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