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