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