booked to go

Touched a handrail. Am sick.

Weather outside is so lovely and sunny, and all I can envisage is getting drunk on LemSip, splayed out on the couch in a fever.

On a positive note, The Dove and i are booked for our Baltic trip. I got my visa, with the various trails and tribulations, and have booked out flights to Tallinn, Estonia.

We are staying in this one place in Latvia, which boasts as its top selling points, 1) AK47 shooting in a genuine Soviet bunker and 2) bobsledding with the Latvian Olympic bobsled team.

Dude. Sold. We're in.

Got insurance in case we fall off our bobsleds. Looks like one of the main tourist highlights for Baltic travellers are shooting things. Every place we've looked at mentions in big capital letters: * AK47 SHOOTING! (WE HAVE 13 GUNS!!!) *

It's also the new place for stag do's it seems. Catering for groups of English (pikeys? Or the more cultured Brits d'youthink?)One dude said his mate's stag do involved being collected at the airport by a 'limo that was filled with a bunch of ho's...and AK47 shooting.'

Nice.

So methinks we are in for some more...extreme sports that side of Russia.

I wonder if it'll snow?

in the spirit of saying it how it is

Here are a few things I wish I could say out loud, but am not honest enough to.

Lately, I've been struck with the (British?) affliction of being too polite (read: passive aggressive) when it actually comes to saying things I really and truly mean.

Obviously, there's a time and place, and depending on who you're talking to (your boss? a dude wielding an axe? your mother in law?) it would be so entirely liberating to be able to just say what the fuck you mean.

This person has led by example,  and while I don't keep up with the day-to-day politics of South Africa anymore (unless it involves a corrupt presidential painting with its wanger hanging out), this really hit a nerve for me.

This is what I'd like to say. To no one in particular. You know who you are.

1) When you tell me that the only person you have ever loved is not my mother, that really hurts me.
When one girlfriend differs from one day to the next, that worries me. When the only texts you send me are about what I should be listening to late at night, that exasperates me.

2) When you feel that you constantly need to name drop, or tell me how rich your friends are by the size of their holiday home, or that you're seemingly only impressed by money and what it buys you, I am not interested in being your friend. And I'm not a socialist. Believe you me.

3) I forgot you were on Facebook until you had a kid. Turns out you were just hibernating until you spawned and wanted to show the world, constantly, what you created. Yay for the rest of us. Putting up pictures of your child every single day - of it bathing, sitting, walking, crapping - you probably don't know (or care?) but I have blocked your news feed. Not because I don't like children, it's because I'm not in love with your child as much as you are. Why do I have to see it, literally,  all day long? A few pictures at chosen moments are great, but does something happen that you literally cannot stop clicking the 'Upload Now' button?
Photos are the lesser evil, in fact. It's the text that really drives me beserk. Statuses that say things like, "Oh my word, little Rupert must be the most well behaved baby in the world. He literally slept for 7 hours last night! Mummy and Daddy are so proud, we are just so blessed. And look at how smiley he is!"

Then, five seconds later, "Rupert just lifted his finger and pointed at Mummy! I am the happiest, luckiest Mummy in the world! Here are 567 pictures of him in case you don't understand just how AMAZING AND HAPPY I AM!"

People. Most individuals, bar your mum, don't give a camel's asshole. But imagine what it must be like for people out there who can't have children, and can't conceive or even meet the right partner. While you're gloriously happy, there may be people out there struggling with fertility or even just getting a solid's night's rest because their kid has a colic problem. Your status doesn't make them feel a whole lot better. This is not me, yet, but it just might be in a few years.

4) I find it hard work to have a one-on-one conversation with you. I'm sociably inept as it is. Probably from being an only child or something, but unless you've got a bit of character, I find endless small talk quite tiresome. Do we really have much in common anyway?

5) Two things I find really difficult to deal with in people (again, I am mostly sociably intolerant most of the time, that I know) are a) arrogance and b) those who never pay for anything.
Arrogance is just off-putting, (especially if it's unfounded. "Do you know who I am?" No asshole, I don't.) It's often in attempt to counteract for something a lot smaller, of course.
Then when someone continually never contributes to a bill, or just assumes that someone will get their lunch (it's the assumption more than the bill itself. Ask! Even if I refuse!), over and over again, that's really annoying. So if I'm a little resentful, this is probably why.

6) On a positive note - as the above are obviously all a bit ranty - if I'm truthful about what I like, then this is it: eating, sleeping, watching bad reality TV on the couch, smoking a cigarette on my balcony, sitting in a park with my head in the sun, going to foreign places that no one is interested in, drinking good scotch, reading murderous biographies, taking pictures of ugly buildings, the Bridget Jones trilogy (soon!), cheesy music (people always give me my iPod back), clothes, bags and shoe shopping, listening to really loud music - the same song - over and over again, lighting candles, stand up comedy.

In other words: if I'm honest? I am probably, by definition, the uncoolest person living on this planet.
Cool people, and certainly in London, have way more interests than I do. I dip into these once in a while, but mostly, up there? That's me.

7) The truth? I wish I could be more confrontational in real life. I wish I could be as direct as I am on a blog. I wish I was more assertive, less passive aggressive, more tolerant, more patient. More normal, less hormonal eccentric.

8) The truth? That Zuma picture was genius. For God's sake, I would've bought it. (Before, not after.)

tally ho queenie

I'll get to the point. I have never met a Queen, (Latifah or otherwise), but I can say that there's been a mutual acknowledgement. 

For those interested, here's the Daily Mail's coverage of the day.

1) She wore peachy-pink. She's quite a looker close up, preened to perfection
2) We never shook hands, but she did walk towards me, and at a distance of less than a metre away from me, make eye contact and smile
3) I was clapping and smiling like a banshee in throes of climax, so it was impossible for her not to notice me.
4) Princess Anne and a whole bunch of other Royal relatives were also out for the party

It was about 30 degrees, sunny, best day of the year so far. Not only is this totally uncharacteristic of this place right now, but it couldn't have fallen on a better day.

Luckily having sun around worked well for my modest yellow get up. 'Get up' could've easily been 'fuck up:'

The best part of the day was by far seeing all the outfits. Thousands of people running around the grounds of Buckingham Palace, all dressed in varying sizes and colours of hat and fascinator; it felt like a mini Royal Ascot. Just less booze; more tea.

Also ate the best cucumber sandwich in the history of cucumber sandwiches. The cukes were cut at the perfect 90 degrees, but get this: with a fine layer of Royal mint leaves between the actual cucumber and crestless bread.

Yeah. Total amazatron sandwich.

You stood in a queue, selected your various tarts, sandwiches, eclairs and other bits and pieces, then run amuck in the gardens.
Shoes making like golf tees in the grass aside, we saw the trees that had been planted on each Royal birth day. A tree for Charles and Anne for on the day they were born too.

Finished off with ice cream and, like the true commoners we are, took the bus home.

might meet TQ today

Well it is an exciting old day.

I may meet The Queen today. I will get to see her at the very least, and if I'm lucky I'll shake her hand.

Have been invited to the Buckingham Palace Garden Party, plus one. So the Brit and I will scrub up, I'll wear a fascinator, he a suit,  and we'll be heading over there this afternoon for some Queen time, cucumber sandwiches and champagne.

Is naaice!

Why am I going? Well that's confidential of course, but I can say that I am excited and know I am extremely fortunate to have been put on the guest list.

The invitation was this beautiful thick card that made a loud 'ka-thunk' as it past through our letter box and landed on the floor.It came with a list of instructions, including what to wear and what to bring (1 x utility bill to prove who we are and that we live where we live, for example.)

Tally ho!

PS: Wearing yellow. The Queen's favourite outfit is a buttercup coloured coat dress, so I thought I'd channel her directly.

PPS: If I meet her, it'll be 'How do you do ma'am. (Rhymes with ham, not harm apparently.)

My fascinator is ready for some serious head action.

 

what's on your doorstep

Just had my second visa experience in a month and nearly exploded from frustration.
I'm too frustrated to even write about it, so I'll be an adult and sidestep this fucking disaster of a passport I have for something I discovered this weekend instead.

When you sit on our balcony, or look out of the lounge window, you face this green grassy patch right below us. Just beyond this green grassy patch is a small ravine, where the trains slice through to-and-from Clapham Junction. The greater area is known as Spencer Park, Battersea.

Last week a year ago, we moved in. And while there is endless history in London in general, when shit went down right outside your doorstep, therein it becomes really interesting.

Something terrible happened right in front of our flat. Just beyond the grassy patch below us, 23 years ago.

So next to the train lines/ravine, and next to the grassy patch and road, is this concrete slab thing. I've never taken much notice of it until now. Why would I? It was just part of my morning view.

Then, because I love trains, (the engineering, how they work, and how disasters could've been avoided, etc), I read a lot about them and came across the slab in my research. Turns out it's a memorial for the victims of one of the largest train crashes in British history.

Right outside our flat, in December 1988, three trains collided into each other due to faulty signalling and bad workmanship. A fourth managed to stop in time.

A train coming from Poole collided with another stationary train from behind, flattening most of its carriages. Shortly after, a third train coming in the opposite direction ploughed into the mess. Over 500 people sustained serious injuries and 35 died. In horrific circumstances.

Many were attended to on the scene, cut out of the wreckage, some operated on (they used the grassy patch as part of the medical area), and dead bodies were carried up from the ravine. Will refer to area as 'grassy patch,' not grassy knoll. (Kennedy wasn't involved. For once.)

The only action I've seen on the grassy patch since living there is a tramp taking a dump under the tree. In full view of everyone.

The Clapham Junction train crash happened literally on my doorstep. And the 'slab' is a memorial. We walked up to it to get a better view.

 The momorial

Trains in the ravine, below the memorial, where a garden has been planted around the scene of the accident in 1988.

 I pored over the files and investigations, I couldn't believe this happened right here. The best, and most detailed imagery of the crash were from Getty Images, as seen here:

This is a crazy picture for me. Taken from the roof of our local pub, The Roundhouse, overlooking the Battersea Rise bridge. The grassy patch to the right is filled with ambulances, and the train wreck is pretty much below where the memorial lies.

It was an horrific crash, by all witness accounts.

  If you're interested, you can check out the pictures here.

Maybe something more positive happened near to where you live that you didn't know about - maybe The Queen had a cherry bakewell tart in the local tearoom once, or John Lennon dropped his sandals on your doorstep.

There was a train wreck on mine. Who knew.

tapas and wheels of death

Had a huge blow out last night. It started while barking down a telephone at an unyielding reporter, clutching a half drunk flute in my champagne hand.

Champagne was just the springboard I needed to fling myself into the abyss of debauchery.

Dude. School night tapas, bottles of red wine until 2:00am? Wow. I forgot I had it in me.

Went to Fernandez & Wells, on Lexington Street in Soho. What a fabulous little place. The cheese and meat boards were simply splendid. There was this dreamy music in the background, and all the waiters were Spanish, saying things like, "Excuse e-me? I losht my e-boice. Es bullshot."

It was liked we'd walked into a little piece of Spain. Not Magaluf Spain,  but Spain Spain.

Anyway, went large. We ended up walking the streets of Soho after copious amounts of lovely red wine, stopping at another tapas bar, and next thing it was 2:00am.
Also ended up having a heated discussion with an American in our posse about the fact that Swaziland isn't a country. IT IS A COUNTRY. SWAZILAND IS A COUNTRY. I got rather riled up.

I am at work and even functioning. Because I'm on about 5 different types of pills right now.

Anyway, so I nearly died on the way. No truly. I took a dodgy mini cab home, in the early hours, and the dude behind the wheel fell asleep.
Not once, but twice.

One would think I should've got out after it happened the first time. Sure. But then, once you tell someone off for falling asleep, you'd think they would take extra care not to do that again right?

The dude started veering over two lanes of traffic, and when I looked up, I could see his eyes were closed in the freaking rearview mirror.

Dude! Are you awake? Wake up!

He was a Pakistani man of few words. He didn't say anything, but jolted awake. Then it happened again. For God's sake, why the hell was he driving a cab around, taxiing people across the city, if he was half-comatose?
Because he was a dodgy, probably unlisted cab, that's why.

So am hungover, but fairly pleased to be alive. To be fair.

Friday night on the couch tonight. Can't wait.

BE 3000

 I chose a bag yesterday, [Mulberry, fuck] and had to tear my hand away from the mouse I was pushing around: no can do.

In two weeks, if everything goes OK with my next visa adventure, the Dove and I will be flying out to Helsinki. Buying a bag would blow my budget.*

We've started planning the really rudimentary things, not stuff like flights or accommodation - but the bear essentials for our so-entitled trip, BALTIC EXTRAVAGANZAH 3000.**

Well it better bloody go ahead. God give me a new (long) Schengen visa. On time. Please?

The plan is to let loose in London over the Jubilee weekend, string some bunting over the balcony, eat cakes emblazoned in Union Jack icing and refer to Her Maj the whole day, while getting Pimmed up in Battersea Park. London will be on fire, and one needs to celebrate.

Thereafter, we will fly to Finland. Then head to Estonia. Then to Latvia. Then to Lithuania. And back home again. Nine days, swinging backpacks and kicking back in Europe's ex-Russian countries.

For the purposes of the trip, we have created a very useful glossary. This is basically superdee duperdee useful phraseology for BALTIC EXTRAVAGANZAH 3000. I mean, we don't even know what the word 'hi' is in any of those languages. The question is though, do we want to?

When you go to a new country, where people speak Gork Gok, you usually learn all the boring things like "where is the bus station," and "my name is Peas." Or like when I learnt Spanish, "Where is the taco stand?"

Not on my clock. Learning languages should be fun and it should make you friends in foreign places. Frankly, I'm turning this bitch around. I am instructing Dove that we need to learn one edgy, bordering on offensive, CATCH PHRASE for each country we visit.

Here is the glossary, for all intents and purposes, if you ever visit any of these places and also want your linguist abilities to get gasps of admiration:

Estonian:
Why is there a donkey in our room? - miks on eesel meie toas?
OK. Who ate my last banana? - Ok, kes sõid mu viimane banaan?
Horses have chromosomes too - hobused on kromosoomid ka.

Finnish:
It's easy to forget that Billy Zane was in Titanic - On helppo unohtaa, että Billy Zane oli Titanic
My shoes are stuck to the ceiling, but it's fine, I never liked them anyway - Omat kengät ovat kiinni kattoon, mutta se on hieno, en koskaan pitänyt niistä silti.
Eat this, ball bag - Syö tämä, pallo pussiin

Latvian:

Hello, wank stain - sveiki wank traipu

Definitely pack extra apples - Noteikti pack papildu ābolus.
That yellow horse is watching me with one eyeball - Ka dzeltenais zirgu vēro mani ar vienu acs ābola.
 

Lithuanian:
And the child runs! - Ir vaikas eina! [act surprised]
Let’s be honest, the man has great hair - Leiskite būti sąžiningas, žmogus turi didelį plaukų.
I just ate 4000 washing-up sponges - Aš ką tik valgė keturis tūkstančius indų plovimo kempinės.

We should be all set. And now, so should you.

* Next month. Maybe.

** From now on will refer to BALTIC EXTRAVAGANZAH 3000 as such. In capitals only, because it is extremely important and gallant and mind bending and life changing.

force of habit

Isn't that Ridge? Ron Moss, is that you, you funny sonofa?

Confession time. Picked up three controversial habits over the last little while. Without initiating the circle of blame that is circulating our household at present for one of them, I'll jump straight in.

A problem shared is a problem halved and all of that. In the spirit of, lately I have been:

1) Browsing the aisles and various online portals (Selfridges...) for designer handbags.
Ever since I bought my first Mulberry last month, (which I am wearing everywhar and have named it Philippa because it deserves it's own name), I have developed a sweet tooth for gourmet, buttery leather handbags.

Blame She Who Also Loves Tweed who introduced me to Mulberry and all it's leathery amazeballness. My bag is hotter than Gisele Bundchen's ass on a hot tin roof.

As far as habits go, I only give it a 7/10. Fairly innocuous sort. You can't buy a bag everyday. Bags don't give people cancer. If they're good, they last a lifetime. They wear-and-tear well.

My current shortlist:

DKNY

Michael Kors

Marc Jacobs (my favourite. Want to thrust my face into the leather and it's radical redness)

Mulberry 


Selfridges does next day delivery. To my desk. Pwned.

2) Downloading - not streaming for free - but paying for it on iTunes, compilation CDs that are really really lame.
I just paid £9.99 for Soul Sisterz a three disc compilation.
It's soul music for old people. (Wince.)

I've now got too much soul to be put in a hole.
And that's not even the worst of it. Last week it was the £9.99 Ministry of Sound's version of Garage Beatz of the 90s.

Hold me.

One click, ka-ching. That's all it takes. I'm about this close to finding all of the Now's and doing the same thing. It's just. Too. Easy.

I feel so dirty.

3) The Brit and I have taken up and quit smoking, about six times in the last six weeks.

We have quit again now. Each week, it's with the same fevour and tenacity. We don't actually want to be gaffers anymore.
The problem is the weekend comes along, and suddenly there we are.
And when Monday finally dawns, we have to face the long week nicotine-free. I don't think this is making us particularly nice people to be around.

Fuck.

Better buy a bag. And a compilation CD.

don't waste time

If there's one thing I've learnt living in this city, it's:

1) Never ever take advantage of sun. When it shines, you drop everything you're doing to get outside. And you fucking hurry. You don't know how long you've got.

(Optional 2nd): You can squeeze a coffee table into a space smaller than an actual toilet. On its side. When you live in London, you learn what it means to create space out of nothing. And bend the rules of science.

Back to the point.

So, the Brit and I were hosting a traditional roast dinner (dinner is at 2pm, not 8pm like it sounds like it should be) for some friends at our house. We were cooking. He was cooking, actually, I was laying. The table.

So after buying a wodge of groceries and heading back up the hill to our flat, suddenly, the sun, she was reborn. It's been a Biblical age since I last saw the actual sun, so when it emerged from this grey mess of a sky, there was much exuberance and frenzied fishing for Ray Bans at the bottom of handbags and sage gasps of disbelief.
(Even some confusion as to whether it was the moon? Or was it the sun? All round, shiny discs in the sky look the same to me these days.)

As we headed up to our flat, holding bags of shopping, we walked through a little park behind our house. A small stretch of green, normally empty, bar a bench or two, and a few rambunctious dogs running amuck and pooing.

Had we gone home to unpack the groceries and fannied about, who knows how much we'd miss? No. You can't mess around here. Bugger the rest of the afternoon's plans - lie in the fucking sun or be an idiot.

Dropped our bags. Took off our jerseys. Lay in the park, spreadeagled, in the grass, staring up at the sun and clouds for hours on end. Stuff the shit that needed to go into the fridge par urgence. Sun is more important, and sun is rare. Drop bags and absorb the warmness on the face. Actual real warmness, not the radiator. Immediately.

Actual. Sunlight.

The caviar went off, but totes don't give a damn.

Yes. It has been this bad. And yes it has affected my mood. But this is what happens here. It'll be crap for weeks on end, and then out of nowhere it's like Gabriel descends from heaven and flings his sunny semen all over the UK, and once again order is restored.

Everyone smiles again, and everyone's shirt comes off. Brits peel away all of their clothes when the sun shines. Not just their choonky joompers, their clothes down to the bare minimal. Brits aren't Germans, so they'll keep on one layer extra over their actual underpants, and you'll rarely see them naked unless they're wasted, but they still show an inordinate amount of flesh.

It's mostly quite a horrific sight.

But! At least everyone is happy and joyous, and sometimes even gay. One day of sun is a lifeline here. Convincing everyone that it's going to be OK. Don't throw yourself off that balcony, because look. It's all better. Don't throw the toaster in the bath just yet, because that 24 hours of sun will have you asking why you were ever about to consider it.

It takes just one day. We had sun the whole weekend, and as a result, got elegantly wasted. It is one's God given duty to celebrate after such a sun drought.

oh hi

So quite exciting,Massively exciting to be fair. I have been promoted. Little old me.

I found out last week, and the Brit and I quietly sat at home chugging on a bottle of champers together. I am pretty ecstatic for a few reasons, but I'd say the main two are because:

1) I have worked my ass off;
2) I changed careers 18 months ago (on moving to London and filling this new position at my existing company), and this was my yardstick for a leap of faith. And knowing I am going in the right direction. Somewhat.

For my first six months in London, there was a lot of doubt and sleepless nights. In fact, there were  periods where I seriously wondered whether I'd made a terrible mistake. Almost 30 and having to learn a completely new trade; and the stuff that comes with it, in another country, was a bigger challenge than getting my book deal.

Seriously.

I've always worked within the media industry, as writing has been my craft. (Somewhat. Sometimes.)
I've never stuck to doing the exact same thing, really, but have never meandered far from the media industry or writing of some kind. I've dabbled in copywriting, feature writing, straight news reporting, editing, advertising, and now....I'm in PR. I'm a PR manager for our UK market.

Isn't this a natural progression for many journalists? Maybe. 
As much as every writer or journalist admits to crossing over to the 'dark side,' I luckily believe in the products and company I represent to the media. Not all PRs have that luxury.

If you work at an agency, representing a client that sells toilet paper or floor tiles, you're probably going to have a shit time.

One of the biggest challenges in learning this job was getting to know the British media. They are very different from what I know from back home. Cynical. Just one way of describing it.

I have slowly but surely grown to love it, and become confident in what I know and what I present. It's a great industry. It keeps you on your toes. You never know what a new day might bring. For types that get bored quickly (oh hi!), it's a good career choice, as no day is ever the same.

It takes time to harness all the skills necessary to be a 'good' PR. Some skills are easier to gain than others. I think it takes years and years to become and all-round brilliant PR person; you have to experience a lot to be considered an expert in your own right.

There's the proactive side - actively pitching and selling ideas to journalists, (and these can't be crap. If you wish to be taken half seriously), there's the reactive side - fighting fires at any time of the day or night, there's managing executives and launches and press leaks.
Writing anything from blog posts, to briefing notes, to press releases, to FAQs. The ability to network without coming off as a slimy operator. The ability to stay calm in a crisis or raging media storm, even if you're the only calm one.
The ability to explain in newsworthy and layman's terms something that may be very complex or technical.
It's a proper balancing act, and you pretty much multi-task on eight different things at once, all day.

Periods of burn-out happen, in between periods of solid satisfaction. The difficult side to the job is never being able to switch off. Even if you're off duty. You devour news from every angle, emails, everything.
PRs read their mail on the toilet, during a dinner party. You can be sure of that. It's the less rude way of never switching off.

I work at a very inspiring place, in an interesting, busy landscape. With a ruthless media. The last 18 months have been a whirlwind, and the steepest learning curve out of all the things I've had to very quickly adapt to living in England.

A boyfriend, moving in together, the English - just in general - the weather, immigrating. This job has been the thing that has given me sleepless nights, a few more wrinkles laughter lines and sweat attacks. But it's also given me a deep sense of satisfaction and have fallen in love again with my fickle frenemy that is The Media Engine.

Although I have started my career in PR later than most, I definitely don't regret making the move.
I was once told - years before I even studied media at university - that PR was the career I needed to go for. Turns out the psychic was actually right. Who knew.

It's Friday. And hark? Is that....SUN? Don't tempt me so, you tempestuous temptress!