Christmas Time in London Town

Season's greetings, Facebook friends! I hope this blog finds you well and enjoying life now that work is wrapping up for the year. I have seen many photos of you all soaking up the sun's rays back home and it paints a very different picture to what I am experiencing in the northern hemisphere!

I must say, Christmas time in London Town is something entirely different to what I have grown up with. I think it is safe to say that the English population Genuinely. Love. Christmas. LOVE Christmas. And not in a I-hope-I-get-lots-of-presents-this-year way. It is moreso a let's-all-gather-round-the-chimney-and-wait-for-Santa-to-slide-down-because-magic-really-does-happen-on-Christmas-Day experience. The lights are shining, the Christmas jumpers have been dug out from the cupboard, the mulled wine is warming and the food is endless. REAL Christmas trees are carried over shoulders of new owners having spent long and hard deciding on which one is juuust right. People can ice-skate OUTSIDE at Winter Wonderland, the Natural History Museum or perhaps the local pub (I kid you not).

My lacking knowledge of Christmas in the traditional sense has been shown up big time in the last few weeks. My flatmates nearly fell of their chairs when listening to me describe a usual Christmas Day with the family - unwrapping presents, going to the beach, enjoying a selection of salads and fresh fruit for lunch and perhaps simply some gingerbread for dessert later that evening. "SALADS?!" cried Dan, possibly one of the biggest Christmas advocates I have come across so far. "SALADS?!!!" Even though both boys agreed that they would not necessarily enjoy sitting down to a full roast in temperatures exceeding 30 degrees, they still declared that it's "just wrong."

I have been fortunate enough to already experience what a true Christmas Day "should" be like, as the boys enjoy hosting a large Christmas lunch for their close friends each year. Preparation was stressful enough as I was assigned to look after dessert. After hours of researching and trouling the internet for ideas, I proudly told the boys that I would be making a Christmas pavlova. "Great, that will be a good light option to go with the others," said Dan. Light option?! Others?! It was then that I learned all about the CHRISTMAS PUDDING, a dessert that nobody particularly likes to eat but must be included in any Christmas event. Fortunately I had already missed the boat in making one myself so was given permission to purchase one, but still had to be talked through the warming and lighting of the brandy to pour over the top in a spectacular manner at the dinner table. Whoever came up with this dangerous tradition obviously wasn't as clumsy or fan of red wine as I am.

I am pleased to enlighten you all that, at least in the case of the Clapham Flat, a traditional Christmas Day schedule goes along the lines of:

• 9am - wake up. Start contemplating the tasks ahead as you stretch out in bed and tell yourself that another 5min can't hurt.
• 9:30am - get up. Realise the extent of how much tidying and preparation is actually involved and regret the last thirty minutes you spent lying in bed.
• 9:45am - actually start tidying and preparing the place, trying to squeeze 17 chairs around two tables and wishing that all your guests had eating disorders so you had some hope of fitting them all in.
• 10:30am - finish off the shopping list which has now exceeded one A4 page.
• 11:00am - head to the supermarket now it has opened to make the first of many trips. At least two trolleys should be filled with alcohol. Any alcohol.
• 12:30pm - guests were told to start arriving half an hour ago and you've only just got back with all of the groceries. There are now three animals in the fridge and at least four bags worth of vegetables to be peeled. Showers have yet to be had and guests are starting to arrive.
• 1:30pm - breakfast comprising of chocolate croissants is served along with alcohol. All seems right with the world again.
• 2:00pm - chef is looking cool and calm in the kitchen.
• 4:00pm - chef is looking hot and stressed in the kitchen.
• 4:45pm - entrees are served. Smoked salmon, prawns, cream cheese with lemon and chilli, rocket.
• 5:30pm - mains are served. Includes roast turkey, lamb and beef, roast vegetables, brussel sprouts, cabbage, mashed potato, yorkshire puddings, pigs in blankets, gravy. Plus a couple of centimetres to your waistline.

• 5:45pm - Emma completes her main meal only to realise that it's her turn to deliver the goods.
• 5:50pm - Emma scolds Dan for leaving the mess in such a state. Decide bath towels rather than tea towels will be better to dry up with in this situation. Am helped by angels of girls with clean up.
• 7:00pm - Dessert is served after copious amounts of alcohol is consumed by Emma. Pavs are out. Pudding is lit. Flat is still standing.
• 8:00pm - Singing
• 8:30pm - Drinking games
• 9:00pm - Clothes start to come off.
• 10:00pm - Guitar is brought out.
• 10:30pm - Whisky is brought out.
• Being woken up at 7am by alarm clock to get to work on time - death.

The actual Big Christmas Day will be spent on the skiing fields in France with a big bunch of Aussies which should be amazing. Having never skied before, the next blog post should be highly entertaining.

Though this one cannot be left without a big mention. Megan, my best friend over here, is sadly leaving the UK on Monday to make her final voyage back home. It's easy to forget how quickly two years can pass and that eventually all of us will have to make that same trek! Kiddo - thanks for everything xxxxx

A Reluctant Return to Fitness

There are many moments in life when you can no longer ignore the changes happening to your body. Having to be fitted for your first bra while transitioning through the awkward adolescent stage, embracing elasticised waistlines and flowing dresses during pregnancy, investing in every eye cream under the sun once those wrinkles start appearing...

And, also when you feel all of the muscles in your body deteriorating and being replaced by fat following six months of having a good time and enjoying life in London Town.

Despite kidding myself that my long speed walking sessions to work of a morning could replace the regular personal training, cardio and weights sessions that I had back home, a sleepless night in Berlin due to overconsumption of food led me to face a cross road. One path leading to fitness, health and financial tightness; the other leading to being engulfed by fat and suffering from chin loss.

Tough call. Unfortunately, the increasingly cold weather and cravings for hearty English food have finally led me to join a gym.

Ergh.

Oh, be quiet and give it a rest already!

Having worked in the health and fitness industry for a couple of years prior to moving to London, I've never quite been able to associate the familiar environment of a gym floor with a sense of intimidation. I remember feeling shocked when my boss told me that walking into a gym for the first time is often one of the most daunting experiences in a person's life. Surely not?! There was no doubt about it though, after such a long time away my heart was positively racing as I walked through the doors of Fitness First.

Fancy equipment: check. Shiny, new and plentiful. Mysterious devices such as a "power plate" and weight equipment with so many hinges and levers it looks more like a sex toy than anything else. Even the treadmills come with challenges, as I nearly had an embarrassing incident while running and trying to work out how to work my iPod through the machine at the same time.

The mysterious Power Plate - if this is all I have to do to look like that, sign me up!

Luxurious bathrooms: check. Free locker hire, use of ghd hairdryers and and more naked female bodies that I have ever hoped to see in my life.

On that note, gorgeous/naked people: check. How effortlessly you make running on a treadmill look. How mysteriously you become tanner while others become paler and paler. If this wasn't bad enough, you then choose to walk around and parade yourselves in naked glory around the change rooms. Seriously, people of London, learn to cover up! We already know you're tanned and toned and gorgeous, don't make us hate you even more for it.

Not a stomach roll or three to be seen...

It's not all moan and groan. Having slotted back into a routine, sourced some good class instructors and refamiliarised by butt with squats, after only two weeks I am back into the swing of things. To be fair, it wouldn't have taken much to achieve this but it feels so great to be reunited with my boyfriend substitute - the gym. I was feeling pretty darn good and proud of myself yesterday morning getting ready for work following an early morning spin session, until smashing my perfume bottle all over the bathroom floor. Baby steps. Baby steps.

You go, girlfriend!

If anything though, this recent experience has also given me so much appreciation for the amazing staff at PURE Health Clubs back home. Honestly, your expertise in training and care for your clients is second to none and makes you the best in the industry. Just keep doing what you're doing!!!

Lots of love (and in lots of muscular pain),

Em xxx

Nerding It Up in Berlin

Last week saw my escape from work to take off to Berlin for a few days. The choice of destination was curiosity more than anything else. For such a seemingly ugly city, why did people rave about it so much? I had heard of the infamous night life scene, but doubted that this had tempted my grandparents into multiple visits... Sure, it certainly had history and some galleries, but what was it that drew people back like some magnetic force? I was determined to find out.

So determined that I must have had a rush of blood to the head when I booked my flight from London two months prior. A 6:30am flight from Gatwick Airport was perhaps a tad ambitious, given that the train departing from Clapham Junction to get me there in time was at 4:10am. After foggily getting myself from A to B I collapsed in a waiting chair at the airport having, only to have a drunken man sit next to me and spend the next half hour trying to chat me up. Methods included complimenting my American(!) accent, saying that my (imaginery and non-existent) boyfriend (who I had conveniently created for the purpose of this conversation) surely would not have a problem with me returning his flirting gestures, and breathing rum breath all over me. Charmed, I'm sure.

Now, I don't believe I have delved in to discussing budget air travel throughout Europe yet. That is, your Ryanairs, your Easy Jets and your "WhizAirs", which my Kiwi friend Ash was relieved to discover was actually an airline when she snagged some super cheap flights to a European destination shortly after arriving in London. These airlines offer amazing deals on flights that leave at midnight and/or from airports far far away to destinations that nobody wants to visit. They do also offer okay prices for all normal and sane people who don't fit into that category, so despite the unglamorous conditions these airlines remain to be quite popular.

I must say, whenever I book one of these budget airlines at the time I remind myself that it's all about the destination and feel quite smug when I see that I have managed to save all but £50 (every little bit counts!). However, it is a different feeling altogether at the airport that you've spent an hour longer getting to, needing to stuff your handbag into your hand luggage (strictly one bag only) and pushing and shoving your way onto the aircraft to ensure that you have overhead locker space to store your hand luggage. Otherwise, as the unfortunate man sitting next to me on my return trip had displeasure of finding out, you are forced to somehow store it underneath the seat in front which left him with his knees around his ears for lack of leg room. It's all about the destination, it's all about the destination....

Reichstag 

Which brings me to Berlin! A history nerd's delight. I partook in many walking tours, the latter two covering Third Reich Berlin and Cold War Berlin. Man. What can one say. The twentieth century was not kind to this city. It is impossible to avoid memorials - to the Murdered Jews, the Homosexuals, the Murdered Politicians, the fallen American and Soviet soldiers... all of these are in prominent areas in central Berlin and are visited by thousands of people each day. If that wasn't overwhelming enough, a visit to the remaining part of the Berlin Wall which just over only 20 years ago separated one half of the city from the other is just mind blowing. After managing to survive WWII, Berlin residents literally went to sleep on 12 August 1961 and woke up the next day to a wall that 30,000 workers had built during the night separating East from West, family and loved ones from one another, employees from work places. Just mind boggling!!

Berlin Wall Death Zone

Without wanting to bore those who don't find history as spine-tingling exciting as I do, I will resist rambling further and simply say that it was a great trip. It was my first experience booking accommodation through airbnb.com and I was really impressed. Not only did I stay in the Bulimba-equivalent area of Berlin in the district of Prenzlauer Berg, but the host provided recommendations of cafes and restaurants that were just divine. I did nearly burn the place down with a slight cooking disaster which was slightly embarrassing but otherwise cruised on by, awkward moment-free.

Pretzel cart

All in all, Berlin has been one of the only cities that I have left after a few days and felt like I hadn't even scratched the surface of what it has to offer. With my sights set on history, I hardly even touched on art or architecture, not to mention night life (which unfortunately is the one of the downsides to travelling by yourself.) Another trip is definitely on the cards at some point!

On a completely different side note, it is interesting that no matter where you travel, you are never too far from home. Such constant reminders induce a feeling of warm-fuzziness - it's nice to know that the world really is a small place! It really is a rare day when you partake in an English tour and don't come across fellow Australians. To my delight as well, the highly recommended local coffee shop featured a "Tim Tam Slam," which involved being given a latte and Tim Tam and having to suck the coffee through the chocolatey goodness centre of the biscuit. The owner had learned the concept on a trip to Australia and decided it was so great, he'd bring it back.

Smart man.

Lots of love, Em xxx

Keeping Cool around Celebrities

Change is in the air in London Town - along with the seasonal change, there are exciting things bubbling away in my pipeline that I can't wait to share with you shortly.

For the moment though, perhaps it is time to elaborate on the

EXTREMELY

EXCITING

LIFE EVENT

that happened during the week.

The story starts on Tuesday, when I was innocently scrolling down on my Facebook news feed over eating tomato soup at lunch time and praying not to spill any on my work clothes. It would have been much more sensible to give my soup full attention and finish it before touching my phone, and I was debating whether or not to choose sensibility over living on the edge when something caught my eye. One of my friends had liked a Woolworths status that seemed to be talking about needing Australians for a television commercial featuring Jamie Oliver.

Jamie Oliver, blog readers, is quite possibly one of my favourite chefs and favourite people. If there is anyone who can change the world through cooking, it's him. What a superstar. The Charlton family shared every moment of joy and frustration as he tried to change school lunches in America and the UK, and as he helped kids in trouble have another go at life through his Fifteen programme. Those close to me know that I love nothing more on a quiet Friday night in than picking up one of his gorgeous take home meals from his Recipease store at Clapham Junction and relishing every bite. Hungover Sundays are spent watching repeats of his 15 Minute Meal shows, a particular favourite flatmate bonding activity. Hours have already been spent turning the pages of his new cookbook recently purchased.

You might say I'm a fan.

So when the Woolworths Facebook status caught my eye, all thoughts of soup went out the window and I followed the hyperlink. Jamie Oliver was in need of 300 Australians living in London to help him film his festive-themed commercial for Woolworths. Food and entertainment would be provided for all those willing to give up time to help him out. Wow, thought I. I wish I'd seen this earlier - surely all of the tickets will have been snatched up by now. Yet, the link to the ticket event still worked. And the ability to select a number of tickets still worked. And the link to the confirmation page still worked. And wouldn't you know, I had an email confirmation waiting in my inbox informing me that I had secured two tickets to attend the Jamie Oliver commercial, to be filmed outside his Fifteen restaurant in north London.

Trying to find my ability to speak again, I raced up the stairs and asked if I could speak urgently to my manager about a private matter. Looking startled and concerned, he followed me downstairs and asked whatever was the matter.

"Daniel, can-I-please-leave-a-little-bit-early-from-work-on Friday-afternoon?"
"Yes of course, what is going on?!"
"Are you really sure it's going to be okay?"
"Yes yes, of course. Emma what is the matter?!"
"I'M GOING TO MEET JAMIE OLIVER!!!"
"Oh how exciting! That's really great. By the way, do you realise you have soup on your blazer?"

Bugger. The ruddy soup. Close, but not yet winning at life.

In any case, Friday afternoon came and my friend Danielle and I eagerly huffed our way with Jamie cookbooks in our bags to the filming location. We joined the queue and tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the background. A green double decker bus was decorated with Woolworths advertising and tinsel, lights, cameras, bustling activity. What would be awaiting us, we wondered? And wondered. And wondered. For we waited for two hours until finally a familiar voice thanked us for our patience and invited us in. A very familiar voice. JAMIE'S. Ahhhhh!!

We entered and found ourselves in a marketplace-type setting from a hundred years ago. Fairy-lighted stalls offering market food such as pulled pork rolls, meatball burgers, wood-fired pizzas, roasted vegetables and ice cream were all on offer and we simply had to mingle and act normal. Should Danielle and I be seen in the background of the commercial, you will witness us stuffing our faces with such delights.

Jamie was a true gentleman, true to form checking up on how all of his staff were going and turning a blind eye to starstruck fans trying to get sneaky photos of him (such as yours truly). The opportunity to have a photo came so close, until a random old man asked Danielle where to find Jamie Oliver. When she pointed him out just in front of us, the old man proceeded to go up and abuse Jamie for the ruckus he brings to the community. There was a heated argument between the two, with J eventually yelling YOU BORE ME SIR, YOU BORE ME before the gentleman was escorted off the premises. Turning to us audience with mouths wide open, he apologised and explained that this man has been following him and yelling abuse for 11 years now. "He is simply a massive dork, that's all I can say," before moving on and pretending nothing had happened. Legend.

I now have 18 months remaining on my UK visa whereby it is going to be my sole mission to get that photo with Jamie. However, I like to think I'm that one big step closer :)

Lots of love, Em xxx

Squeezing out the End of Summer

Well, it's happening Australian readers. We are about to enter a transition stage whereby my summer photos that have made you all green with envy during your chilly winter days - will now be yours! With Brisbane weather already hitting balmy thirty-something degree weather, I'm sure you won't look back as I look forward to ever decreasing temperatures on the other side of the world.

Living through a European winter has me more than slightly nervous. It has become increasingly apparent that the warm clothes that I brought over from home will be hideously insufficient to get me through the winter with every body part still intact. As I'm rather attached to all of my body parts, I've got no option but to invest in some heavy duty winter clothes.

However, shopping for an unfamiliar season is how I imagine learning to walk on your hands instead of your feet would be like. The weather will be cold, but HOW cold? What if it's cold and WET? How do you manage to layer so that you are warm outside and won't die inside with the intense heating system, without laying so much so that you look like a human snowman?

These are all very valid questions that I have turned to the English public for answers. I.e., I have been staring intently at every female who passes me in the hope that they might impart some of their knowledge on me.

Unfortunately, someone should inform Revlon that they are guilty of fake advertising as "the London look" - ONE London look - does not exist. Instead, there are mixtures of short coats, trench coats, wool coats, puffer jackets, leather jackets, biker jackets, with hoods, without hoods, thick scarves, thin scarves, pants, leggings, skirts and leggings, low boots, riding boots, high heeled hooker boots, beanies, hats... you get the general picture. And for all the clothes that people are wearing now, they are bound to multiply or completely change in a couple of months' time when it gets REALLY cold. And should I  succeed in surviving these major hurdles, I will not be able to fake it until I make it at the French ski fields at Christmas time.

Speaking to local English girls for help and advice, I have been met with blank looks and long pauses. Not because they don't understand what I'm asking, but moreso that they do not know exactly how to answer it. Dressing for the cold is second nature to them as they have grown up with it, just as we have grown up knowing how to dress for the beach. I am facing the prospect of being the winter equivalent of a tourist dressed in socks and sandals on the beach, holding my expensive $1000 camera not knowing the dangers of sand getting in to electrical equipment.

I plan to face this learning curve with a three point multicultural approach - the Australian attitude of "she'll be right, mate", the British custom of hot tea to warm the bones and failing that, then I shall have to turn to the Irish and their liquid comfort of Guinness. Cheers to that!

Love, Em xxx

Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen

Wonderful wonderful Copenhagen. Apparently I'm not the only one who feels this way, as an artist by the name of Danny Kaye dedicated a whole song with this title to express his love for the city.

A few questioned my choice of travel destination. Yes, it was random. No, I didn't know much about... well, anything to do with the city. How could it be that after years of comprehensive history learning that I didn't even skim the surface of Danish history? Whatever, there's no better time the present I thought as I packed my suitcase and departed for Gatwick airport in the cold, wet, wee hours of Friday morning.

Amazing train system, green society, a wonderful sense of togetherness, canals, boatsss....zzzzz yadda yadda yadda. There are more important things to discuss.

Calling all the single ladies out there.

If it is going to take putting on a black leotard and shaking my booty about Beyonce-style to get your attention, then sign me up because it would be entirely worth it.

It is time to put Copenhagen or perhaps just Scandinavia in general at the top of your travel list.

I must have spent my first day in Copenhagen walking around with my mouth open gaping at the men passing by. Tall, blonde, tanned to golden perfection. One, after the other, after the other. It was so right and yet so wrong. How is it that all of these men could be so beautiful? Was it the diet of fish and rye bread? Perhaps the city is just a magnet to attractive men in general, as even my tour guide from London seemed unreasonably attractive.

Unfortunately the city's effect hasn't rubbed off on me, as I've returned home with a very pink and wind-burnt face after deciding it was a good idea to brave the wildest weather and walk miles to see the Little Mermaid statue today. I'm also probably a couple of kilos heavier after indulging in some Danish pastries (which could quite possibly be BETTER than the French variety - big call, but I'm throwing it out there!) However it was all worth it and I had a fabulous time learning more about the city and picking up randoms at my hostel to make the journey to the Louisiana Gallery of Modern Art to see the Yoko Ono exhibition with.

I also accidentally found myself in Christiania, described by Wikipedia as "a self-proclaimed autonomous neighbourhood." Read: a hippy land that residents have declared as their own, and the government is too interested in how this social experiment turns out that they are just letting it run its course. Just as people travel to Amsterdam to indulge in brownies, so too do people travel to Christiania to indulge in marijuana. The fumes were so overwhelming that by the time I found my way out my head was most certainly in the clouds.

On a more serious and helpful note, for all those considering a trip to Copenhagen some time soon I highly recommend the Woodah hostel as an anti-clubbing escape from your usual hostels. Not only do you get to sleep in cupboard arrangements, but it also hosts free yoga classes every morning that certainly take your mind off London boy dilemmas while you concentrate on your tight hamstrings.

Free walking tours will provide insight into buildings and history of the city - Sandemann's is my company of choice, having previously done their tours in Paris and Barcelona as well. But perhaps most importantly of all, just enjoy the male (and female) scenery and try to keep your mouth closed as you do.

Love, Em xxx

Cheers to Cheap Bananas

I read an article about a couple of weeks ago on an Australian news website that I'd like to share with you all: http://www.news.com.au/travel/world/aussie-life-in-london-expectations-v-reality/story-e6frfqai-1226700713997

Now, to the general world this may have just burst your bubble of the fantasy of living in London and you'll probably be sitting in your seat feeling slightly deflated. For that, I'm truly sorry. But for anyone who has made the move over here, I am sure like me you find this all incredibly funny. Bittersweet, but most definitely funny. For this author has hit the nail on the head so well, I couldn't help but think back to it on Friday night when I sat at home holding my second cup of tea (having re-used the first teabag) and had a grand total of 19 pence sitting in my UK bank account. For 19 pence, you MIGHT be lucky to buy a single banana (depending on where you bought it from) but unfortunately you'd be one penny away from a Freddo. Devastating stuff.

I've always loved listening to my parents' travel stories from when they lived in London in the 1980s. The places they saw, the experiences they had. How they managed to do something different every weekend that was so exciting it made their mundane jobs in horrible weather conditions tolerable. It was easy to filter the other stories they had to tell of not being so poor they weren't able to afford (grey coloured) meat and of the water freezing over in their apartment's pipes. After all, that was the 1980s! Computer hadn't even property taken off then! Besides, anything prior to the year of my birth was practically the dark ages. Times had changed, surely.

Haaa, Emma of the past. Tut tut. How ignorant you were.

Though I feel like I must mention my amazing time in Bath last weekend at this point in time and plans to visit Copenhagen and Berlin in the next couple of months, unfortunately the reality is that I will most likely not buy any new clothes whilst living over here apart from a couple of staple save-me-from-the-deathly-cold-weather items. Certainly, it will not be a particular coat that caught my eye that would use up my entire month's leisure allowance.

I will not be travelling to Paris every weekend, despite it only being a train ride away.

And I will learn to be inventive with eggs. And rice. And carrots.

However, these are the living conditions of most people who choose to live in London. Many people in their twenties move to London from all over the UK for the work opportunities, lifestyle and the general excitement of leaving home. The good news is that there's a wonderful feeling of, "we're all in this together." House parties are back in vogue and people are more than accommodating to lend their couch (and sometimes bed) to crash on if you've missed the last tube home.

On the same night that I was sitting on the couch with 19 pence in my bank account, I came across the Pursuit of Happyness on TV - a movie featuring Will Smith based on a true story about a father who overcame all financial odds to make a success of himself. Unlike Will Smith's character, I knew that my paycheck was due to hit my account the next day and had somewhere that I could safely call home. On any other given day I am able to give a spare banana to the homeless man who sits across the road with his dog, who never budges from the man's lap.

And despite being reminded of the insane wealth of others on Deadline Day in the world of football, which has now consumed the lives of all of the men in my London life, that's enough for me!

Love, Em xxx

When Cheating is Necessary

At some point post-relocating overseas, it's inevitable that one must cheat on some of the longest relationships of their life. Arguably, it is even essential in order to uphold some basic hygienic standards expected by society.

I am of course talking about long-standing relationships with health and beauty professionals. These are relationships that you have researched prior to initially committing to, and thereafter have rarely even considered being unfaithful. My beauty therapist saw me through every romantic relationship I've had in my life, my hairdresser saw me through all of my school years and my dentist has looked after my oral health since I was born. The trust I place in these professionals is unquestionable and unwavering.

What then happens when you are forced to start all over again?

Well, first of all you delay the moment for as long as possible. Buying up on hair ties and adopting the bun hairstyle to hide away split ends. Plucking rogue eyebrow hairs until eventually losing the shape altogether, and trying not to whimper and swear as you attempt to give yourself a bikini wax for the first time (ohhhhhhhh owwwwww holy mother of canoli).

Eventually it gets to the stage where you cannot risk tearing the skin of your privates away from your body anymore and have to face the music. The number of times I walked past the hair salon without venturing inside is simply embarrassing. However, the thought of permanently being remembered in our team photo at work as the girl with the bushy hair and monobrow was most certainly enough to scare me into finally walking through the doors of the salon.

I must say, lying on a table with a strange lady pouring hot wax all over my eyebrows the day before the photo had me questioning my judgement. Who's to say that in my vain attempt to avoid the monobrow look I wouldn't lose my eyebrows altogether? After a long half hour appointment I tried to walk out as coolly and casually as possible before sprinting home and racing for the nearest mirror.

Fortunately, I am happy to say that I survived, eyebrows in tact and ready for my upcoming long weekend in Bath. I am hoping this trip will give me more writing content to work with - you know you're scraping the bottom of the barrel when you write a blog on hair removal. I would have loved to have talked about escapades at work, house party dramas and my night getting kicked out of McDonald's and roaming the streets of Tooting with three male celebrity lookalikes but unfortunately it's a public blog that all of the protagonists also have access to so you shall have to use your vivid imaginations about what happened instead :)

Love, Em xxx

Overcoming the yikes over bikes!

Dear blogging world,

Paris is now but a distant memory as I watch the rain pour down outside my London window with cup of tea in hand, watching what is quite possibly one of the most heart-wrenching movies I have seen. To the writer of "One Day" - thankyou, I am now thoroughly depressed. I can't help but think that there are some really sick minded people out there who enjoy transporting people to such helpless places through books and film. WHY.

All morbid and gloomy things aside, I suppose it is now time to make you all jealous of my goings on over in the northern hemisphere. Paris well and truly reignited the spark for travel and I have spent many hours since then researching, budgeting and planning for future trips great and small so much so that my head has wanted to explode a few occasions.

However, I managed to firm up on a day trip to Cambridge last weekend. Having already visited Oxford a couple of years ago, it seemed only fair to plan a visit to the competitor university town. Plus, a trip to Cambridge meant an excuse for train travel.

Train travel. Despite a summer that's seen three major train accidents in France, Spain and Switzerland and all of the negative media that has followed, I am the biggest advocate for train travel. No long airport check ins required, efficient, reliable, on time, comfortable, a scenic way to travel, more leg room, departing from the beautiful Kings Cross station and the opportunity to stock up on Pret a Manger porridge before departing, which I am hugely sentimental of after living off the stuff during my first three weeks living in London. I would even go so far as to say sometimes it is MORE about the journey rather than the destination.

I digress. Where did I visit again? Oh right. Cambridge. Cambridge.

Cambridge is a gorgeous town that can be explored by foot, bike or boat. Given that foot travel is so incidental and my last boat experience was a most unfortunate one that featured a very sexually inappropriate gondola driver (hey Jamila...) I decided that bike was the way to go.

The image of cruising along on a biiiicycle, biiiicycle with the wind in my hair and without a worry in the world is often enough to make me forget that I'm not the world's most natural cyclist. Despite having a father who was born on a bike, I have never quite displayed such capable qualities. In fact, I can safely say it is possible to forget how to ride a bike. My loving father taught me not once, but twice and despite financially investing in my road bike to maximise on more quality father/daughter bonding time, the few times I took it out my knuckles were always white from my tight and terrified grip on the handles.

Fast forward to my bike tour then, in a country that doesn't legally implement the wearing of helmets. Cycling along next to a lovely girl from the Netherlands who could ride a bike in her sleep, she barely noticed as I slowed and went silent every time I had to concentrate hard to ride through narrowly positioned poles rather that into them.

With all disasters averted, it was a lovely experience and I got to learn about rowing "bumps race" style, whereby the aim of the game is to actually bump into other boats to disqualify them from the race. When I queried about how this style of racing was sustainable with the inevitable damage and expense caused to the boats, the tour guide simply blinked at me and said, "look around, this place is dripping with money."

Indeed, signs of money were all around. Enter the college boys. These preppy boys put any Brisbane try hard boys to shame. Here in Cambridge, it is compulsory to wear Ralph Lauren and boater shoes. Teamed up with a most gorgeous plummy accent, it would be a dangerous combination if it weren't for the natural arrogance that goes along with it. Still, I have no doubt that these boys had a lot of success luring unsuspecting girls into the punting boats and could easily make a career from it should their scholastic endeavours flounder.

I've found that people are surprised when they hear that I've planned a trip and don't plan to travel with anybody else. It's not that I necessarily choose to travel solo, it's simply that the opportunity to travel with somebody else doesn't arise all that often. Absolutely fine with me! I must say though, as wonderful as solo travel can be with its flexibility and ability to one ramble about and do your own thing, there is one major hurdle that one must overcome: plucking up the courage to ask a stranger to take your photo. It's awkward, it's horrible and it would be so much easier to avoid if it weren't for the disappointed, "but there are no photos of you!" comments. I always end up doing an awkward-style dance that probably looks like I need to go to the bathroom as I try and decide to approach someone, before changing my mind and quickly retreating. This usually goes on for at least a minute before finally committing to the cause. The end result is always worth it, though you as my blogging audience will now know the secret anguish that's behind every photo.

Speaking of photos, I end this blog with a happy photo of Dan and Graeme with girlfriend Sarah, my family away from home. A big happy birthday to Graeme who is constantly disappointed that he misses out on a blog mention. You made it this week, buddy!

Love, Em xxx

Paris, je t'aime

Dear blogging world,

I write this late at night in bed. For all those who doubt that it actually would be considered "late", knowing all too well of my granny-like nature, it is. It is 11pm though in Paris, where I have travelled from today, it is midnight. Usually it takes me a good couple of hours to be happy with a blog post, so to start writing this so late at night with an early start for work tomorrow morning... well, some might say some bad decision-making is in the process of happening on my behalf. However, if left until tomorrow the blog post is sure to be upset by my inevitable post long weekend/holiday/Paris depression, returning to reality with a bang.

For, dear readers, I have spent the last three glorious days in gay Paris, coinciding with the final leg of the 100th year anniversary of Le Tour de France. Casually jumping on the train after work on Friday, I arrived in Paris a mere two hours later and checked in to my favourite hostel in the Montmartre region of Paris. Unfortunately, being a hostel with a dormitory set up, this did mean receiving some disgruntled glares of those girls trying to sleep when I clumsily entered the room at 11:30pm and attempted to make my bed in the dark. Whispering apologies, I could only hope that they spoke English for heaven help me if I was left to communicate solely with my French-speaking skills. I never found out, as they all left early the next morning. One of the replacement dorm girls could speak broken English only too well, and proceeded in showing me all of her very average photos on her very expensive camera that she'd taken over the past week around Europe. That must have been enough for her, as she never seemed to leave the room for the whole time that I was there.

Filling my Saturday with general meandering around the city visiting my favourite food places, I couldn't help but think ahead to the next day in excited anticipation.

Now, for all those who aren't familiar with the Tour, it is possibly one of the toughest endurance sporting events there is. Three weeks of gruelling riding around some TOUGH French countryside means that it is not an event for the faint-hearted. Riders consume on average 8000 calories each day (normal recommended intake for a male is approximately 2000 calories) and even then end up being a sliver of themselves by the end of the Tour. Although the event is ranked on an individual basis, riders work within teams and are strategically selected according to their main strengths to support the key rider within the team aiming for overall success. There are mountain stages, sprint stages, individual and team time trials throughout all leading to the final ride into Paris. This of course is a gross generalisation which will appall die-hard fans such as my father, but seemed to impress those clueless English-speaking spectators surrounding me during Sunday's proceedings.

Where we pick up on the story. I had decided that rather than wait around the Champs Elysees for 12+ hours in the blistering heat in order to secure a good spot for the grand finale, I'd spend the day checking out Versailles, see the riders as they were leaving then race back to Paris and watch them ride on in.

Great in theory, right?

Well, Versailles was magnificent. I thoroughly enjoyed my walking tour of the Palace Gardens learning about the history and significance of the statues and sculptures around the place. The famous fountain show that only occurs twice a week during the summer months was spectacular.

However, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that THERE WAS SOMEWHERE ELSE I NEEDED TO BE. After the fountain show concluded, I excused myself from the group and RACED down to where action was starting to happen. The caravan parade can only be described as bizarre. Prior to the riders, sponsors of the Tour are given the opportunity to have a float in a parade and promote their goods. Ranging from cycling brands, to confectionery, to washing detergent, to newspapers... you name it. The drivers and passengers would wave their hands as if royalty and would receive an appropriate response (especially if throwing away free things). One guy who I was standing next to was getting increasingly frustrated at missing out on objects being thrown in his general direction. This is the kind of place you'd want an experience and top-quality "sale" shopper at, with their snatch and grab skills at the ready.

Once the caravan parade was over, I made my way up further towards where some of the music and general action was happening. I couldn't have picked a better spot if I'd tried. I'd somehow managed to fluke getting a spot just before the start line, which in two hours' time would provide the ultimate view of all of the riders before they take off towards Paris. Two looooong, hot, dry hours next to an American who was growing increasingly more obnoxious as our conversation went on. With toilet breaks being out of the question (already people were starting to line up behind me) I was also rationing my water intake to prevent any embarrassing situations from occurring.

It was all worth it though - seeing all of the riders line up and cheering them off was the most incredible buzz. As soon as they appeared all growing signs of dehydration like seeing spots and considering licking off my perspiration from, well, everywhere, just to feel as though I was getting some liquid intake... they all disappeared.

It was just as well that I had such a great view of the riders at Versailles as I didn't stand a hope in heck back in Paris. Cursing the fact that I hadn't inherited the Charlton tall genes, my little legs meant that I couldn't even see the road lining up behind a stadium-worth of people. To make matters worse, some of these people were standing on step ladders themselves. Season experts apparently, because I read no mention of BYO step ladders. Still, the vibe was something else and watching the fireworks from the Sacre Couer overlooking the city later on provided a much more manageable solution.

Le Tour aside, my weekend trip marked my third visit to Paris and I have to say I fall more in love with the city every time I visit. I had a moment of pure elation on Sunday night, when I'm sure I was walking around sporting a goofy grin not unlike one worn by a school girl thinking about her first crush. The music, the fashion, how aesthetically pleasing the buildings are, how ridiculously over the top their kings were, the bread, the butter, the bread with butter, the inclusion of fried potato on top of their salads, the continuing Parisian dedication to smoking as if to say Fuck It to the world, their abruptness at ignorant non-French speaking tourists, their openness of emotion, their belief in romance, that even a passing smile an onlooking man can make you the centre of their attention, even if for a moment.

Samuel Johnson, a significant 18th century English writer, once declared "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life...". Reflecting on this in my head-over-heels daze on Sunday night, I was determined to declare that in fact, it is not London but rather Paris that is more appropriate for this sentence. However, I have since decided that in fact the appropriate phrase is that "when a man is tired of travel, he is tired of life." New places have a way of invigorating the senses and exploding open the box that routine puts you in. New events, cities, people, cultures... the world is literally a tasting platter for your choosing. Having struggled with homesickness these past two weeks, the past weekend has only reminded me of why I'm here - to enjoy all of these things! And what a fabulous thing indeed :)

Love, Em xxx

In Sickness and in Sunshine

Forgive me for my two-week long silence, blog readers, those of you who are left standing after nearly three months of my nonsensical rambling.

Unfortunately, I had the misfortune of coming down with a rather short but intense stomach bug early last week that had me home-bound and grateful that I lived within walking distance of a pharmacy. That is, after I finally made it back home to the flat. I have decided that there is possibly nothing worse than needing to be sick whilst travelling on a London tube. There are no quick escapes, no bins to stick your head in at station stops and sometimes no other option but to use your handbag instead of spraying fellow passengers with your digested breakfast. Possibly my lowest moment thus far.

During moments of complete weakness and feeling very sorry for one's self, it is inevitable that homesickness rears its ugly head and says hello. There is only so much comfort that dry white toast with a scraping of Vegemite can achieve, or the overwhelmingly kind offers from my flatmate Graeme to pick me up anything I needed from the shop. And as fabulous as things are over here I do miss friends and family back home like an arm and a leg, though they continue to be my constant source of love and support. I've met some wonderful people over here, but there's nothing quite like "clicking" into place with someone and being able to exhale and let it all hang out, much like the moment of relief that comes from undoing the zip of a tight dress after a night out.

Wallowing will never get you anywhere in life though, and sometimes all you need is a bit of fresh sea air to clear the thoughts and snap yourself back into a good head space. With hot weather forecast for Saturday I took the opportunity to escape to Brighton for a day trip.

Departing London obscenely early by British standards (9am), I arrived with all of the other obvious tourists and managed to enjoy the seaside before millions of people came to take up all of the pebble space on the beach.

Unlike Australian beaches, swimming isn't the main feature of a day at the beach at Brighton with most people more interested in simply basking in the sun and drinking. Drinking, drinking, drinking. Always, the people drink. Brighton has much more to offer though, boasting the world's first electric train and many laneways filled with boutique shops and market spaces that buzz with life.

No trip to the beach is complete without a meal of fish and chips and as a history student I'd done my research. I was not going to settle for mediocre, overpriced fish and chips in popular tourist spots. No sirree. This smarty was going to get herself the BEST fish and chips in Brighton. Good old trusty Google led me to Bardsley's Fish and Chippery, an award winning fish and chip shop which has been family-run for four generations. A good start!

A half hour walk from the beachside later, Google maps led me to a less desirable part of Brighton. A little disturbed by the amount of flesh being "all let out" and strange smells wafting from locals, I forged on and finally found the infamous fish and chip shop. I needn't have been worried about queues, as it was empty. Had it not been for the massive effort that had gone in to finding the ruddy place, I would have walked passed but my increasingly urgent sense of hunger led me inside. The lady was probably disturbed at the red-faced, sweaty and rather loud Australian girl and wrapped up my lunch order rather hastily. Next was the mission of finding a piece of parkland to sit down and enjoy my bundle of joy. A further twenty minutes of desperate speed walking later and I have to say, it probably wasn't worth the effort. I was just grateful that I hadn't dragged along a companion with me on such a strained journey, as I wouldn't have heard the end of it once discovering the chips were quite soggy.

Catching up with my gorgeous cousin Emily after her mooting win was a recent highlight and delight, as was attending a 1950s themed Midsummer Ball at the Kensington Palace gardens with Maria.

Next weekend - PARIS - whereby I will feast and photograph my way around the city and cheer on the Tour de France cyclists as they make their way down the Champs Elysees. A trip to my favourite city could not come at a better time, and after recently testing out my Year 6 French skills on fluent speakers I am confident that there will be plenty of awkward material to consume next week's post :)

Love, Em xxx

Glares and Grand Weekends

It's been an interesting week to be an Australian living in London.

Tuesday morning began like any other - get up, get out, walk to work, sit down, check emails, get on with the working day. Take a moment to check the headlines of a top quality news website (cough cough) - news.com.au - and apparently old Kev has popped his old head up again and any moment the nation would discover whether we would have a change of Prime Minister.

Huh?

Fortunately most of the British population was more distracted by Nadal's shock exit from the Wimbledon Tennis Championships to focus on Australian politics, however BBC British journalists did take the opportunity to make quite scarring remarks about the state of affairs. My favourite description was perhaps comparing recent events to "a soap opera directed by Quentin Tarantino." Another was perhaps "Australian politics is just like Game of Thrones, except without the good bits." Head in hands, I began to practise my British accent under my breath at my work desk, channelling Emma Watson as Hermione Granger before growling in frustration as it would morph into a terrible Indian accent.

Learning that Lleyton Hewitt was also representing the country at Wimbledon did not help a sense of doom and gloom. Instead, I chose to share in the British excitement over Andy Murray's progression in the tournament. Fortunately the hustle and bustle around my usually-quiet work place area, which is very close to the Wimbledon tennis grounds, has meant that sharing in the excitement has been quite easy to manage. With Federer now out of the running too, the hype over Andy Murray is truly building.

There's nothing like Grand Weekend Plans to make the working week seem longer as usual. Remembering periodically during the working day that the lovely Sam would be visiting would send excited jitters down my spine. Perhaps I was distracted thinking about the weekend when, on Friday afternoon, I quickly zipped out to grab some afternoon tea. Crossing the road to Tesco's, I was rudely honked by a driver in a dark 4WD. Even more annoyingly, he decided a honk wasn't enough to tell me off for crossing the road in front of him (even though it was a safe moment to do so), but pointing his finger at me was necessary also. I decided that this would be an ideal opportunity to throw him my newly perfected London Glare.

London Glares, or fixed and angry stares, are generally directed at Tourists but can also be directed at:

• Slow walkers
• Illegal pedestrian road crossers
• Loud people
• Traffic lights
• Innocent bystanders
• Couples
• Pigeons
• The sun
• The rain
• The world

What makes London Glares different from standard ones is the intensity and frequency of delivery, which is second to no other. You cannot call yourself a true and impatient Londoner if you have not yet  mastered the glare.

I decided that this circumstance called for my newly mastered London Glare. I threw him my best and huffed off down the hill. Though I couldn't ignore the feeling that something wasn't right here. I'd seen that dark car before. Turning around, I see not only the dark car but my boss sitting in the driver's seat of the dark car, half confused and half amused by the moments of the last 60 seconds. Mortified, I started to call out my apologies but they came out in a stuttering mess, before I simply said, "let's not speak of this again."

After that incident, the weekend REALLY couldn't come soon enough. When it did though, how glorious it was! With perfect weather and an even better travel companion, I showed off my new-found local knowledge and led the way. Only a minor glitch involving blisters and a broken bag hindered our adventures and the only glares to be had were from the beaming sun. Watching a spectacular sunset from an open-aired cinema on Sunday night, we declared London life to be pretty swell.

Love, Em xxx

P.S. a massive thankyou once again to those who have sent the most incredible care packages over the last week. You are simply amazing - thanks to you I'm all stocked up for rainy days (whether they be literal or metaphorical!)

Horsing Around

Last week was a mixture of highs and lows as my weekend plans were held in the balance. I had been encouraged to attend the Royal Ascot races the weekend before, and after discovering tickets were sold out I had all but given up hope before one of my (for purposes of this occasion - simply fabulous) room mates, Dan, came through with the goods late Friday afternoon. Cue a mad dash to the Debenhams department store on the way home for a fascinator and some picnic supplies and things were looking up!

For all those who are as clueless about the event as I was, the Royal Ascot is the annual centrepiece event for the Ascot racecourse and is one of the highlights of the British social calendar. As the name suggests, the event is also attended by members of the royal family. If I was undecided before finding out this valuable piece of information, the possibility of bumping into Prince Harry on the day and him finding my awkwardness charming was too hard to resist.

Arriving on the day, it became obviously apparent that these races weren't quite on parr with ones I'd attended in Brisbane previously. Perhaps it was the horse-drawn carriages and top hats that gave it away, or perhaps it was the enormity of the racecourse. It was certainly a far cry from the good old Ekka Races which my friends and I had vowed to never attend again after witnessing an inebriated girl relieving herself quite publicly and somewhat obliviously.

Walking up the path to the racecourse from the train, my travel companions noticed that I was lugging around a massive cooler bag. What do you have in there, they asked? To which I replied - oh, only:

• A bottle of wine
• Four plastic cups
• A 2L bottle of water
• 2 tins of Pringles
• A chilli chickpea, carrot and spinach salad
• Bread
• Grapes
• Camera
• Flat shoes, for after the races
• Clutch, with ID, makeup, cash
• Blazer, in case of getting cold
• Sunscreen, in case the sun decided to show its face
• Hand wipes
• And, well, basically the kitchen sink

Incredulous, Dan only then asked if I was even allowed to take any of it in with me. Something which probably would have been best asked before we left the flat together for the day. Fortunately in true history student fashion, I had done my research and was waved on by with my month's supply of food and alcohol.

The racing went off to an exciting start. A horse, whose name Dan and I forget but have decided for the enjoyment of the story should be called Uncle Tony, decided that it didn't need its jockey shortly after beginning the race. After getting rid of said jockey, who had quite a hard landing against one of the side fences, it took off and continued running alongside the leading horse (still with its jockey in tow). With the advantage of having a great weight lifted off his back, it was really giving the leading horse a run for its money and had us all on our feet cheering like crazy. Uncle Tony was on the way to becoming the world's most famous runaway horse! He was gaining, gaining, gaining, holding holding, slowing, slowing aaaaannnddd off goes Uncle Tony in another direction, obviously now bored of heading towards the finish line. Ahh what a shame.

With the sun trying, the Pimms flowing, the people laughing, the toilet lines moving and the bet hedgers winning, all in all it was a fabulous day. And even better - being in bed by 8:30pm, pleasing both my party animal and granny personalities all in one day.

The day can't go without mentioning a very sad occurrence, however. Thomas Chippendale, a four-year old colt who charged to unexpected victory on the day and made many of my companion race-goers happy winners at the bets, tragically collapsed after winning a race and was unable to be revived. The horse gave its absolute all, pushing itself beyond the limits until it could give no more. I must say, it broke my heart and really put into question for me, at least, the ethics of horse racing. However, the loyalty, strength, courage and determination demonstrated by Chippendale has truly inspired me to encompass more of these honourable qualities as I continue my quest to conquer London.

Thomas Chippendale (2009-2013)

Love, Em xxx

Random Acts of Being

Hello blog followers! All in all, it's been a rather varied and exciting last two weeks here in London town. I did indeed attend the Clapham Food Festival, whereby I befriended three random people at the gate and spent hours walking around with them, before accidentally losing them amongst the crowd and accepting the fact that our friendship was to be short-lived. We had only exchanged first names, but I will forever hold the memories we shared of scabbing as many free food and alcohol samples as possible.

Excitingly, I have received delivery of my backpack from home which has greatly improved my quality of life. Instead of grinding my teeth waiting for the unreliable and terribly slow red double decker bus to take me from Clapham Common to Clapham Junction each morning, I can now fill my lungs with fresh air and convince myself that an hour of walking each day is equivalent to the more frequent and intense forms of exercise I did back home.

Team bonding at work is also coming along well. So well, in fact, that I have provided each member with the address of my blog which will prevent me elaborating on any points of juicy interest. However, many laughs have been had in and out of the office, mainly revolving around terrible attempts at Australian accents, equally as terrible senses of direction on the way to training days and unfortunate circumstances involving Brazilians.

However, the most notable event has been the Clapham Common flat playing host to a house party over the weekend to celebrate both a birthday and a homecoming. I have to admit, I was a little nervous facing the same people that I disgraced myself in front of at the previous house party, though I needn't have worried. As the night progressed, people went from vodka shot drunk, to throwing shoes on the roof drunk, to jumping on the couches drunk, to singing John Farnham drunk, to how-the-heck-do-I-get-these-drunk-people-out-of-my-flat sober.

Most people got the message once the sun started coming up at 4:30am and made their way for home, while I finally made my way to bed. Sadly however, sleep was disturbed by a random guy making attempts to sleep in my bed not once, not twice but three times and mysterious noises coming from the lounge room. Finally curiosity got the better of me, and at 6:30am I opened the door to four people left barely-standing, with black mascara all over their faces and one person squirming on the ground, candle stick holder in mouth and making strange dinosaur noises. You simply can't make this kind of stuff up. And if you don't believe me, simply ask my parents who had the pleasure of meeting two of the individuals, standing only in their underwear, during our weekly Sunday morning Skype call. Outstandingly enough, the dinosaur-imitator leapt straight into helping clean the flat only two hours later.

Now all that remains of this epic night is only a slightly sticky floor and some serious McDonald's regret. That, and some friendships with some truly lovely people who I hope I'll have the pleasure of spending some more time with in the near future! With events to look forward to on the near horizon, including a visit from the gorgeous Samantha Law in only 12 DAYS, everything is going swell. Sure, there are still bursts of homesickness and very unromantic moments featuring laundromats, but all in all I'm feeling very blessed.

Lots of love, Em xxx

Market Madness

In nearly every city there are special events that occur weekly that invigorate all five senses - touch, sight, sound, taste and smell. They appeal to all types of people and disregard class, race, gender and economical status. They are family friendly, local friendly, tourist friendly and financially-tight friendly and more often than not are one of the most effective events for bringing people together to enjoy the products that a city has to offer.

These places are markets.

Markets have always held appeal for me. During my decidedly "green" phase in high school, I remember dragging my poor parents off to the Rocklea markets in Brisbane early on Saturday mornings to grab all of our fresh produce for the week. Since then, markets have been one of my first points of call whenever visiting a new city.

Nothing has changed now that I'm living in London. The plus side to living in a large city is having multiple markets to choose from. On my very first weekend here I visited the Marylebone markets where, upon remarking about how fresh the pasta looked, the man at the stall replied that it was certainly fresher than what he was feeling. I wandered the Covent Garden markets as if in a dream and was called out to whilst exploring the Borough Markets the following weekend as looking like a girl who would be interested in tasting one of the Greatest Brownies in the Universe. Perhaps he also works as a psychic or perhaps we are secretly destined for one another.

I have decided, now that I am a self-declared market expert, that there is perhaps little more distressing than wandering a market with no money in your wallet and no ATM in sight. Though I confess, the only things that I have bought from the markets in London is food (and lots of it), the thought of not being able to buy anything that I may be interested in had me scurrying around like a headless chicken whilst visiting the Portobello Markets in Notting Hill on Saturday. Surely, with so many tourists around, there would be an obvious place to be able to take out money. Alas, it was only until I made my way through the entire length of the market to the other side and crossed over a couple of streets did my eyes fall upon an ATM. As life threatening as it seemed at the time, in hindsight I am grateful that my need for one of those DELICIOUS NUTELLA CREPES THAT EVERYONE WHO WALKED PAST WAS EATING was not as urgent as the need to relieve a bursting bladder. For this I am grateful. And for the record, the nutella crepe was pretty darn good.

The diversity of London is truly reflected in its range of markets. The following day, I visited the Brick Lane markets on the upper east side of London. Now, the east side has had a bit of a resurrection of late with the recognition and appreciation of "indie." People are leaving the more polished west side suburbs in search of something a little more rough around the edges on the east, where no doubt you can find some remarkable gems. So far I have gathered that in order to qualify for being an east-sider you must have either:
a) tattoos
b) piercings
c) shaved indie-style hair
d) caps and tortoise shell sunglasses
e) all of the above

Sewww indayy

It also helps if you smoke like a chimney and delight in taking graffiti to the next level in a wonderful display of street art.

I perhaps should have researched this more when I rocked up to the Brick Lane markets with in my ballet flats and with my hair even tidier than usual. I instinctively held my arm close over my bag as strange men began to follow me as I made my way to the markets through what must have been the dodgy entrance and I cursed the fact I had decided to be resourceful and already hang my not-inexpensive camera around my neck in preparation for the photos I was going to take. Once inside the markets, I couldn't help but think of the ever-popular Thrift Shop song as stalls and stalls of shops offered delights such as denim clothing, old potato sacks and odd bike parts for minimal money.

Next weekend, my love of markets will have to be put on hold for my obsession for food as the Clapham Common is hosting a Food Festival all weekend. I will happily lunch on tuna and broccoli for the remainder of the week in preparation for the damage that is bound to happen. Cannot wait to report on the excitement - next week's blog will be written by yours truly with food baby in tow.

Love, Em xxx