photos. Hooray!

For the first time ever, photographic evidence of a ladybug that is sitting on a human being without weeing on them.

Don't tell me it's just me they always wee on.

There was a huge cock-up on our overnight train journey between Munich and Prague. The train was too small, and this is the photo I took of everyone squished into the corridor. Eventually, they attached some other carriages and we all went to sleep. Eventually.

It was raining in Krakow, and I tried to take a photo of the town square, but my flash just illuminated the raindrops and made it look sort of snowy.

There's public displays of artwork and sculptures and things all over Prague, including a row of these blokes. I took this photo because it looks like he's weed himself. I promise not to mention wee anymore.

A photo from the bone ossuary I mentioned (briefly) in a previous post. From what I could gather, they ran out of room to bury people and started stacking the bones up somewhere. Eventually, they thought 'hey, let's be all artistic and shit' and started building things out of the bones. It's been destroyed and redone a couple of times since then. It was just plain eerie.

Here's another one. I don't know why people were throwing money in there, but congratulations to those who managed to get coins in the eye sockets. There's more information (and better pictures - nearly all of mine came out blurry) here.

I am shit at arranging flowers.

2005-08-26T05:13:00.000+10:00

The end.

It only ever happens to me.

2005-08-25T21:37:00.000+10:00

We'd arrived at the Madrid train station from Granada and knew we had to get to the airport. Our flight wasn't for several hours, but we thought it'd be safer if we knew where we were going ahead of time. We walked around for about 20 minutes until we found the information desk.

She looked sort of erratic.

Us: Hello.
Her: Anglais?
Us: Uh, yes.
Her: No. No Anglais.

Ok, so the obvious assumption here was that she didn't speak English, right? We still had to find out how to get to the airport.

Me: Um, airport?
Her: Do you speak English?

What the?

Me: Yes.
Her: Ok! English and Italian and Spanish I can do!
Me: Um.

Slightly confusing way to start the conversation. We told her we needed to go to the airport, so she grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen, and with her tongue jutting out the side of her mouth, drew this picture for us:

She handed it to us with a grin and we looked at eachother, confused. I tried to make sense of it.

Me: [pointing] So this bit is this door here?
Her: Yes, go out that door and down the corridor to the coffee shop that isn't there any more.

And with that, she looked past us to the next person in the queue. We considered ourselves fortunate, as the other side of the paper showed the map the last person had received.

Madrid train station is bloody huge. There wasn't a corridor - there were about thirty. Aimlessly, we walked along for a few minutes until we spotted a helpful-looking guard. He spoke no English, we spoke no Spanish, so I showed him the piece of paper and pointed to the station name.

Him: Si!

The guard opened a little leather wallet and pulled out one of his special tickets, which he put into a machine for us. A barrier slid accross and he pointed, triumphantly.

We didn't know how to say that we didn't want to go to the airport right at that moment, so we decided to go to the midway stop (we had to change trains), because there would be things to do there. Hopefully.

We walked through the gate and the barrier slid closed behind us, locking us in the station.

Now in certain stations (the London and Paris metro/tube systems, for example), you need a ticket to get in, and the same ticket to get out. So imagine our dismay when we got to our stop, hopped off the train and discovered we couldn't get out of the station.

There was hardly anyone there, so it seemed that the best we could do was climb over a barrier, which we weren't too keen on trying. How were we going to explain that a strange guard had let us into the station with his special ticket in the first place?

We walked around, searching for some way to get out. I spotted an elevator on the other side of the barrier and saw that if we took a different, close-by elevator to another floor, there was no barrier between the two. J. commented that he felt like he was in a computer game as we went down a floor, hopped off to find the other elevator had no buttons, went down another floor, and hopped off to find the same thing. I thought I was being clever, but discovered that those Spanish buggers had outsmarted me at every turn. If this was a computer game, I wasn't making it past the first level.

In the end, we resigned ourselves to our trying-to-explain-in-a-different-language fate and jumped up and down and waved to catch the attention of a faraway security guard. He wandered over, taking his time, and we frantically gestured at the barrier and said 'no ticket, no ticket'. He pointed at what looked like a box on top of a stick and we walked over to it to see a button. I pushed it.

A voice came out of the box.

Her: Hola?
J.: Hi, we've lost our...

And the barrier opened in front of our eyes.

Just like that.

(For the record, we discovered that there was absolutely nothing to do at our intermediate stop, and ended up sitting on a curb while I sang songs from well-known musicals, scaring passing pedestrians.)

(Also for the record, I swear I'm not stupid. Well, I hope not.)

The first of many.

2005-08-25T07:00:00.000+10:00

Ok, so I've been sorting pictures and there's three groups. 'Proper' pictures, pictures with me in them, and 'arty farty bollocks' pictures. Now the first two groups are well catered for, because they're the ones I'm putting in special galleries and sending to people, but I've got nobody to look at my crap - oh, sorry, I mean 'arty' - ones.

Now this is where you come into play. You don't mind, do you?

I thought I'd start with a lovely one. This is the view from Neuschwanstein Castle, in the south of Germany.

This is also the view from Neuschwan-thingy Castle. If you look up. Lots of people were jumping off the top of the mountain.

While I'm going with the Germany theme, this is taken inside one of the oldest and most famous beerhalls - the Hofbrauhaus. It's a close-up of a table featuring many years of engravings by drunken Oktoberfest revellers.

Whilst drinking our very large bier, we decided to order some authentic German cuisine. And this is what we were served. There were two of them, originally. I'm going to apologise for the next picture in advance.

You see, you suck the, um, 'filling' (?) out of the skin. And afterwards, it looks like this. I'm sorry - I hope you weren't eating your lunch.

And finally, the ever-so-naughty Erotic Museum, located in Amsterdam's Red Light District. In one of the sections (I think there's about six levels) you look up and see this. A lovely display of the 'golden showers' fetish.

The photos I'm not going to show you include me posing in the red light 'booth', and me having my arse grabbed by a very-nearly-nude prostitute mannequin.

(And if there's any place/sight/thing you'd like to see a decent photo of, please let me know.

Otherwise I'll just keep showing you this crap.)

Finally, something non-travelly.

2005-08-24T00:22:00.000+10:00

Upon returning to the UK, I peered into J.'s fishtank and told him that one of his fish was getting white bits on it. Gobby, specifically. I named him Gobby because whenever anyone goes near the tank, he gets all excited that he'll get some more food and starts gobbing at the surface.

Me: Gobby has a receding scale-line.
Him: Oh yeah; so he does.

A bit of research told us that it's because he's becoming a Man Fish. Some time passed.

Me: Hey J., one of your fish is hugely fat.
Him: It must have a tumour.
Me: I think it's preggers.
Him: I bet it's not. Must be a tumour.

We peer into the tank.

Him: Jesus.
Me: See?

I searched Google for pictures of pregnant fish, and found hardly any, but a few websites out there say that, quite interestingly, the term for a pregnant goldfish is a 'twat'.

Yes, really.

Some other sites say that it's not true at all, but I think I'll ignore them, because it's too good a term to pass up. So Gobby and Twat are now an expectant couple. And he'll shortly be headbutting her abdomen to try and encourage her to go into labour, so he can squirt things onto her eggs.

And then I get to take care of baby fishies, because Gobby, Twat and Other Fish That Look Too Similar To Be Named will eat them if I don't.

Insert girlish squeal here.

Facts and Tips about Barcelona.

2005-08-23T19:44:00.000+10:00

If you like the 'alternative' scene - rainbow headbands, fisherman pants, tie-dye - Barcelona is your Heaven.
There's a designated nudist beach, but people don't seem to give a toss. Let's take this scene for example:

Me: Oh no! That poor girl's lost her top in the sea.
Him: Um.

Lots of T, lots of A.

The salesmen are pushy to extremes. I've never encountered anything like it in my life. They do absolutely everything to keep you in their shop, bar locking you in.
A bloke called Gaudi designed lots of unusual buildings, including this one. He liked designs incorporating lots of knobbly bits and lumpy bits.
God, do I love my bullet points, or what?
Tapas is perhaps the best way to eat in the whole entire world.
Sangria is mingy.
I'm currently drinking a cappucino with Mini Toblerone Pieces in it. Seriously. Oh, Barcelona, right?
There's lots and lots of street performers who stand very still on La Ramblas (the main street) until you give them money, at which point they pull a pose and you can have your photo taken with them. Talk about an easy way to make a living. My favourites are Goblin Boy, and the man dressed as a robot, who does The Robot.
Mm, Toblerone.
I ate a snail in Barcelona, as part of a traditional rabbit and snails tapas dish. I stuck a fork in it and pulled it out of its shell with a squelchy noise. All I could taste was the sauce it was served in. Thank God.
They sell live animals (chickens, parrots, other birds, turtles, rodents, etc.) on La Ramblas, but the conditions are horrific. The animals are stuffed into tiny cages and their suffering is extremely evident. One stall in particular was so bad that I saw two chickens on the verge of death (lying on their sides, eyes closed, breathing heavily) and several with hardly any feathers left. It was horrible. And if you go to Barcelona and disagree, then you're probably the sort of person who likes to murder kittens on sunny days. It was the only bad point of our time there.
Near the top of La Ramblas, by the Ingles department store, people tango in the square.
Spain is the first place that I've felt it was very necessary to learn the language. Every day was like a complicated, extended game of charades.

With a ridiculous tan (my arms are brown, my body is white, and my stripey feet are extreme), I have returned to sunny ol' England for some more planning and quality internet time on a computer where all the keys are in the normal places.

And I've just put my photos from the last month into a folder. All 628 of them.

Let the photoblogging commence.

Dear Lonely Planet:

2005-08-23T19:00:00.000+10:00

[AKA: Me being a snarky, picky wench.]

I know that it can't be 100% accurate. And I know that I am obsessively picky. And I know that less-than-100%-accuracy + obsessive pickiness = bitchy blog posts. But here I am, typing it anyway, because I'm losing respect for Lonely Planet. Lovely, lovely Lonely Planet, whose website filled many a quiet workhour. You see:

You told me to not go inside the Colosseum because it wasn't worth the entrance fee, but told me to climb Palatine Hill, and the admission fee for Palatine Hill would've given me free access to the Colosseum, therefore not putting me out of pocket at all.
You told me to visit the Baths of Diocletian, which I did, but what you failed to mention is that it consists solely of a museum - no baths at all. So there wasn't much point in talking about how they were the cities oldest baths and how many Romans they accommodated, was there? And it wasn't like they'd only recently been closed to the public; a flick through the guestbook showed visitors from 2003 asking where the baths were.
Every time I use the e-mail addresses provided for the accommodation you recommend, at least one bounces back as an unknown address. There's always at least one website that doesn't work and a non-existent phone number, too.

You know, I've always considered travel writing to be one of those fantastic, imaginary jobs that nobody actually has. I mean, it just sounds too good to be true. Travelling the world and writing down the wonderful things you're seeing. Could there be anything better?

The other day, I read an article that said that being a travel writer these days consists of collecting data for an editor. No writing ability necessary. Maybe I've got a chance, after all.

It's 'Morocco'. Not 'Morooco', or 'Morroco'. Morocco.
The Sights & Activities section for Nice listed the beach and museums as the best (only) things to see. It neglected to mention the brightly-coloured, fairy-tale-style cathedral only minutes from the train station. Or the very, very large hill on the outskirts of old Nice, which possesses spectacular views, a gorgeous (albeit artificial) waterfall, and ruins. But hey, museums are good.
Accurate maps are pretty important, because when you've got a huge backpack on your back and you're wandering around Paris in 35 degrees Celcius heat, it's not very fun when you can't find your hotel, because Lonely Planet haven't bothered to mark the street on their map. Just shoving a star in the general Montmartre vicinity does not help in a city the size of Paris.

God, I'm being bitchy, aren't I? But suddenly I find myself only consulting my guidebook when I need quick access to accommodation, and haven't got the internet nearby.

And that's not fair, Lonely Planet.

Please rectify immediately.

Yours faithfully,

T.

P.S. Can I please have a job?

How to irritate me on an overnight train.

2005-08-19T19:22:00.000+10:00

1. Open the window in the sleeper carriage, so that cold air billows under my sheet and forces me to tuck myself in, cocoon-like.

2. Once the lights have gone out, your phone might ring. It´s understandable that you might have forgotten to turn it off, but rather than cancelling the call, feel free to answer it and talk very loudly to your friends. Go on; it´s fine.

3. Repeat the above no less than five times during the night. Don´t forget to have your ringtone set at extra-bloody-loud and have the volume of the call at such a level that even I can tell that the party your friends are at must be very fun.

4. Oh, you´re the loudest snorer in the world? Hey, that´s ok. I don´t mind at all. At least somebody´s sleeping well.

5. Hey? You want to have a conversation with the old man in the bed opposite, even though it´s 3am? Oh, gee, well, ok...

6. If I start making huffy, pissed off noises when your phone rings for the sixth time, it really does help if you get up, walk outside and have your conversation directly outside the door. Really.

7. And finally, when you´ve woken up after your fantastic sleep, take no notice of my bloodshot, baggy eyes and put on your radio. Go on - everyone loves the Backstreet Boys at 7am.

The Pros and Cons of Rome.

2005-08-19T06:26:00.000+10:00

Pro: It´s Rome, for God´s sake. The Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the things I´ve always dreamt of seeing suddenly right there in front of me. And I quote:

Him: [consulting our map] The Colosseum is down this way.
Me: [looking up] Hey, do you think it might be this gigantic, circular structure right in front of us?
Him: ...
Me: Oh. My. God.

Pro: The Sistine Chapel knocked my socks off. The build-up to the ´famous bit´ is incredible, with room after room after room after room filled with frescos, tapestries, sculptures, beauty. It was hard to take my eyes off the ceiling. And then when I finally got there, it took me about 15 minutes to find the ´famous bit´, because what they don´t tell you is that it´s just a tiny part of an enormous room, covered with the most spectacular and intricate artwork I have ever seen.

Con: Everything is ridiculously expensive, but there´s no visible signs that the money is being put to good use. The city is filthy, and not only public toilets but those in cafes and restaurants are so unhygienic that it´s highly likely I´ve contracted any number of diseases. I tried to hold my pee in for four days, but couldn´t.

Con: The women brazenly look you up and down as if to size you up, and glare at you with contempt for no apparent reason.

Con: The men brazenly look you up and down as if to size you up and determine your level of shaggability. Some of them chant ´bella, bella, bella´, too.

Pro: An appropriate setting for cheesy Pope jokes.

Him: This pasta´s not very nice.
Me: Don´t say that - the Pope made it.
Him: My beer is warm.
Me: The Pope´s fridge is broken.
Him: Look at that garden.
Me: That´s where the Pope chucks BBQ´s and throws back a couple of tinnies.

Well, we found it funny at the time.

Pro: Gelati. I only managed to try four flavours. Yes, I am very ashamed. The cherry one was the best.

Con: Witnessing more incredibly ignorant tourist behaviour. I´m ashamed to be classed as one of them. After hearing music from a church, I peered through the door but went no further. I was wearing a singlet, you see, and wearing that sort of clothing is disrespectful and not permitted.

No sooner had I turned around than a girl wearing a tank top and the smallest pair of shorts in the world barged through the door, her camera poised at the ready.

It´s not a matter of not knowing - there´s signs all over the place.

And finally, not so much a Con of Rome as a Con of our time in Rome. In a bizarre twist, our Italian hosts accused us of breaking into their house and using their shower while they weren´t home. Well, that´s what we guessed they were saying, because we spoke no Italian and they spoke no English.

Very odd indeed.

Slightly surreal.

2005-08-16T02:51:00.000+10:00

In a Chinese take-away, eating an Indian curry, with English company, looking at Japanese art on the walls, listening to Tina Arena on the radio, who is singing in French. In Nice, France.

Excuse me while I freak out.

Forgive me...

2005-08-13T04:13:00.000+10:00

Three posts in one go must break some sort of blogging rule, but I'm making the most of my time while I've got it...

And then there was Venice.

2005-08-13T04:00:00.000+10:00

When I turned 21, exBF took me to see a show. People danced around on stage and sang and performed impressive stunts, but the thing I enjoyed most was the costuming.

The masks, specifically. I'm sure you've seen the ones. Most recently abused by Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut. I think. Can't remember that movie overly well, but in searching for images it made all sorts of dirty pictures come up on my screen, and now everyone in the internet cafe thinks I'm a pervert.

Right, anyway, I love them. They evoke feelings of mystery and fantasy and give me fond memories of Labyrinth.

So imagine my reaction when I discover that Venice is not only full of them, but Full. Of. Them.

And then imagine my reaction as I see the most impressive building I have ever seen in my entire life.

My jaw didn't so much drop as fall through the floor, into a canal.

Venice not only met every expectation but exceeded them more than I could have ever imagined. It limited my vocabulary to 'wow' and 'ooh', except for when a pigeon shat on my shoulder, at which point I reportedly said 'Son of a bitch - I'm going to cut its head off with a pair of scissors.'

It's full of beautiful buildings and musicians on the street and men singing opera for the sake of it and lovers embracing and kissing passionately and gelati and the masks romance wonder beauty gondolas men with stripey shirts and jaunty hats and it's better than every postcard you've ever seen.

And that's only the stuff I could come up with right now.

Things that transcend location.

2005-08-13T03:46:00.000+10:00

The Crazy Frog Ringtone, in all its forms.
Justin Timberlake.
Robbie Williams.
McDonalds and Coca-Cola.
Bums. On benches, in parks, with a collection of plastic bags.
Pigeons. Budapest is home to the most unhealthy pigeons. In one walk, I spotted three dead, and several sickly.
The Crazy. Frog. Fricking. Ringtone.
Disgruntled reception staff. Is it really that bad a job?
Loud, obnoxious tourists. I like to think I'm not one.
Harry Potter and The fricking Da Vinci Code.
Amusing English translations. Items spotted on menus include: farmer's neck, goat knee, Czech lion, Grandmother's bag, and small goldfish.

And on a supermarket shelf, a product called 'Slagfix'.

Me: Hey, look; Slagfix.
Him: What is it, a chastity belt?

Oh how we laughed, for we had had beer.

Beer. Slovakia has the most incredible beer in the world. I was very upset when I was too drunk to taste it any more.
Beautiful girls. Polish girls are stunning.
Graffiti. Illegible regardless of language.

Take Two.

2005-08-13T03:33:00.000+10:00

We had been to the Terror Haza (House of Terror) - the former headquarters of the Hungarian Secret Police, which had been turned into an incredibly informative and very arty museum.

It taught us about Hungary's position during WWII, and the Soviet occupation of the country in the years that followed. My head was overflowing with things I'd never known and would never forget, and though we hadn't had enough time to explore the whole of Budapest, I would've been happy to visit the city for that museum alone.

At midnight on Sunday night, He (who I think I'll call 'J.' from now on - much less confusing) goes out to the kitchen to eat a strange Hungarian sausage and discovers our Hungarian host at the table. HH fetches mustard and tomato sauce for J. and puts them on the table with a grin.

"Thank you," he says.

Suddenly, music filters in through the door. HH sees the confused look on J.'s face and takes him outside to the balcony. He points to two houses in the three-level courtyard. The music filters from both in perfect unison.

HH mimics playing a piano and says "organ", pointing at the houses again.

Seeing the puzzled look on J.'s face, HH takes him back inside and pulls a calendar off the wall. He points to Sunday, then to the next Sunday, then to the next. He then points to his watch and closes his eyes as he searches for the words.

"Hungary. Hungary National."

The National Anthem?

"Deutsch." He flutters his arms like they're a small pair of wings. "Liber..."

J. still looks puzzled.

"Soviet," and he flutters his arms again.

And suddenly it means so, so much more.

Bah.

2005-08-12T18:14:00.000+10:00

Will post properly tonight. Promise.

Error: Writing ability malfunctioning.

2005-08-08T05:31:00.000+10:00

I'm in Hungary and staying with a couple who don't speak a word of English, but they make good coffee. We communicate via their daughter, who isn't there very often, so there's lots of hand gestures and clumsy German going on. I love the way they reacted when I told them my name - like it was the most exotic thing they'd ever heard.

And it isn't.

I'm going to Slovenia tomorrow.

This internet cafe is small, and crowded, and I'm having difficulty with the whole writing thing. So you'll have to excuse me for a minute. Or two.

The, um, other Czech experience.

2005-08-04T22:30:00.000+10:00

I had been looking forward to Prague. The ¨jewel of Europe´s crown¨, the ¨most unforgettable city on the continent¨, and all that bollocks.

It delivered spectacular architecture; a horizon populated with brilliant spires, towers, and onion-esque domes. It delivered extraordinary beer and tasty cuisine, for a ridiculously low price. It delivered my first taste of absinthe, which sucked the moisture out of my mouth using the power of Seventy Percent Alcohol, and lit a fire in my throat.

It delivered the most confronting, grumpy, and downright rude people I have ever met in my life. In all instances but one.

After we accidentally stumbled into the residential area of the small town of Kutna Hora (about one hour outside Prague - the drawcard had been a fascinating (yet macabre) ossuary, the inside of which was decorated with the bones of over 40 000 humans), I became slightly worried. Used to the shiny exterior of Prague, I found the dilapidated apartment blocks and run-down area an entirely new Czech Republic experience.

People heard our English words and looked at us curiously. Children stopped playing street football to watch us walk past. We were blatant tourists with our backpacks and camera bags and red skin from the bright sun.

We walked into what looked like a dry cleaners. A middle-aged woman behind a desk perked her head up and greeted us with some unfamiliar words. The standard ¨do you speak English?¨was met with a shrug of the shoulders and a giggle.

¨Um, train station?¨ I asked, and she shrugged again and smiled broadly. ¨Hlavni Nadrazi?¨ I tried, with terrible pronunciation.

She repeated the words, correcting my pronunciation (which had indeed been terrible) as she scurried outside. Muttering in Czech, she gave us directions, using hand gestures and interspersing her spiel with laughter and her friendly smile.

And we thanked her, and I almost hugged her, because she was the nicest person in the Czech Republic at that moment, and she made me realise that there was indeed a unique Czech experience to be had, but it just wasn´t to be had in Prague.

I´m all for architecture. I love and appreciate beautiful things. But atmosphere plays an important part in experience, and people are the biggest factor in culture, and here I am acting all serious and shit.

Sorry. Tales of beer and sex coming soon.

The Czech Experience.

2005-08-01T04:35:00.000+10:00

I went to sleep in Munich and woke up in Prague. Stumbling off the train, bleary-eyed and suffering from sleep deprivation, the first person I met was an absolute arse.

Me: Hi, I need to book a train to Poland for the day after tomorrow.
Him: Tomorrow?
Me: The 2nd of August.
Him: Tomorrow is Monday, the 2nd of August is Thursday.
Me: Um, no...
Him: The 2nd of August is Thursday!
Me: Um.
Him: What time do you want?
Me: I, um, daytime. Tuesday, 2nd of August.
Him: THE SECOND OF AUGUST IS THURSDAY!

Horrible, horrible Czech man. And there I was looking all innocent and backpackerish.

Today I did a walking tour and now I have two bung knees.

I have to leave and experiment with absinthe now.

The Amsterdam Experience.

2005-07-29T00:16:00.000+10:00

I'm not a smoker, you see, and I knew that trying to smoke anything at all would lead to a horrendous coughing fit, but you can't go to Amsterdam and not do it, so I bought a 'space cake', instead.

I grew up like most kids. Pot was always available to me, if I wanted it, but I never did. I had a brother who was hooked, for a while, and meeting his friends was enough to put me off. Nothing wrong with it, but everything in moderation, right? Like cigarettes and alcohol - it's only when it's taken to extremes that it starts blackening your lungs and pickling your liver.

Hope I don't sound preachy, here. Don't mean to.

The point is, I ate this thing and it tasted just like I'd bought a regular chocolate muffin and then dropped it in the dirt. A dirty chocolate muffin. I ate it and sat there, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

[Scene: Two hours later.]

Me: My arms feel funny.
Him: Hmm?
Me: My arms feel... [I fall forwards and start giggling, because my arms feel funny.]

I made a big mistake, you see. Just because it tasted like a dirty chocolate muffin, I thought I could handle it.

I believe the correct way to describe myself would be 'monged'.

It was our last night in Amsterdam and we wanted to see the Red Light district all lit up, so we walked there at about 10pm. He was fine, I was out of it. Completely.

Me: Hey, you know what?
Him: What?
Me: Sorry?
Him: Um.
Me: Oh, I just started a sentence without knowing how to finish it.
Him: Uh.
Me: You know how...
Him:...I know how what?
Me: Oh, sorry, I just did it again.

As we walked along, a voice started whispering at me.

cocainecocainecocaine

Me: Did you just hear that?
Him: Hear what?

cocaineecstasycocaine

Me: If you can't hear that, then there was something trippy in my muffin.
Him: I swear to God I don't hear anything.

charlieecstasyviagra

Him: Oh, I heard it that time.

They whispered it in our ears as we walked past.

Girls. Big girls, small girls, old girls, young girls. Every type of girl. Whispering men and the blur of red lights. My red, puffy eyes.

Me: I hate the way this makes me feel.
Him: You've had too much. That's all.
Me: Where did the Red Light district go?
Him: We just walked through it three times.
Me: I don't know where we are. Hey, did you...
Him: Mm?
Me: Oh, sorry. I don't know what I was going to say.

I'm in Munich now. I love Munich.

My lower back, if you must know.

2005-07-25T06:33:00.000+10:00

I knew I'd need to post once more before leaving for The Continent, but as I have no content whatsoever (unless you'd like to know which parts of me are still itching from the horrible pills), here's some pictures. And in a moment of antibiotic-induced insanity (which may or may not be heightened by Robbie Williams playing on the radio), I've decided to show you some proper ones. Because, believe it or not, I have been taking them.

The Cliffs of Moher, in Ireland.

Santorini, Greece.

A cleaner mopped the floor of the place I was staying in Greece, and I walked into the room and discovered this hair. How much does it look like a mirrored treble clef? This is a treble clef, by the way. Oh crap, I've gone and done it again, haven't I?

Um. I gave up on the serious pictures. Sorry this is blurry. It's a Japanese toilet.

Hot day + woolly sheep = sheep trying to squeeze under rock. They aren't being crushed, I promise.

This one is reasonably normal, isn't it? Notice that it's on a slight angle. My photo, that is - not the Sacre Coeur. Note to self: be a better photographer. To be a bit serious, I don't think I've ever been so overwhelmed as I was when I walked into that place. 'Breathtaking' does not cover it.

The packing is pretty much complete, and I've gone and changed my Location on the right to the Netherlands, which is where I'll be this time tomorrow. If you don't hear from me for ages, I've:

A. been gassed on a Polish train.
B. developed a love for hills, clothes made out of curtains, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, and moved to Austria.
C. developed a love for bongs and not working, and moved to Amsterdam.
D. had all my stuff nicked, and am standing on the side of a Czech motorway in my underwear, jutting my thumb out.
E. lost so many brain cells via German bier that I've forgotten how to work these compooter thingies.
F. married a Hungarian goat herder.

You never know.

These ones are orange and grey.

2005-07-24T06:33:00.000+10:00

So apparently, when pills make you itchy, they are bad pills. Well, that's what the doctor said, after he freaked out when I nonchalantly mentioned that there was a faint rash on my torso and arms and that it was itching like hell. Who would've thought.

Now I have different pills. Hooray for pills.

Rightio, so, travel plan and all that. I think this is the final draft:

Holland to Germany to Czech Republic to Poland to Slovakia to Hungary to Croatia to Italy to France to Spain to Morocco.

Slightly more reasonable?

The thought that I'm setting off on this journey the day after tomorrow hasn't quite sunk in yet. It's going to be pretty full-on. I'll start crapping myself any minute now.

And I should be packing and preparing, shouldn't I? Yes, really must get onto that.

Slatch. Screep.

2005-07-23T20:46:00.000+10:00

These pills make me sleepy and itchy. Scratch, sleep, scratch, sleep.

The travel planning is almost complete, and it's turned out a little differently to what I originally had in mind.

I'll tell you in a minute.

Scratch, sleep, scratch. Sleep. Scratch.

Remember when...

2005-07-22T23:37:00.000+10:00

...I was on a hellishly long flight to the UK and I fell ill?

Well, all of a sudden, the same bastardly illness has come back. Three days before I sail out to Amsterdam to commence my big adventure. And rather than being a stubborn cow and putting up with it, I'm being very clever and going to the doctor. Right now.

(In relation to the last post, thanks to James for pointing out that not every house in the UK has a horrible meter in which you have to shove pound coins. Oops.)

One. Of. Those. Days.

2005-07-20T20:21:00.000+10:00

I'm used to things being a little different to the way they are at home, and one of those minor differences is the way electricity is obtained. You see, instead of receiving a bill every three months, they have these electricity meters, where you stick in a pound coin and turn a handle and it gives you a pound's worth of electricity.

Simple enough, right? Yes, I agree.

I'm well aware of how they work and where the electricity thingy is located if I need it, but I'd never had to touch it. Until this morning.

[Scene: 10:10am. I get out of bed, look at my watch and my eyes widen in disbelief. I haven't slept in that late in a hell of a long time. I stumble to the shower, play with the complicated controls to make it work (another thing that's different from home), and lean back and close my eyes as refreshing, hot water spills out over me.]

Can you see where this is going?

For some reason, I'm singing 'Paradise by the Dashboard Light'. I slop some shampoo into my hair, mush it around, rinse it out. I slop some conditioner into my hair and start mushing it around.

Me: [unmelodically] Do you love me, will you love me forever, do you need me, will you.... oh shit shitty shit arse shit wank bollocks shittedy shit!

Believe it or not, that last bit isn't part of the song.

The water disappeared with a mildly worrying groaning noise and the lights went out, leaving the non-windowed bathroom in total darkness. I wipe my conditioner-stung eyes on my towel and feel my way out of the room.

Me: Right, ok, this is very simple. There were some pound coins on the counter in the kitchen. Easy.

So, in nakedness, half-blindness and dripping a combination of water and conditioner, I feel my way to the kitchen and force my burning eyes open to see... nothing. Pound coins gone.

Me: Arse arse arse arse arse arse arse!

Next obvious location: my wallet. I rummage through my bag, drenching it mildly (but not so much now that I've practically dried off after touching everything in the room in order to find my way around), and eu-freaking-reka - there's my wallet, and yes, it contains three, shiny pound coins.

They weren't actually shiny at all, but they looked it in the moment.

I locate the strange-looking contraption on the wall and push a coin into what looks like the right (i.e. only) slot. I turn the handle and... nothing. Once again. The handle just sits there, solid as a rock.

Me: I've frickin' broken it! Gahhhhhhh!

Reaching for the nearest item smaller than my finger (which is too big to fit in the slot), I shove an old food wrapper in there, in order to push the coin further in. I try and turn it again (after removing aforementioned food wrapper). Nothing.

I close my burning eyes, take a deep breath, and open them with a brilliant idea. I turn the handle the other way.

Don't be laughing at me, here. Clockwise is anyone's first instinct, right?

A whirring sound indicates the house is now powered again and the faint sound of running water sends me bolting to the bathroom to discover that I'd left the cubicle door open and that the rest of the bathroom is now even more drenched than it was after I'd run through it, dripping.

After I'm clean, conditioner-free and dry, I get out and glance at my phone. One message received. It had come in before I'd woken up that morning.

"Hi. If you're going to take a shower this morning, you should put a pound in the meter..."

I can't work out Slovakia.

2005-07-19T17:24:00.000+10:00

When I'm bored and wanting to kill time, could you update your blog more frequently, please? Or else I end up transfixed by this sort of thing. And do you want to be held responsible for that?

Do you?

Ta.

My descent into insanity.

2005-07-18T23:05:00.000+10:00

It really is quite difficult to begin a new post with absolutely no idea of what to write. The whole of this week needs to be dedicated to planning the month of travel which is starting next Monday, but it's all a bit overwhelming, and I'm overloaded with information, and it's doin' my 'ead in.

So I start a post for the sake of starting a post, because I'm not sure what else to do, because I'm tired of reading about that dirty cow who shagged in the spa on UK Big Brother, because it's just too hard to choose between Warsaw and Krakow.

And I was sort of hoping I could manage something coherent, but I'm not doing too well.

Do you want to see the extremely rough travel plan I've got so far?

(That was a bit rhetorical of me, wasn't it? And so was that.)

From Holland to Germany, to the Czech Republic, to Poland, to Slovakia, to Hungary, to Romania, to Turkey, to Greece, to Bosnia and Hercegovina, to Italy, to Switzerland, to France, to Spain, to Morocco.

Seem a bit extreme?

I'd like to also fit Lithuania in, as well as Estonia, Ukraine and Egypt. But they're not covered by my rail pass, so I'll work it out later.

Here's a map. The blue line represents my path:

Ok, so maybe I just drew random circles using Paint, but it honestly feels that confusing.

And it won't just be me, which I think I've neglected to mention up until this point. He's coming too.

So, um, in other news, I'm lodging my tax return.

What do you do if you're starving hungry and tired of eating breakfast bars, and there's a tasty-looking frozen meal staring up at you, but you're not sure if it's any good, because there's every possibility the electricity might have gone off over the past few days the house was unoccupied and the contents of the freezer would've thawed and may be highly mingy?

A. Eat it anyway, and perhaps die.
B. Don't eat it, and stay hungry.
C. Eat a breakfast bar.
D. Read some more about that Big Brother tart.
E. Chew your hair and look confused.