With my mental capacity shot to being able to plan only one week in advance, it was left to my flatmate, Frances to book our long weekend holiday to Bath. Gone were Taffy's usual months of planning, of reading guide books, of cross-referencing review sites and making lists of lists. Instead, I found myself packing my bags on the night before departure without silent introspective protest, without any maps, and my life in my daypack.
But as unprepared as I ever was on a holiday, it was onwards to the World Heritage city of Bath. Bath is an amazingly beautiful city. Not in the romantically beautiful sense as I have experienced in Barcelona or Florence, not in the striking and glaring beauty of Hong Kong's harbour or New York's chutzpah, not in the determined sophistication of Melbourne's little laneways. Bath's beauty was mature. Statesmanlike. A city that you would want to be your Prime Minister if the city was a political candidate.
It must have been the sunlight that dazzled my senses. Green green gardens (with free deckchairs for its residents), cobbled steps, reasonably good buskers in city squares and old stately buildings.
Pity about our accommodation. With the students gone, the University of Bath had rented out its student accommodation to the general public and we were to make full use of it. Driving through the pretty campus, we were hopeful of a cosy little student dorm, until we got lost. So lost in fact that we had to ask a (probably) postgraduate student who thought that I was a student checking out the University before classes started in late September. He put us straight - in the direction of the most ugliest building that required nothing more than dynamite. With pale blue doors and rusty lime green bathrooms, circa 1960, we were amazed that students would pay money to live in the prison-like quarters. What was worse was the bedding - the springs were so tough that at night I would fit my shoulder blades in between the springs so that the springs wouldn't dig into my spine.
The aqua-coloured car we hired was much more comfortable, the new-car-smell meking me feel dozy. The first day we headed up north into the Cotswolds which the English rave about. We drove through some lush hills, but became progressively disappointed as we passed through some boring and even more boring English towns. Our idealised notions of quaint little places serving tea was displaced with towns bearing nothing but a few cars parked on the side of the road and some closed pubs. Hours past as we drove north, bypassing towns and then finally screeching to a halt in a traffic jam in some English town which I can't remember the name of. Turns out we were in the waiting line for people packing up their stalls at the local market.
I must commend my own driving. For those that know me, I can be one of those drivers easily panicked - but I impressed myself with handling the lack of speed limit signs, the lack of road signs, the lack of patience on the side of English drivers, and the lack of knowing where the hell I was going. At one stage while my map-reader was asleep, I turned onto the M4 instead of the A4 and almost took us a quarter of the way back to London. Funnily enough I didn't panic (again, despite the lack of turn-offs for miles on end) and merely continued on merrily away until I was able to reverse back to Bath.
The next day was going to be a special one for me. Stonehenge was one of the must-see destinations on my imaginary list, and we headed towards there first thing in the morning. We stopped by a small diner to pick up some breakfast, but then beat a hasty exit when we realised that the 2 ladies working the diner had yet to even take the order of a family of 15 people sitting next to us. Snacking on chips in the car for breakfast, Stonehenge lazily appeared on the horizon - in between 2 major highways. Parking was expensive as was entry, but I was truly excited to see the mysterious stones. Unfortunately you can't walk in between the stones, but I was content to take too many pictures and play tourist for a while.
It was on to Salisbury where we had a Sunday roast pub lunch which the English seem to do very well, and a wander around Salisbury Cathedral which has Britain's tallest spire. We also visited the very bizarre Old Sarum which is an abandoned castle with only the base remaining in the middle of a huge empty moat. It was then a long drive back to Bath through more English towns with nothing more to offer us than somewhere to fill up our petrol.
The last day in Bath (congratulations for getting this far in this post) saw us checking off the rest of our to-do list. We visited the famous Roman Baths which were surprisingly situated right in the heart of Bath (I always thought the Baths were out in the countryside). After a quiet lunch watching a xylophone-playing busker in the town square (while eating a Sally Lunn bun which was meant to be famous but another anti-climax), it was off back to London.
I was glad to get back to London - and not only to get away from the University of Bath's dorms (and its surrounding nondescript towns), but more because there's always special about returning home when you've been travelling, even if it's just to not have springs sticking into your back while you sleep.
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Monday, 20 August 2007
the little girl who would never become queen
There was a recent survey in the newspaper ("The Guardian", for all of you tree-hugging lefties - which incidentally is read by my MoJ colleagues every day, in contrast to its rather dour cousin, "The Independent" which is generally left untouched behind my desk) rating the most disappointing landmarks in the world for travellers. Amongst them, was everything from the Eiffel Tour (check), Las Ramblas in Barcelona (check), Buckingham Palace (check), Stonehenge (damn, there goes my weekend plans) to the London Eye (check).
I must say that the London Eye (erm, correction: the British Airways London Eye) is quite a sight when bathed in an early sunset. On Vicki's last evening in London, 3 of us wandered down to Southwark for dinner and then moseyed our way on to Waterloo to take a flight on this new London icon. Fortunately the lines weren't long as Frances and I had threatened to abort mission if we were going to have to wait more than an hour. The security was not as intense as one would have thought - I got jibed for holding Vicki's bags of shopping, and Frances was questioned more persistently when she ignored a question of where she was from. My explanation of "I'm from Australia, but I'm actually living here, and gosh golly blather" drained the life out of the security guard's eyes.
So up we went - so slowly that we had to check whether we were actually moving (you can tell when you look down at the land below). We had some great views of Westminster Palace (i.e the Houses of Parliament) and one of the main train stations at Charing Cross (where I regularly disembark when getting into central London). Unfortunately, we couldn't see many other landmarks, but it was nice just to see London from afar, and tick off another sight on my checklist.
Speaking of tourists. One late afternoon after work, I was running down the stairs to catch the train (my first of 3 to get home) when the door beeping started and I managed to squeeze myself into the mush of people. However, behind me was probably the most ambitious family I have ever seen. Father holding young son's hand made it on in the nick of time. Mother and young daughter (holding bags of touristy shopping) got caught in the doors and couldn't dislodge their bags of shopping in the doors. Let me just paint a picture of how strong the doors are when they close: 2 men at the doors were unable to open the doors which were fastened shut (except for the space left in between with one very crushed bag with the words Buckingham Palace on it). Panic on tourist family's face ensured. Eventually, a whole group of us managed to open the doors, the Tube rep on the platform waved the driver to proceed and we were off.
The family was lucky - it would have been a bigger problem had the little girl been injured if she was caught in between the doors. What was not so lucky, was the Buckingham Palace gift shop bag. As they checked inside the bag, I heard a wail and out came a very squashed Queen's Crown. It had been mashed in half and it was a crown no longer, but more a flat origami balloon. Remember those origami paper balloons you folded up and then blew it up? Well, that's what it resembled.
I very unkindly stifled a laugh and let karma take its toll.
I missed 2 trains home that evening.
I must say that the London Eye (erm, correction: the British Airways London Eye) is quite a sight when bathed in an early sunset. On Vicki's last evening in London, 3 of us wandered down to Southwark for dinner and then moseyed our way on to Waterloo to take a flight on this new London icon. Fortunately the lines weren't long as Frances and I had threatened to abort mission if we were going to have to wait more than an hour. The security was not as intense as one would have thought - I got jibed for holding Vicki's bags of shopping, and Frances was questioned more persistently when she ignored a question of where she was from. My explanation of "I'm from Australia, but I'm actually living here, and gosh golly blather" drained the life out of the security guard's eyes.
So up we went - so slowly that we had to check whether we were actually moving (you can tell when you look down at the land below). We had some great views of Westminster Palace (i.e the Houses of Parliament) and one of the main train stations at Charing Cross (where I regularly disembark when getting into central London). Unfortunately, we couldn't see many other landmarks, but it was nice just to see London from afar, and tick off another sight on my checklist.
Speaking of tourists. One late afternoon after work, I was running down the stairs to catch the train (my first of 3 to get home) when the door beeping started and I managed to squeeze myself into the mush of people. However, behind me was probably the most ambitious family I have ever seen. Father holding young son's hand made it on in the nick of time. Mother and young daughter (holding bags of touristy shopping) got caught in the doors and couldn't dislodge their bags of shopping in the doors. Let me just paint a picture of how strong the doors are when they close: 2 men at the doors were unable to open the doors which were fastened shut (except for the space left in between with one very crushed bag with the words Buckingham Palace on it). Panic on tourist family's face ensured. Eventually, a whole group of us managed to open the doors, the Tube rep on the platform waved the driver to proceed and we were off.
The family was lucky - it would have been a bigger problem had the little girl been injured if she was caught in between the doors. What was not so lucky, was the Buckingham Palace gift shop bag. As they checked inside the bag, I heard a wail and out came a very squashed Queen's Crown. It had been mashed in half and it was a crown no longer, but more a flat origami balloon. Remember those origami paper balloons you folded up and then blew it up? Well, that's what it resembled.
I very unkindly stifled a laugh and let karma take its toll.
I missed 2 trains home that evening.
Monday, 13 August 2007
the river and the trail
The object of the trip was to find a sign with the words "River Taff" and then be happy ever after, but it was not to be. Instead I found not only a River Taff, but also Taffs Trail, Taff St and Taffs Well. I know. I'm an incredibly popular person. Although, I was most unobliged when the street directory didn't yield a Taffy steet or avenue - the outrage! the Welsh have chopped a fifth of my identity off.
Back to the weekend. My fellow Londoners have been banging on about how good the weather was on the weekend as if they have never seen more than 48 hours of continuous good weather.
Gasps and silence.
I must say however, that the trip to Cardiff last weekend was made all the better with the incredible sunlight and the rather friendly Welsh people (although their bus drivers are a bit erratic and drive with the doors open). Upon arrival at Cardiff and looking at the map, my flatmate, Vicki and I made a plan of attack of how we wanted to traverse Cardiff. Within 10 minutes we had passed 6 of the sights (and even stopped by the visitor centre) and found ourselves at the very pretty Cardiff Castle. This was my first castle and it was exciting to take pictures of the flag at the top of the turret and peer into the rather shallow moat. Upon looking at the moat I considered a takeover of the castle, but reconsidered when I deemed the water lillies too pretty to destroy should I attempt to slosh through in the muddy, algae-infested, mosquito-breeding waters.
Vicki's several attempts at taking self-shots of the castle in the background was met by my derision when I walked to the best vantage point, faced the camera and shot myself (ah, the joys of the English language). Perfect. Castle in background, no huge expanse of sky in the background, my face not fuzzy and missing an ear.
We did a tour too. Very interesting, and mind-boggling to think about how much money these horse-and-cart-riding, wine-guzzling, jousting, sword-waving toffs had. At one stage of the tour, the guide pointed out some Australian animals that were carved into the elaborate ceiling and asked whether there were any Aussies in the crowd. Three hands went up. Neither of those hands belonged to blonde, blue-eyed, surfer types but three, short, glasses-wearing, intellectual-type Asians. The silent, astonished blinking at the 3 of us lasted a good 2 seconds before the guide recovered (very well, I might add) and continued on his spiel.
Later that evening we went back to the hotel for a swim (having decided to pay an extra 5 more pounds per person to avoid the cramped hostel) and dinner at the Wharf which was clearly the happening place in town. It was obvious that Melbourne had tried to copy this concept for its own Docklands, but the sheer buzz and noise of the Cardiff nightlife would have made John Batman turn in his grave while the smokers congregated outside on the footpath.
The next day we took the bus to the outskirts of Cardiff to see another castle, which the promotional leaflet said looked more like a castle belonging at Disneyland or Bavaria then in stuffy old Great Britain. It was a very cute castle and would make for a nice place to have your wedding photos taken. Not that I am getting married, but there's a tip for you anyhow.
So it's back to London for now and thinking about where to go next. Last Friday Vicki and I did a tour of the Houses of Parliament which was fantastic (well, for me, given my interest in all things politics). The absolute highlight was actually going into the House of Lords and House of Commons where we were allowed to walk into the benches where the Members of Parliament sat, but not allowed to sit. Strange, but I guess logical as we were technically "strangers in the house". There was a statue of Winston Churchill with a worn-out foot - when Conservative MPs make their maiden speech, they touch Churchill's foot as they enter the Chamber for good luck. I was standing next to a bronze statue of the iron lady herself, Margaret Thatcher, but thought it most discourteous to do anything but nod in reverence at the lifeless hunk of bronze of Britain's first female Prime Minister.
Walking through the Palace of Westminster made me feel a twinge of sadness as I do miss keeping up with the political scene at home, but to compensate I broke my own rules about not spending money at giftshops and bought a House of Commons bookmark and some House of Lords coasters. Yay!
But for now it's back to reading a report on Court referred and court linked mediation under judicial pressure.
Back to the weekend. My fellow Londoners have been banging on about how good the weather was on the weekend as if they have never seen more than 48 hours of continuous good weather.
Gasps and silence.
I must say however, that the trip to Cardiff last weekend was made all the better with the incredible sunlight and the rather friendly Welsh people (although their bus drivers are a bit erratic and drive with the doors open). Upon arrival at Cardiff and looking at the map, my flatmate, Vicki and I made a plan of attack of how we wanted to traverse Cardiff. Within 10 minutes we had passed 6 of the sights (and even stopped by the visitor centre) and found ourselves at the very pretty Cardiff Castle. This was my first castle and it was exciting to take pictures of the flag at the top of the turret and peer into the rather shallow moat. Upon looking at the moat I considered a takeover of the castle, but reconsidered when I deemed the water lillies too pretty to destroy should I attempt to slosh through in the muddy, algae-infested, mosquito-breeding waters.
Vicki's several attempts at taking self-shots of the castle in the background was met by my derision when I walked to the best vantage point, faced the camera and shot myself (ah, the joys of the English language). Perfect. Castle in background, no huge expanse of sky in the background, my face not fuzzy and missing an ear.
We did a tour too. Very interesting, and mind-boggling to think about how much money these horse-and-cart-riding, wine-guzzling, jousting, sword-waving toffs had. At one stage of the tour, the guide pointed out some Australian animals that were carved into the elaborate ceiling and asked whether there were any Aussies in the crowd. Three hands went up. Neither of those hands belonged to blonde, blue-eyed, surfer types but three, short, glasses-wearing, intellectual-type Asians. The silent, astonished blinking at the 3 of us lasted a good 2 seconds before the guide recovered (very well, I might add) and continued on his spiel.
Later that evening we went back to the hotel for a swim (having decided to pay an extra 5 more pounds per person to avoid the cramped hostel) and dinner at the Wharf which was clearly the happening place in town. It was obvious that Melbourne had tried to copy this concept for its own Docklands, but the sheer buzz and noise of the Cardiff nightlife would have made John Batman turn in his grave while the smokers congregated outside on the footpath.
The next day we took the bus to the outskirts of Cardiff to see another castle, which the promotional leaflet said looked more like a castle belonging at Disneyland or Bavaria then in stuffy old Great Britain. It was a very cute castle and would make for a nice place to have your wedding photos taken. Not that I am getting married, but there's a tip for you anyhow.
So it's back to London for now and thinking about where to go next. Last Friday Vicki and I did a tour of the Houses of Parliament which was fantastic (well, for me, given my interest in all things politics). The absolute highlight was actually going into the House of Lords and House of Commons where we were allowed to walk into the benches where the Members of Parliament sat, but not allowed to sit. Strange, but I guess logical as we were technically "strangers in the house". There was a statue of Winston Churchill with a worn-out foot - when Conservative MPs make their maiden speech, they touch Churchill's foot as they enter the Chamber for good luck. I was standing next to a bronze statue of the iron lady herself, Margaret Thatcher, but thought it most discourteous to do anything but nod in reverence at the lifeless hunk of bronze of Britain's first female Prime Minister.
Walking through the Palace of Westminster made me feel a twinge of sadness as I do miss keeping up with the political scene at home, but to compensate I broke my own rules about not spending money at giftshops and bought a House of Commons bookmark and some House of Lords coasters. Yay!
But for now it's back to reading a report on Court referred and court linked mediation under judicial pressure.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
the sunshine
According to my colleagues, summer has finally hit london - and boy can we see it. I wandered down to Greenwich last weekend with my flatmate and my friend from Melbourne, Vicki where we checked out the Maritime Museum (worth visiting, if only to see the actual portrait of Captain James Cook) and the Royal Observatory Building where we got a picture of me with my feet smack back in the middle of Prime Meridian Time. But back to the sunshine. It was unbelievable walking through the (admittedly very pretty) park where women were clad only in bikinis, men were playing frisbee shirtless and children in their nappies running around. All that was missing was a "big swell, mate". I have since been told that this is a perfectly natural reaction from the British, who at the first sign of a glimmer of sun, fire up the barbecues and apply the sunscreen.
It's been a pretty busy week at the flat, described by Vicki as "gorgeous", although I'm sure she was referring to the view of the sunset from our place, rather than the empty fridge, the messy kitchen and pile of clothes inhabiting the entrance to my bedroom. My cousin from Leeds also wandered down to London, so it was nice to enjoy some company, and for someone to cook for me for a change! I managed to impress my temporary flatmates with my rendition of chicken and tomato-based pasta sauce with green beans, potatoes, olives and fresh rocket - and am now perfecting this dish for when I manage to meet a "special" person worthy enough for me to cook for. Heh.
On the whole, so far, so good. London is an incredibly dynamic city ('cept the trains which always have "severe" delays). One afternoon I went to the theatre to watch a play about the election of Pope John Paul and all the politics of the conclave - heady, interesting stuff for which I am richer for the experience. Prior to the show I was waiting for my flatmate and her friends from Australia and along came a parade celebrating the independence of Pakistan 60 years ago, all complete with a British Marching Band to start it off. Later that evening while sitting in my flat, I heard an enormous explosion and raced to the balcony of my flat to see "what the HELL was that?" - only to find myself watching an incredible fireworks display that was happening in our apartment compound! It was so loud I had to cover my ears, and not squeal like a girl.
I guess I should mention that the area which we live is a site which is being re-developed. It was the former site for the Ministry of Defence and the site of the Royal Arsenal where they stored munitions. It's apparently an up-and-coming area, and I guess this fact was underlined when the Tour de France race went through our street a few weeks ago. One Saturday morning we literally walked outside our flat to the street where we watched the cyclists roar past within 20 seconds. We blinked the dust from our eyes, and was promptly back in our flat within a minute, having a cup of tea.
I must be turning British.
It's been a pretty busy week at the flat, described by Vicki as "gorgeous", although I'm sure she was referring to the view of the sunset from our place, rather than the empty fridge, the messy kitchen and pile of clothes inhabiting the entrance to my bedroom. My cousin from Leeds also wandered down to London, so it was nice to enjoy some company, and for someone to cook for me for a change! I managed to impress my temporary flatmates with my rendition of chicken and tomato-based pasta sauce with green beans, potatoes, olives and fresh rocket - and am now perfecting this dish for when I manage to meet a "special" person worthy enough for me to cook for. Heh.
On the whole, so far, so good. London is an incredibly dynamic city ('cept the trains which always have "severe" delays). One afternoon I went to the theatre to watch a play about the election of Pope John Paul and all the politics of the conclave - heady, interesting stuff for which I am richer for the experience. Prior to the show I was waiting for my flatmate and her friends from Australia and along came a parade celebrating the independence of Pakistan 60 years ago, all complete with a British Marching Band to start it off. Later that evening while sitting in my flat, I heard an enormous explosion and raced to the balcony of my flat to see "what the HELL was that?" - only to find myself watching an incredible fireworks display that was happening in our apartment compound! It was so loud I had to cover my ears, and not squeal like a girl.
I guess I should mention that the area which we live is a site which is being re-developed. It was the former site for the Ministry of Defence and the site of the Royal Arsenal where they stored munitions. It's apparently an up-and-coming area, and I guess this fact was underlined when the Tour de France race went through our street a few weeks ago. One Saturday morning we literally walked outside our flat to the street where we watched the cyclists roar past within 20 seconds. We blinked the dust from our eyes, and was promptly back in our flat within a minute, having a cup of tea.
I must be turning British.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
the hidden
It's always interesting where work can take you - people will cry out: opportunities! overseas travel! laptops! free dental care! - but it was a pretty safe bet that I would never have pictured myself standing in a solitary holding cell in prison on one Friday morning.
As part of the research we are doing on a large piece of policy, we were sent off to a prison to meet and greet staff at a young offender's prison outside of London. It was one of the most interesting sticky-beak experiences that I have had, and because we were on government business, we had a chance to view some of the cells and more secure areas of the prison. Surprisingly (and yes, I did flinch), we mingled with some of the young offenders (the majority of them under 21) while they were being served lunch, and I was shocked to see how baby-faced some of them looked. The atmosphere inside the open areas of the prison was more akin to a school camp (a good thing for rehabilitation and for breaking down barriers) and I sometimes forgot that we were actually in a prison and that there was a reason why the young men were locked inside.
I was impressed with the work that the staff did too - many of the young men have obviously come from harsh backgrounds, and the sheer work the prison managers do to reduce the chance of the young men from re-offending once they are released is phenomenal. I won't give more details, but in such an environment, I can't help but think that the prison managers deserve gold medals for the work they do in handling very very difficult and sad cases.
But of course, all good things must come to and end, but in my case, the good things merely continued the next day as I flew off to Barcelona to meet Di and Matt who were on a European holiday.
Barcelona is a beautiful city, pity about the lack of customer service and the (mostly) unfriendly people. I don't know whether the Spaniards were tired of hoardes of Englishmen descending on their shores every August, but there were times where I wondered whether Barcelona deserved the acclaim that it sprouted in every Lonely Planet guide published since 1992.
We had sangria, we had tapas, we even had a siesta. What we didn't realise was that siestas weren't just an afternoon occurrence - they happened all the time. On 2 separate occasions, our bus, full of passengers, stopped in the middle of nowhere where the driver had a cigarette break and a conversation on his mobile. Another time I stood waiting to get served my food while the staff talked amongst themselves. At a burger outlet, 4 staff waited around while 1 person served a line of 15 people. When we asked people for directions the best we got was a shrug. It was then that I wished for the brutal, cold efficiency of the Austrians!
But I digress.
The architecture was stunning and the weather was perfect. We went to a lookout point and swam in the blue blue waters of the Mediterranean with our eyes. At night we danced away at a huge club with 4 levels and go completely lost amidst the beat of Spanish pop. We marvelled at the Gaudi sculptures in a UNESCO heritage park, only for me to run away in embarrassment when a mainland Chinese tourist stood on top of a UNESCO Heritage Sculpture while yelling at his wife to take a picture. We ate tapas which was priced according to how long the toothpick which held the tapas together was, we got slightly tipsy on sangria (ok, i lie, I got mega-drunk on sangria), strolled down Las Ramblas and then we got sunburnt.
So now I'm reasonably up to date, and now that i have the internet at home (which incidentally keeps on disconnecting every 10 seconds - literally - I should be able to update the blog somewhat in real time. Not that you read this in "somewhat real time" but meh, them's the break.
As part of the research we are doing on a large piece of policy, we were sent off to a prison to meet and greet staff at a young offender's prison outside of London. It was one of the most interesting sticky-beak experiences that I have had, and because we were on government business, we had a chance to view some of the cells and more secure areas of the prison. Surprisingly (and yes, I did flinch), we mingled with some of the young offenders (the majority of them under 21) while they were being served lunch, and I was shocked to see how baby-faced some of them looked. The atmosphere inside the open areas of the prison was more akin to a school camp (a good thing for rehabilitation and for breaking down barriers) and I sometimes forgot that we were actually in a prison and that there was a reason why the young men were locked inside.
I was impressed with the work that the staff did too - many of the young men have obviously come from harsh backgrounds, and the sheer work the prison managers do to reduce the chance of the young men from re-offending once they are released is phenomenal. I won't give more details, but in such an environment, I can't help but think that the prison managers deserve gold medals for the work they do in handling very very difficult and sad cases.
But of course, all good things must come to and end, but in my case, the good things merely continued the next day as I flew off to Barcelona to meet Di and Matt who were on a European holiday.
Barcelona is a beautiful city, pity about the lack of customer service and the (mostly) unfriendly people. I don't know whether the Spaniards were tired of hoardes of Englishmen descending on their shores every August, but there were times where I wondered whether Barcelona deserved the acclaim that it sprouted in every Lonely Planet guide published since 1992.
We had sangria, we had tapas, we even had a siesta. What we didn't realise was that siestas weren't just an afternoon occurrence - they happened all the time. On 2 separate occasions, our bus, full of passengers, stopped in the middle of nowhere where the driver had a cigarette break and a conversation on his mobile. Another time I stood waiting to get served my food while the staff talked amongst themselves. At a burger outlet, 4 staff waited around while 1 person served a line of 15 people. When we asked people for directions the best we got was a shrug. It was then that I wished for the brutal, cold efficiency of the Austrians!
But I digress.
The architecture was stunning and the weather was perfect. We went to a lookout point and swam in the blue blue waters of the Mediterranean with our eyes. At night we danced away at a huge club with 4 levels and go completely lost amidst the beat of Spanish pop. We marvelled at the Gaudi sculptures in a UNESCO heritage park, only for me to run away in embarrassment when a mainland Chinese tourist stood on top of a UNESCO Heritage Sculpture while yelling at his wife to take a picture. We ate tapas which was priced according to how long the toothpick which held the tapas together was, we got slightly tipsy on sangria (ok, i lie, I got mega-drunk on sangria), strolled down Las Ramblas and then we got sunburnt.
So now I'm reasonably up to date, and now that i have the internet at home (which incidentally keeps on disconnecting every 10 seconds - literally - I should be able to update the blog somewhat in real time. Not that you read this in "somewhat real time" but meh, them's the break.
the record
This is going to be my pre-Barcelona post, given my lack of updates for the past couple of weeks.
I have nicely settled into my new abode and am really starting the enjoy the flat. I cook, I clean, I iron, I wash. But at the end of the long working day, it's nice to sit back and look at the views of the city and watch the commuter ferry dock outside my flat. The only problem is that my landlord has stuffed up the measurements for my balcony curtains, so the 19.10, the 19.40 and the 21.10 commuter ferry passengers coming off the gangway can see me scoffing icecream (19.10), burning my dinner (19.40) and hiding the empty bottle of wine (the 21.10 mob) as I sit in my flat in my best tracksuit pants.
But aside from that, I've also managed to get out of the flat too.
Visited the Millennium Dome. Enough said. Enjoyed the best of British planning at the local square where some Ghanian (or Senagalese or Namibian or some African nation) festival was on - in the middle of a construction zone. There was a lovely Ghanian singer crooning to some African pop, but all I could hear was lalala-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-laalaaalaa-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG. I applauded the jackhammers, threw roses and ran.
The National Portrait Gallery has now overtaken the Museum of Modern Art in New York as my favourite museum. I spent a few good hours on a rainy Sunday afternoon browsing through a display of black and white photo-journal of the Blair Prime Ministership during the period just where Prime Minister Blair made the decision to go to war. It was touching and distressing at the same time to see their furrowed faces etched deep in the photo forever, about to make a decision that would cost countless military and civilian lives.
I've received some emails from you lot complaining how cold it is in Melbourne. If I didn't live on the wrong side of Greenwich Mean Time (and yes, the actual place where they measure GMT is about a 10 minute train ride from my place), I would shout from the rooftops that you aint seen cold yet. Let me tell you: it's the middle of summer and the English are abandoning ship for Spain, and this morning I wore my WINTER jacket to work.
Now that I've got internet access at home I can stop lining up at the local library to get my free 15 minutes of internet access. All complaints about my lack of blog updates may be directed to the British Civil Service whose government secure internet ensures that I don't while away my time updating the status on my facebook.
For the record:
Taffy is: drinking tea.
And a postscript to my previous blog: I did manage to meet the Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice the other week. I was so nervous that I fluffed my rehearsed lines and he shuffled away, with note to self that those lax immigration laws need to be changed.
I have nicely settled into my new abode and am really starting the enjoy the flat. I cook, I clean, I iron, I wash. But at the end of the long working day, it's nice to sit back and look at the views of the city and watch the commuter ferry dock outside my flat. The only problem is that my landlord has stuffed up the measurements for my balcony curtains, so the 19.10, the 19.40 and the 21.10 commuter ferry passengers coming off the gangway can see me scoffing icecream (19.10), burning my dinner (19.40) and hiding the empty bottle of wine (the 21.10 mob) as I sit in my flat in my best tracksuit pants.
But aside from that, I've also managed to get out of the flat too.
Visited the Millennium Dome. Enough said. Enjoyed the best of British planning at the local square where some Ghanian (or Senagalese or Namibian or some African nation) festival was on - in the middle of a construction zone. There was a lovely Ghanian singer crooning to some African pop, but all I could hear was lalala-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-laalaaalaa-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG. I applauded the jackhammers, threw roses and ran.
The National Portrait Gallery has now overtaken the Museum of Modern Art in New York as my favourite museum. I spent a few good hours on a rainy Sunday afternoon browsing through a display of black and white photo-journal of the Blair Prime Ministership during the period just where Prime Minister Blair made the decision to go to war. It was touching and distressing at the same time to see their furrowed faces etched deep in the photo forever, about to make a decision that would cost countless military and civilian lives.
I've received some emails from you lot complaining how cold it is in Melbourne. If I didn't live on the wrong side of Greenwich Mean Time (and yes, the actual place where they measure GMT is about a 10 minute train ride from my place), I would shout from the rooftops that you aint seen cold yet. Let me tell you: it's the middle of summer and the English are abandoning ship for Spain, and this morning I wore my WINTER jacket to work.
Now that I've got internet access at home I can stop lining up at the local library to get my free 15 minutes of internet access. All complaints about my lack of blog updates may be directed to the British Civil Service whose government secure internet ensures that I don't while away my time updating the status on my facebook.
For the record:
Taffy is: drinking tea.
And a postscript to my previous blog: I did manage to meet the Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice the other week. I was so nervous that I fluffed my rehearsed lines and he shuffled away, with note to self that those lax immigration laws need to be changed.
the fireworks
It feels weird, that even after moving in to my new flat that sometimes all i want to do is crawl into my comfy bed at home (in Melbourne) and just sleep and read a book and eat chocolate.
But I'm glad to say that I've finally unpacked, opened the windows for fresh air, filled up my side of the cupboard with food and even lugged an ironing board all the way from the Isle of Dogs to Woolwich.
Despite the several trips back and forth moving stuff (much of the odds and ends very kindly donated by my old flatmate in the Isle of Dogs who was also moving out the same day as I was - she is on to bigger and better things in Beijing with a new job), i've managed to set up base. Then the fun begins when you realise you have a tin of soup you want to heat up for lunch, yet have no can opener. Or that you have no hand towels for the kitchen.
I went slightly insane at the supermarket buying stuff for our new flat - i eventually had to be reined in by my new flatmate, Frances. Our very first step was to buy a aerial for the TV, rearrange the furniture in the living area (and then rearrange everything back the way it was originally after discovering that our arrangement was NQR (not quite right). And then putting the finishing touches with a footrest and a stool in between our chairs! We both slumped down and almost fell asleep, only for both of us having to go back to our old places to pick up more stuff.
As Frances decided to stay in her old place for one last night, i had the place to myself which was great, except for the fact that we don't have curtains yet and that everyone going past on the Thames can see me standing in the kitchen with my old trackies on. For some reason there were fireworks on in the city centre, and our place had great views of the fireworks! It was so exciting that I felt that the fireworks were put on especially for me.
I'm off to organise a phone and set up the ironing board. Back to work tomorrow, but all I can finally say is:
Land in London: check.
Get a job: check.
Find a flat: check.
Get out there!: pending.
Update pending. Catch you later.
But I'm glad to say that I've finally unpacked, opened the windows for fresh air, filled up my side of the cupboard with food and even lugged an ironing board all the way from the Isle of Dogs to Woolwich.
Despite the several trips back and forth moving stuff (much of the odds and ends very kindly donated by my old flatmate in the Isle of Dogs who was also moving out the same day as I was - she is on to bigger and better things in Beijing with a new job), i've managed to set up base. Then the fun begins when you realise you have a tin of soup you want to heat up for lunch, yet have no can opener. Or that you have no hand towels for the kitchen.
I went slightly insane at the supermarket buying stuff for our new flat - i eventually had to be reined in by my new flatmate, Frances. Our very first step was to buy a aerial for the TV, rearrange the furniture in the living area (and then rearrange everything back the way it was originally after discovering that our arrangement was NQR (not quite right). And then putting the finishing touches with a footrest and a stool in between our chairs! We both slumped down and almost fell asleep, only for both of us having to go back to our old places to pick up more stuff.
As Frances decided to stay in her old place for one last night, i had the place to myself which was great, except for the fact that we don't have curtains yet and that everyone going past on the Thames can see me standing in the kitchen with my old trackies on. For some reason there were fireworks on in the city centre, and our place had great views of the fireworks! It was so exciting that I felt that the fireworks were put on especially for me.
I'm off to organise a phone and set up the ironing board. Back to work tomorrow, but all I can finally say is:
Land in London: check.
Get a job: check.
Find a flat: check.
Get out there!: pending.
Update pending. Catch you later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)