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

Craving and Breaking Routine

One month down, so many glorious ones to go!

Now that I have settled back into routine, i.e.

• working 8:30am-6pm Mon-Fri, making daily visits to the glorious Sainsbury's superstore across the road, packing lunches that fail to alter from the brown rice/vegetables/tuna combination, making time for exercise and dreaming back to the time I had access to weights, watching some top quality British television before showering and going to bed,

it is really only differences or factors that alter this weekly routine that become "news." For example, London had particularly miserable weather on Thursday and Friday last week that had me sprinting for my ugg boots as soon as I walked through the door. This news, ladies and gentlemen, is boring and definitely not blog-worthy.

Generally, you can't rely on anything extraordinary happening during the week so a popular fall back option is to talk about weekends. Glorious times where you can break free from routine and actually embrace all that life has to offer. For all good small talking purposes, it is common knowledge that you're much more likely to get anywhere talking to a person by enquiring about their weekend activities as opposed to what time they went to bed last night. A lesson learned quickly by aspiring personal trainers, hey Matty F?

I have now learned that while you're still building your social network in a new city, it is a good idea to plan to go away on the weekend. Otherwise, you may find yourself in a position where you have to tell your whole blog audience that your weekend didn't get much more interesting than the amazing toasted cheese sandwich from the Kappacasein Dairy stall at the Borough Markets followed by a chocolate brownie claimed to be the "best in the universe" (yes, it was pretty darn good). For those people who get less excited over food, perhaps hearing how I scrubbed my new bedroom from head to toe and found a home for all of my belongings will interest you more. Or maybe the thought of basking in sunshine on the Clapham Common with every other pasty resident in the area will be more your cup of tea. Or even hearing about how many copious cups of tea I consumed.

However, while talking about experiences in exotic cities would make a more interesting read I'm sure, I wouldn't give up the Skype calls I had to loved ones back home, nor the excitement of exploring strips of cafes in Clapham Junction including Jamie Oliver's Recipease, waking up hangover-free or simply putting on a pair of shorts for the first time since moving. Sometimes it really is the small things you can't do during the working week that give you a thrill, particularly in a new city. Besides, weekends such as these give you plenty of time to plan future weekends away to write-home-about locations...

Stay tuned, blog-readers. I'm working on it. In the meantime, treat yourself to a toasted sandwich. Just say YES.

Love, Em xxx

Establishment and Initiation

Three weeks in and things have come together.

Today marked the first day of a new job. Here, I will be working as an administrator for a property firm in south west London despite the interviewer's disappointed exclamations of "why, but you have too much personality for administration!" I have decided not to take this personally and have gratefully accepted employment. I must say, it is NICE to have some sort of purpose again! Having made work the highest priority in my life over the past 12 months right up until the point of leaving Australia, it was a rude shock to the system to suddenly go cold turkey as soon as I landed on London's doorstep.

The day went off to an interesting start. By way of background, a couple of days ago I extended my time at the temporary place of accommodation. As a result however, I was required to change rooms. No more broomstick cupboard but on the flipside, it did mean moving in a larger room to share with someone else. Unfortunately my new roomie is not a fan of the early morning starts and as such (being sensitive to her sleeping requirements) it did mean having to get dressed for work in the dark. I left the room only to discover that my blouse was on inside out.

Dress malfunctions aside, today I learned that:

• Property firms smell a lot nicer than gyms.
• Drinking soft drinks is generally more acceptable and common than snacking on cans of tuna for protein fixes.
• It is uncommon to answer the phone and immediately provide your name in the UK.
• Sales techniques transfer from health and fitness to property industries.
• There is no way in a million years that I will ever be able to afford property in the general London vicinity. Ever.

Good thing that I've also signed the contract for my new flat in Clapham, then! Nothing quite prepares you for the moment in your life of signing a rental contract. Three contracts, to be exact, all to be initialed on every page acknowledging a form of long-term commitment. A terrifying ordeal that left me pondering why it was that after 16 consecutive years within the education system, I still felt completely clueless about "growing up."

As of tomorrow though, I will be living in merry old Clapham which I only discovered yesterday claims to have the best gelateria in London. A sign from the heavens above, Jamila/Naomi/Hailey? I think it is more than a coincidence! More importantly to readers this means that I now have a delivery address for you to send all of your love letters and care packages to. Tim Tams, Vegemite, lingerie laundry bags and microwaveable Tupperware containers will all be much appreciated.

I will be sharing with two boys, both of which seem lovely. There is a good chance that one thinks I'm slightly dim for the delayed responses I give to his questions... deciphering the Scottish accent takes a considerable few seconds longer than usual. The other will now believe me to be an absolute disgrace after my performance at a house party over the weekend. Ohhh dear...

*Disclaimer. No family member is to read past this point. I intend to forever remain remembered as the golden child of the family.

I suppose a proper initiation into a new environment isn't finalised until you wake up in the morning and instantly wish that the world would swallow you up, or that there was some discrete way of jumping out a window and hope that nobody from the night before will remember what you looked like. Alas, facing the harsh reality was inevitable and I was forced to face the fact that I spent the last moments of the house party night with my head in a kitchen sink. All self-respect was lost when the genuinely lovely girls and charming guy I had spent most of the night with were holding my hair back, fetching icy cold water and bobby pins before leading me to a couch to crash on for the night.

Yessiree, a truly mortifying experience that should never occur past the age of 18. Worst of all I have no way of apologising and thanking these lovely people until seeing them in person again. Which means that I have to see them in person again. Oh the shame.

I suppose it's just as well there are 22 million people living in Greater London, so a sign in a taxi told me the other day. With no red wine and sambuca to undo me next time, hopefully I can redeem myself with the remaining 21 999 994 clean slates out there!

Love, Em xxx

The Waiting Game

When faced with the choice to travel prior to starting up work and settling down in the UK, it was a pretty easy decision to make. For the responsible, pro harmony, have-to-plan-to-be-spontaneous person that I am, the thought of trekking around Europe wrecklessly spending without a guaranteed job to fall upon afterwards filled me with dread. Instead I would be happily boarding the plane having already lined up my first recruitment agency interview for the day after arriving. In the perfect world I was envisioning, this would allow me enough time to set up my bank account, get a UK SIM, get my NI number (TFN equivalent) and iron my clothes ready to rock up and accept a fabulous opportunity.

A domino effect of technological disasters later, by the end of day one all I had managed to accomplish was opening the bank account (not that I could access it yet). All good and well I thought, as I donned my corporate attire the next day and brushed my teeth three times over in preparation for my big smoke break.

Opening the door to the first recruitment agency, I was welcomed by a state of organised chaos. I was quickly ushered along to sit at a computer and take some skills testing in MS Word, Excel, spelling and typing. This was followed by a face to face interview and a promise to be in contact shortly. Before I knew it, I found myself back out on the street and forced to play The Waiting Game.

The Waiting Game is a state of helpless limbo in which I have found myself placed on a regular basis - regarding technology, bank account, job and house hunt. On top of this, as the lady behind the reception desk agrees, London is a city that is dependant on processes and natural progression. Throw a spanner in the mix, whether it be by the delayed opening of a bank account or no secure permanent address to send correspondence too, it prolongs The Dreaded Waiting Game.

Now, for all those thinking "how fabulous, talk about an extended holiday!" the thought of galavanting my way across London only to receive a negative phone call in the middle of a public space fills me with a type of fear that would most certainly distract anyone from the wonders of places such as the National Gallery. Fortunately the weekends have been my fear-free saviour where I have so far experienced the delights of Covent Garden Markets, Soho, The British Museum and the British Library. During the week though, my broomstick cupboard bedroom has become a sanctuary in between interviews where I can happily take off my pants and research more opportunities mixed in with watching an entire two seasons of Suits. A romantic vision, no?

However, two weeks, five recruitment agencies, nine interviews, 10+ house viewings and too many tube journeys that I'm willing to recall later, an end to The Waiting Game is hopefully and tauntingly close. Armed with a kick-ass recruitment agent and enough funds to blind the renting agency from the fact I've never lived out of home before, by the end of the week some things may have fallen into place. Although I will have to face an end to the pants-off-Fridayandeveryotherdayoftheweek era once co-habiting with a couple of guys, it's a small price I'm willing to pay for consistency and security!

Love, Em xxx

Be my Friend... Please?

Making friends.

You're never exactly taught how to make friends. When younger, we get thrown into environments with people of the same age and left to figure it out for ourselves. The most innocent do it best, perhaps. I remember announcing to my parents after my first day of kindergarten that Sally and I were going to be best friends forever and ever (forever may have been a stretch, but we were certainly best friends for quite a few years). Later at school, despite moving around friendship groups and being bullied by a couple of ex-best friends, I came out the other side with the best group of friends I could possibly wish for.

Friends so good, that when it came to attending university I didn't really try to make new friends. It didn't help being thrown into a broad degree with thousands of people. I did make attempts, in the beginning, but found it so exhausting to make small talk with people who I then never saw again for the rest of the degree. Joining a touch football team would have been a much more successful friend venture, if only I could play touch football. It doesn't matter how lovely you are, continuing to drop the ball doesn't make you the most popular team member!

Besides, I had managed to slot myself into my new work environment nicely. Spending all day with colleagues and then choosing to spend free time with them as well? That's not friendship, that's family. With a second family now larger than my actual family, filled to the brim with mutual love and care for one another, making new friends got put on the back burner.

Until now.

Yes, in between stressing about accommodation and employment, in my mind I had skimmed over the fact that it would also mean making friends. Not quite as easy to do when you're not necessarily thrust into a group of people you will be spending copious amounts of time with.

Sure, there have been pleasant interactions with people in the corridor of where I'm staying. Though despite continuing to pull out the "going to the toilet again, Trevor?" joke all I manage to get is an odd look in return. I continue to smile at strangers going in the opposite direction on the escalators at the tube stations, hoping they'll also feel we could be kindred spirits and jump over the railing to travel with me into the sunset.

All joking aside, it hasn't been completely hopeless. I am now buddies with the night time security man on the front desk. And also the luggage minder man, who might also be involved in some washing car black market as every day he seems to be cleaning a different $100 000+ car despite the student accommodation surroundings.

There's also the night time guy over at the Pret a Manger across the street (where I have been buying just about all three meals a day from). Knowing of my situation, he now asks me when I come in to collect my dinner whether I'd made any new friends that day. It's hard to pretend you're not desperate when in fact you are. Sigh.

It's times like these that you tend to clutch on to the old friends that seem so much easier to keep. Living in different time zones and appreciating the fact that they are living with an abundance of friends around them to keep desperate times in check doesn't help. Cute little non-descript emails and messages are sent to let them know I'M STILL HERE, and I secretly hope for confirmation that we're still friends in the form of essays and gushing words of "life is not the same without you" in return. Unfortunately as much as I hate to admit it, their world continues while mine has been tipped upside down.

Still, there is hope! A new workplace and new house environment will allow me the time to win some people over. My beautiful friend Sophie continues to make friend suggestions on Facebook for all of the people she knows over here on the off-chance that we too can be friends. Plus, it seems like the Lord has thrown me a lifeline in the form of an old Contiki friend who is also making the trek over to London solo. Despite her good looks and natural charm, I hold on to the fact that she will also be as desperate as I am and we can initially cling to each other for the sake of enjoying social activities in the city with someone other than ourselves :)

Love, Em xxx