living out london

Buying our hearts out

2009-10-26T23:22:00.002Z

I’ve always championed retail therapy – but I’ve found a glitch in system. Buying property.

Four months ago I was an eager beaver, armed and ready with my constantly updated Excel spreadsheet of inner west properties – their dimensions, stats and sale prices – taking charge of Boyfriend and my first steps onto the property ladder. Grandma was saving Saturday’s Domain section for me and I spent my evenings trawling through online realty sites imagining our lives in Newtown/Leichhardt/Darlington/Potts Point... We’d not been approved for our loan just yet, but I was confident.

And well I could be. With an overly generous monetary gift from my parentals we were only seeking to borrow 60 per cent of the mortgage – banks were fighting for our business. Lucky us.

So began our Saturday searches. Ever prepared I’d spent lunchtimes formulating itineraries, back-to-back viewings to ensure we were seeing all our market had to offer. With everything up for auction we jumped on opportunities for sale. One Thursday lunchtime I even hijacked a cabbie to take me to two inner city viewings, wait for me and take me back to work. Despite a few wrongs turns down the side alleys of Newtown, I arrived back to my desk on time and unscathed – convinced I’d found ‘the one’.

Spending the next week-and-a-half to all extents and purposes moving us in and renovating the 2-bed federation semi (in my head), Boyfriend and I viewed it again last weekend; a fresh pair of eyes helped me realise that this little project was more than just a lick-of-paint and backyard blitz.

Driving home with the sun blazing, burning our arms and thighs through the car windscreen, we were hot and bothered but not beaten. We collated our thoughts, went through the pros and cons of renovating and decided we should try for a place that had most of the hard work done already.

And we knew just the one: a gorgeous little terrace in Lewisham with a manicured secret garden and covered deck off the second bedroom overlooking said-oasis. Painted and primed we could move in and be blissfully happy. Now we just needed to nab it for $606K.

We scoped out an auction and scored oodles of advice – bid at the last hammer, up the last bid by $20K, make your final offer the night before – I honed all my positive energy into visualising our ‘win’. Then last night the realtor rang to say the vendors had been made an offer above their reserve and they were cancelling the auction; did we want to make a counter offer?

With a heavy heart I knew our offer wouldn’t make the cut. And while my head tells me it’s better to find out now so we’re free to spend Saturday looking at more realistic options, the ever-positive part of me that had already mentally moved my wardrobe into the master bedroom of Number Four St John’s Street took the blow to heart.

Never have I ever had so much money to spend on just one thing and never have I ever felt so low about it. Maybe we should take the money and run away to Europe, travel by gondola, eat and shop like the minted…

But we wouldn’t. So we wait the week out and march on come Saturday. Another eight places to view, another eight floor plans to rework. Yep, I feel the power coming back, my spirit rising.

We’ll beat the odds and find a place within six months. It’s just shopping, after all.

Working like a machine?

2009-08-14T04:15:00.002+01:00

I love it when marketing campaigns get really creative. It’s not all about free products, either. If they’re going to grab me on my way to work – and heaven-forbid stand in a queue – then they gotta make me smile.

This morning, Nestlé Kit Kat, did just that.

Hopping off the bus at Wynyard I noticed a line forming, leading to a large red vending machine. Free Kit Kats? Yum.

Following successful campaigns in Japan and the UK, a human vending machine was set up to offer lucky passersby the opportunity to stop working like a machine and, ‘Have a break. Have a Kit Kat.’ One poor – yet seemingly very happy – guy was stuck in said-vending machine and it was the consumer’s job to tell him which bar they were after. The only catch was that we had to make him work for it! Choose bars that were high, low, to-the-side… make him reach.

With camera crews all around I thought for sure there’d be more pics online by now, alas, I had to scrounge one from a London-based initiative (see above)… I’m far too self-conscious nowadays to pull out my own camera phone and take a picture. No way! I grabbed my free chocolate bar and ran.

After all, I had work to do.

Have you been 'Dr. Phil-ed'?

2009-08-10T08:18:00.003+01:00

I have. And I do.

It started about ten years ago when the straight-talking (former football-playing giant) psychologist started making guest appearances on Oprah (the two go way back to Oprah’s Amarillo Texas beef trial-days). In 2002 when his syndicated, The Dr. Phil Show, first aired I went so far as to set my VCR to record it daily (sadly live coverage was scheduled at the same time as my first-year uni lectures!). Dr. Phil (aka. Dr. Phillip Calvin McGraw) was a breath of fresh air. And much like the term, “to Google”, people from all walks of life began “Dr. Phil-ing” each other: re-working Phil-isms into their lives*.

No ifs, buts or maybes, Phil helped people, “get in control” of their lives.

So last Thursday when a spare ticket to his one-off Sydney show at the Acer Arena came floating by my desk – including wine and dining in the company’s corporate box – I jumped up and got control… of said-ticket.

It was only as I was sitting in the back seat of my Director’s car on our way to Acer, listening to her conversation with her other passenger – a National Group Sales manager – that I realised I was in for more than just an evening of motivational speaking. I was networking.

Yes, I got to sip of company wine, schmooze clients and talk holidays and shopping with people way above my career-station… it was fun. And I got to hear good ol’ Phil. He even brought doting and dutiful wife, Robin, to the stage (to prove their marriage is not on the skids). We got Dr. Phil-ed – this time on the seven attributes of successful people, abridged from his best-selling book, Life Strategies.

I listened – at first slightly put off by his crappy mike setup – and started nodding along with the rest of the crowd. I was going to take something from this fortuitous freebie… and then he drolled off successful trait number six. What? How did I miss one-to-five? Must have been the red wine.

Amused by the enlightenment that my sub-standard listening skills probably ruined my chances of becoming one of the world’s most successful people, I attempted to take note of traits six and seven.

Six: Successful people have a nucleus – a group of people around them pivotal to supporting and encouraging their success.
Seven: Successful people have passion – for their life and for what they aim to achieve.

Excellent. Got it. More red wine, please.

A typical Gen-Yer, I went home and “Googled” the rest!

In it together

2009-08-10T01:44:00.005+01:00

I’m all about endurance sport. I know that my body wasn’t built for short bursts of speed; star jumps and high kicks ground me as well. I would pack a zillion things into a single day, if I could, but just don’t make me sprint to each appointment – I’ll arrive sweaty and unhappy.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they exercise: I have good muscle memory, enjoy strength training, like to count reps and could happily power walk for hours on end. I love the journey and feel revived once I reach my destination.

I think that’s why I spend so much time with my family. They ground me. Their support gives me strength and helping them inturn flexes my muscles. And I’d happily walk to the ends of the earth for any one of them.

They would do the same for me.

On Saturday Mum and I held a stall at Rozelle Markets. We started early – 7am – and stood with our backs to the wind all day. We were selling old knick-knacks Mum had collected, a bunch of old clothes and a pile of books. Our trash and treasure had filled the car to bursting… in the end we made just under $280. A neat hundred each once the stall and a couple of take-away coffees had been paid for. We vowed never to do one again.

But it was nice to spend the day together. Bond over bric-a-brac, talk about stuff. So we didn’t make a fortune and ended up donating most of our wares to fellow stall owners – who needs money when you have each other? At least that’s how we felt once we were out of the bitter cold and blood and warmth had returned to our hands, feet and cheeks.

From standing nine-hours to running 14 kilometres, I took on the City2Surf on Sunday. Somewhat of a family tradition, this year Dad was celebrating his eleventh consecutive C2S (no mean feat for a 63-year-old), my sisters their fifth (each now a mother to bubs three-years and under) and me, marking my C2S-return, post-NYC and London.

Dad and middle-Sis had the finish line firmly in their sights; both having trained to beat last year’s times. Elder-Sis and I were simply enjoying the sunshine. When your sisters are sleep deprived thanks to waking-babies, currently breastfeeding and still up for making the mission from Hyde Park to Bondi it’s hard not to be a little awe-struck – walking or running, just getting out of the house is hard for most young mums.

So when Dad and m-Sis sprinted off at the gun, e-Sis and I took off at a canter. We jogged, we walked; weaved in-and-out of the crowd and moved to the side when sprinters came from behind. Best of all we nattered away. She got her a whole morning away from the kidlets and I got two hours of her undivided attention – a very rare treat post-bubs.

At the finish the four of us reconvened at Bondi Icebergs. Dad grinning from ear-to-ear having run his fastest time ever – 92-minutes – m-Sis thrilled with 80-minutes and e-Sis and I content with having done it together. Tomorrow we’ll all look out for the Sun-Herald happy snaps taken as we crossed the line. Today we nurse tight muscles. But yesterday was our day – our ‘family thing’ – to remember.

My Sister's Keeper

2009-08-05T09:11:00.004+01:00

I’m the kind of girl who can be moved to tears watching a 30-second TV commercial. Little kids, old people. The sick, the dying… a malnourished puppy – just add music – my throat gets tight and my chest heaves. I cry.

So l knew that going to see My Sister’s Keeper with my Mumma was going to get me sobbing – I just didn’t realise the effect if would have on my persistent blocked nose. Luckily said-Mumma had a bag full of tissues and needless to say I can now breathe freely; two weeks with a snuffed up schnoz sorted during the course of a 109-minute flick.

But seriously, have you seen this film? It’s fabulous.

Happily married couple, Sara and Brian, have the perfect family life until they find out their two-year-old daughter has leukaemia. In order to save the life of one child they bring another into the world – a perfect donor match in the form of Anna. And so begins more than a decade of blood and bone marrow donations from sister to sister, constant hospital stays and ultimately the dissolving of Sara and Brian’s happy family dynamic. When Anna calls on the services of a top defence lawyer, to seek medical emancipation, a messy and traumatic reality becomes even more tragic.

Yes the subject matter is horrible and sad and full of life’s-not-fair moments, but the actors are all incredibly well cast – Cameron Diaz is amazing as the fiercely single-minded mother, Sara, and Sofia Vassilieva gives a vivid portrayal of the dying girl, Kate – and both sides of the coin/dilemma are explored, developed and ultimately given credence. You can’t hate Sara for the choices she’s made and you can’t fault her children for their actions.

In my life I’ve known parents with sick children, and friends who’ve lost siblings – I can’t possibly begin to imagine their grief. The tears I shed for one small film are nothing compared to the convulsions I would have were I to lose a sister or any member of my family. Family is everything to me and I hope one day to have children of my own – but the scary thing is that the more people who are important to you the more you have to lose.

But I suppose it’s what you have that keeps you going and what you had that keeps memories alive.

In the film’s final sequence, Anna says it best, “What’s important is that I had a sister. And she was fantastic.”

Saturn's Return

2009-07-31T08:14:00.006+01:00

I wanted to love it. I wanted to feel touched, inspired, understood. Instead I sat, eyes fixed on the stage with a perpetually furrowed brow, cringing at the wackiness. To think it started off so well.

Last night I went with a bunch of girlfriends – our ages ranging from 25 to 28 – to see The Sydney Theatre Company’s return season of David Berthold’s production of Saturn’s Return, a play by Tommy Murphy. A play about the astrological phenomenon that takes place every 27-30 years in a person’s life, coinciding with the time it takes the planet Saturn to make one orbit around the sun.

For gen X and Y-ers this ‘return’ in their late 20s can cause havoc to their lives. Some pass the threshold ultimately more assured, while others struggle against the reality of transitioning from youth into adulthood. I get it. I see it in my friends and I can feel the stars aligning for my own journey to the ‘other side’ but I just don’t think Murphy’s play really nailed it.

The story focuses on a young couple, Matt and Zara, who have been together for 7 years. They live together and are content with their own unique take on love and commitment (two years ago they had a threesome with one of Matt’s footy mates… as the play opens they’re planning another, maybe with a girl from Zara’s yoga class). Then Matt tells Zara he loves her and… she hesitates. So marks the end of ‘reality’ and the play spirals into a world of character-changes and make believe. Zara steals a baby, but maybe it was just a doll, and then an old boyfriend pays a visit only to turn into the couple’s child and get taken away by aliens dressed in cardboard, while Zara and Matt are stuck to the wall and floor, respectively. Fuck. It’s not just me, is it? That’s absurd.

Out of the seven of us, one thought she could relate to the feeling of being stuck as Berthold depicted it. The rest of us were still struggling to come to terms with the abrupt ending, and I couldn’t get over the baby – or was it a doll?

There’s lots of semi-nudity, course language and a higher boy ratio to girl (well, there’s three actors: 1 girl, 2 boys)… so it should have been enjoyable to one Boyfriend-deprived, as me. But I was left unfulfilled.

Maybe I’ll ‘get it’ in a few years time.

Saturn’s Return

A play by Tommy Murphy

Director David Berthold

With Toby Moore, Leeanna Walsman, Matthew Zeremes

The Sydney Theatre Company, Pier 4, Hickson Road Walsh Bay NSW 2000

Tel: 02 0250 1700

Note top pic: The cast of Saturn's Return thanks to SMH

Pointed obsession

2009-07-29T05:00:00.002+01:00

I have a thing for vampires. Ever since Kirsten Dunst took on Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire I’ve secretly pined for sharp white teeth and a wax-like complexion. Poor Boyfriend has copped his fair share of neck wounds from my overzealous embrace and I’ve been known to plead for dress-up parties in a not-so-subtle attempt to indulge my penchant for playing vamp – so it’s surprising I’ve taken so long to get into the Twilight phenomenon.

Now I’m bitten.

While I covet Robert Pattinson (playing Edward Cullen) and think Kristen Stewart perfect for the role of Bella Swan, I’m determined not to watch any of the films before I’ve finished reading Stephanie Meyer’s four-part series. It won’t be hard. Each night I forsake much needed sleep in order to read just-one-more-chapter. I’m halfway through New Moon and I don’t want it to end.

Thankfully I’m borrowing the series from my gorgeous friend. She’s one book behind and at 6pm last Sunday – such is the level of our obsession – I drove 40-minutes to her place in the teeming rain to trade book one for its sequel. This morning she texted a gentle reminder that another weekend was drawing near… she needn’t worry; I’m hungering for Eclipse already.

I’m not ashamed to admit that Meyer’s books are turning me into a giggly little school girl. I pore over their pages like a teenager possessed; willing Bella and Edward to get it on already and conjuring images of myself ripping into a sultry looking Pattinson.

It appears I’m not alone. Tweeting my obsession and posting Facebook alerts it seems that even the more mature and refined of my friends have succumbed – some have even read the books twice!

More praise to Meyer, she’s planning prequels…

Is it wrong for me to buy the film’s poster for my wall?

MasterChef was rigged

2009-07-21T02:34:00.002+01:00

Now, I know, we all love Julie. She’s the cuddly Mumma we all want to cook us chicken soup when we’re sick and make us chocolate cake for our birthday – but she is no master chef!

And it’s not that I’m especially a fan of Poh, either. In fact I don’t think either of the girls belonged in the final two. I’ve worked in enough restaurants to know that the kitchen is no place for a person prone to hissy fits or breakdowns. Good chefs, great chefs are clinical. They’re scary. As a waiter, you wait for them to ding that bell and quickly, cleanly take the appropriate dish off the pass and to the eager diner. You don’t ask questions. You don’t collect a smile or kind word. You say, “Thank you, Chef” and scurry on.

Forget her messiness – Julie puts way too much blood, sweat and tears into her culinary creations. Having spent the past three months watching her toil away behind the bench I’d be worried her ‘home style’ cooking might make me ill. Yes, she’s a lovely, happy lady – but was that the show’s brief?

No. They were searching for Australia’s first Master Chef. A person in the same ilk as Matt Moran (ARIA, Sydney), Emmanuel Stroobant (Saint Pierre, Singapore) and Donovan Cooke (Hong Kong Jockey Club Happy Valley Clubhouse, Hong Kong) – all fine dining chefs who made guest appearances throughout the season.

Every night (except Saturdays) I, along with a couple of million other Australians, sat down to supper eyes peeled to the TV screen. We watched as hundreds of hopefuls auditioned their favourite dish, marvelled at the challenges that saw twenty finalists whittle down to five, four, then seven again (when a second-chance Navy-lunch challenge brought back Tom, Poh and Justine); and we nodded when Lucas and Julia – who’d earlier secured a place in the final week – were swiftly sent packing. It seemed that winning those early master chef challenges worked against them. Those who had stayed week-to-week had become hardened contestants: compared with them, Lucas and Julia were weak.

So came the final four: Chris and Justine, talented, level-headed, reasoned cooks; Poh, whose art background and perfectionism ensured every dish she plated look amazing and tasted fabulous, and Julie, with her flour-flecked face, sweaty brow and inevitably sliced fingers.

Julie, Julie, Julie.

Now the grand ol’ prize for winning season one of Channel Ten’s MasterChef Australia: $100,000 in prize money, the chance to work in some of countries top kitchens, and a cook book deal. It’s this last little ditty that’s got me all in a flurry. Because, it was the cook book deal that sealed the fate of the final four.

Chris’ Snout to Tail, Stout to Ale idea was great, but not really mainstream. And Poh’s Food From Mars Malaysian creations – Century Eggs? No thank you. Justine…? Well, French cooking’s a tad fiddly.

But Julie had an idea that Channel Ten could run with. What self-respecting Aussie battler wouldn’t run out to buy, Our Family Table? Full of easy to prepare at home dishes-with-love. Yep, that was a money earner – even Donna Hay wanted to buy a copy. So that’s how the cookie crumbled.

In the end, it came down to Julie’s marketability. It didn’t matter that Poh’s replications of the final challenge dishes looked and tasted far superior, they threw her to the curb over a teaspoon of chocolate sorbet and gave Julie a bunch of undeserving ‘nines’.

Poor Poh. Poor Chris. Poor Justine.

Although, I’d like to think these guys will go the way of runner-up reality TV contestants-past and make their mark sans the cloud of chef-lebrity. Poh off to LA (with Curtis Stone), Chris with his beer and meat inspired cook book (that celebrity chef, Ben O’Donoghue loved!) and Justine under the guidance of Matt Moran at ARIA.

Julie’s cook book will sell. She’ll open her family café on the New South Wales Central Coast, and her boys will love having Mum back in the kitchen.

I just can’t help feeling a little deflated. Three months of loyal following and the finale fizzled. Master Chef has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Making our mark

2009-07-16T04:21:00.003+01:00

Meeting up last night with a girlfriend from my uni days, it was interesting to see how our conversation has evolved. No longer, “Should we go to Café Otto for a mango smoothie in between Contracts and Real Property?” (…we battled through Law together at UTS), now we’re sharing salary stories and swapping realtor contacts.

It seems we’ve both reached that stage in life when owning our own home has become something we are planning towards. No longer a pipe dream, we’re tallying assets, meeting with banks and finding out just how much the financial world is willing to lend us. Though she holds a few more cards than I – having actually gone on to practice law – we’re both going into this venture with our significant others. Yes. It’s all very exciting.

However, I think I lost her when I shouted euphorically that realestate.com.au was better than sex. Though I resisted the urge to argue the excel spreadsheet I’d devised detailing Sydney house sale trends was the equivalent of real estate Viagra, a strange wave of pity did fall over her face. I admit, my enthusiasm may have something to do with the fact Boyfriend is still traipsing through South East Asia, but as a Virgo, graphs and tables really do make me giddy. There’s something so satisfying when information can be broken down into columns and tables: I feel inspired.

When I (calmly) mentioned said-spreadsheet, Girlfriend was intrigued. I’ve promised to email it to her – share the wealth. She may be an associate solicitor and doing her masters, but I’ve got the low-down when it comes to land and sundry.

And for my wisdom I have to thank the likes of Sarah Beeny (Property Ladder, The Lifestyle Channel) and Kevin McCloud (Grand Designs, The Lifestyle Channel). Again, I’m showing my propensity to be a nanna-before-my-time… but I love DIY. Home reno shows, IKEA catalogues, flipping through the pages of Domain on a Saturday – bliss.

So it’s a very nice feeling knowing that soon (very soon), I’ll be able to put all my ideas into action: in a home of my own.

Cadbury Conspiracy

2009-07-13T02:47:00.005+01:00

When I was little I was a bit of a show pony. My sisters – six and seven years older than me – would taunt me with the song lyrics, “You’re so vein”, every time I looked in the mirror. Fair enough. I did like my own reflection.

As I grew up I realised other benefits of mirrors and reflective glass: checking for the remains of food in my teeth, confirming appropriate outfits and scrutinising my behind. But it took a longer time for me to realise that not all mirrors are created equal. Not all reflections are true to form.

This is most notable when it comes to the reflections around the office. Working at a magazine publishing house there are lots of mirrors. In the lobby of our building every wall reflects, even the elevator doors are mirrors. Waiting in line for the lifts of a morning checking one’s appearance is a covert operation – humorous, as by then it’s far too late for wardrobe changes, though you can spot a frayed hem or spilt milk before greeting colleagues on your floor. But I digress.

You see the horror of the lobby is that our wall of mirrors makes everyone look stumpy. Having (obviously) surveyed my reflection a fair few times before leaving the house, each day I will myself not to look at the image of myself waiting in line. “Those mirrors are lying.” I chant.

Inevitably my gaze is drawn toward the elevator doors; my image is stretched as the doors open and I embark on my journey to the fourth floor. I feel like crap.

It’s ironic then that my salvation lies in the office kitchen; in the Cadbury’s confectionary fridge, to be precise. You see, selling candy in an office where everyone’s on a diet is a tall order – except that is, when you make the person standing in front of the vending machine appear taller, thinner. Then they’re putty in your hands.

Clever – no?

Note: Above image courtesy of Getty images.

Coco and corsets

2009-07-09T05:18:00.007+01:00

About six months ago I invested in my first pair of tuck-me-in-stop-me-breathing undies. And at first I loved them.

Maybe I was a little trimmer (butt less saggy) then, who knows? But lately it seems that my failsafe choice of undergarment is cutting into my butt and upper back rather than cutting the mustard. Charming, I know, but I like to be honest about these sorts of things.

On Tuesday night I went and saw Coco Avant Chanel with a girlfriend. While I’ve always coveted la Maison Chanel and the elegant haute couture designs the House is famous for, I’ve never really known much about its founder, Gabrielle (Coco) Chanel.

Audrey Tautou’s performance is flawless and portrays Chanel’s complexity brilliantly. Staunchly independent and emotionally vulnerable in equal measure, Chanel never married. Ambition saw her rise from poverty and establish herself as a meticulous fashion couturier, paving the way for women – not only in the business world, but also in the fashion stakes. Chanel rebelled against corsets. Rebelled against belts. She wanted women to be comfortable, move freely – like her style she wanted fashion to be effortless. Her heavy smoking habit likely helped her cause, maintaining a very slight frame until her death in 1971.

But, you’d think if it was good enough for Coco, this fashion-choice should be good enough for me. Why then am I again battling with the girdle? I’m uncomfortable and sporting a very ugly VPL (visible panty line) – that’s it! Tonight I’m throwing caution to the wind and ditching my shaper-knickers.

From now on I’ll stick to wearing all black. Coco would like that.

All dressed in white...

2009-07-06T03:18:00.002+01:00

In the interim between leaving school and your ten-year reunion, there are seemingly few events that offer opportunity to catch up with old/long-lost friends and reminisce. After the rush of twenty-first birthday bashes most people slink off quietly, many travel – some semi-permanently shifting overseas – and some start settling into adulthood, gaining a mortgage, marriage, maybe even a kid.

With parents no longer funding the parties, guest lists get smaller. You lose touch with the myriad of peeps who saw you through your teenage years and get on with the business of interacting with work colleagues. You grow up.

Then come weddings – in all their grandeur.

At twenty-five, I’m in a committed relationship. He’s lovely. I love him. He’s thirty. We’re not married – not even engaged. I thought I was okay with this.

But on Saturday night I attended the engagement drinks of one of my best mates from school. Based in Hong Kong – where her now-fiancé works – Girlfriend is getting ready to take the next step into adulthood: one orange-coloured stiletto at a time (some brides like white; this chick plans to mix it up a tad).

Regardless of where they are in their careers, I still see school friends through school-uniform-clad eyes: cut-out dolls in tunics. I can’t get over the fact that she’s about to walk down an aisle to the bells of the Wedding March. So you can imagine my shock as I heard the evening updates of who is already married and who has even popped out progeny in the three years I was gone. Suddenly the finger to the right of my left pinky started feeling very light. Weightless. Missing some bling.

Not that it should matter what everyone else is doing – but with school friends it does. You spend six years of high school competing with them in the classroom, on the running track, in the pool, and in the fashion stakes of formals – it’s hard to let that competition go when suddenly you’re playing a more serious deck of cards.

I’m elated for my Girlfriend – she looks amazingly happy – but if I’m honest, I’m a shade of green too.

Girls, girls, girls!

2009-06-29T01:08:00.003+01:00

My eighty-seven-year old grandmother still has lunch every fortnight with ‘the girls’: the ladies she spent her school days with, more than seven decades ago. Somehow, while in the eyes of the rest of the world these girls grew into ladies and even old women; to my grandmother they are simply childhood friends.

Such clarity escapes me. Even at twenty-five I find it hard to classify the women in my life. Sure, close friends are ‘girlfriends’, but what about the females I work with? The ones over twenty-five: are they ladies? Women? Both those descriptions seem to age them prematurely, and yet, calling them girls certainly belittles their accomplishments. After all, these ‘chicks’ are professionals. Some married. Some mothers.

Or am I just being pedantic? Surely I wouldn’t mind someone referring to me as, “the new girl at work”. Why am I so troubled about misidentifying others? But sitting on a lower rung of the hierarchical office ladder I’m definitely uneasy.

Ironically, when my grandmother was a young woman, while girlfriends were ‘girlfriends’, in polite conversation one would refer to all other women as Ms. X and Ms. Y. Formality was key.

How lucky we are to no longer be forced to conform – employers and employees known to others on a first name basis – how wonderful and equal! Yep, within the confines of work first names are fine…

Just don’t try talking about that girl/woman/lady, Sue, who works in the office next to yours, who has a toddler and a mortgage and who is giving you a lift to work on Wednesday!

Nine to five... I wish

2009-06-25T05:18:00.001+01:00

Dolly Parton’s famous southern drawl, Workin’ Nine to Five, whata way to make a livin’, plays over in my head. Who, these days, works a neat eight-hour day with an hour for lunch? And who, if lucky enough to have such a schedule, would honestly complain about it?

I love my new role. But lunchtime takes place any time from 12pm to 3pm, and only to the extent that it takes me that long to eat my brought-from-home tuna sandwich – bite by bite – in between managing web updates, coordinating talent schedules, replying to emails, updating excel spreadsheets and fighting with the colour printer. And even then, it’s usually severe dehydration that forces me to stop, take a swig from my Mount Franklin, finish my sandwich and maybe get up and go to the loo.

The rain in Sydney last week was horrible, but at least it didn’t make me feel bad about being indoors. As a contractor, my desk sits in an internal office, with a view through a glass window that looks into yet another office. I know that the sun has been shining gloriously the past few days, but only because I see shards of it through other people’s windows when I’m running between offices.

From talking to friends – on both sides of the masthead – my lack of a lunch time and further inability to leave work until 6pm and sometimes 7pm, isn’t unusual. Horror stories also splurge from friends who chose careers in law, accounting, medicine and business. It seems we’re a generation pushed to the limit. But in a GFC what choice do we have?

Maybe I should re-work Dolly’s lyrics? Produce a hit song and live off the royalties. It’s just a pity I can’t carry a tune.

Gainfully employed

2009-06-18T10:42:00.004+01:00

How nice it is to come home from work each day tired. I love it. And while my physical fatigue is most certainly due to wearing four-inch heels for eleven hours a day for the first time in months, it's the mental workout that makes the pain worth it.

Being part of a team. Having tasks to complete. My own desk. Phone line. Email.

But... I have jumped across mastheads: now I'm contracting with the Ad Sales team of large publishing company. I like it. The pace is fast. Deadlines are adhered to. Yep, I think I might have found a mag genre that suits. Business is good.

And the pay is certainly better.

Like all good jobs, I was referred by a friend. A phone call, a meeting and voila! I wish I could give hope to young strugglers out there, but the sad mag truth is, it's all who you know. So get to know people. Do work experience. Ask friends for favours. Now is not the time to be meek and mild. Be eager, hardworking, but above all, humble. You catch more bees with honey!

For now I'll keep the specifics a little hush-hush. Because it's all still new. And because I'm tired.

Mummy Big, Maisy Small

2009-06-09T03:08:00.008+01:00

Being a mother is often a thankless job. I should have learned that by watching my mum, but I was too busy demanding ever more from her. Thankfully, I'm learning it now... through the lives my sisters.

I remember growing up wanting to be their age. Do what they did. If they had It, I wanted one. But when they became mothers I knew this was one experience I could wait for. Not because my nieces and nephew are anything less than amazing little munchkins, but because while utterly gorgeous, a lot of times they simply suck the life out of their doting mums.

Whether it's by refusing to eat (or only eat pistachios), refusing to talk in public while chatting like a banshee at home or just refusing to do as they're asked (especially when their immediate safety is concerned); children are draining.

They're also their parents harshest critics. Last week while my sister was reading Master Two his new library book, Maisy Big, Maisy Small, he came up with a doozie. Like all good parents, Sister likes to point to things of importance when flipping through a brightly coloured picture book. Following her lead, Master Two pointed to the page below:

L: daddy. R: mummy

My sister has recently given birth to her third child in as many years and she's still a svelte size 10. Yet to her adoring boy (who favours cuddles with his Mumma over anything), she's a short and stumpy version of Maisy.

He's just lucky he's so cute.

P.S. It should be noted Daddy wasn't too pleased at his tall and thin caricature either... he's been trying to beef up at the gym ever since!

To shave or not to shave?

2009-06-05T01:09:00.004+01:00

With Boyfriend sunning himself in South East Asia for the rest of 2009 – and given my current lack of funds – by default, I’ve fallen behind my regular 5-week trips to my waxing lady.

I’ve also gone off the pill. Having ‘controlled’ that element of my life for the last decade I figure his overseas absence is a great time to see if my menstrual cycle can actually fend for itself.

So I’m not only hairy, this week I’ve started to cramp too. My boobs are ultra sore and a rather large pimple is taking residence upon my chin. Fabulous.

From talking with friends I’m assured in time the cramps will ease, my skin’s oils will find a natural equilibrium and I’ll feel more in tune with my body than ever before. And apparently there are cheaper methods of hair removal… I just abhor them.

I’ve tried the creams: yucky, itchy, messy. I’ve tried the home wax: yucky, messy, ouchy! And rather publicly I attempted the Epilady: although after first use this little gem was returned to its box, never again to see the light of day.

I know there’s always the razor. But I hate the razor. Sure, it can swipe hair off your legs in a matter of seconds, but what about my girly bits? It goes against the grain to use a blade near my groin, not to mention my punani.

Though as the weeks pass by I wonder: what other option do I have? I’ve not indulged the growth or short-and-curlies for almost as long as there’s been hair down there, but if I don’t sort out a remedy soon Boyfriend will return to find me lost in a jungle. So I suppose I’ll have to bite the bullet and break out the Bic.

But do you know what’s strange? I think there’s a tiny part of me that’s going to miss my fur… because nothing says au naturale like curlies on your beaver.

Note: Top pic thanks to Kotex.

Cover letter fatigue

2009-06-01T05:44:00.003+01:00

Another morning scrolling through the likes of Seek and CareerOne, the scope of my job search ever expanding: how about Melbourne? What about Auckland? Should I/could I make the switch to PR?

It’s not just the saga of finding a job-op within my chosen field that makes the process so painful, once found it’s the writing of yet another pleading cover letter – selling myself to a nameless, faceless being – that makes me both cringe and cry. An anonymous soul with the future of my professional career at their fingertip: scanning my CV do they hit print or delete?

So I try to grab them with an informative, concise and hopefully impressive exposé into my career to date. My time at The Cancer Council NSW, where as a marketing contractor I helped on the Go Smokefree campaigns of 2003/06; my internship at Bridal Guide magazine in NYC; my role at UK Harper’s Bazaar and even my stint at The College Design Consultancy (London), producing corporate reports for FTSE 100 companies. I craft each letter to fit the job speck, read up on the company/publication and tailor my listed skills accordingly. In my twenty-five years I’ve been a girl on a mission. Always powering ahead. But as the weather gets crappier and with my savings ever dwindling, I have to hold myself back from outright begging.

Desperation is far from attractive in a future employee. Hard working. Energetic. Proactive. Resourceful. They’re the attributes sought by an employer. The pity is that while I would describe myself as all of the above, so could a number of similarly job-seeking Aussies. What I wouldn’t give to know the secret of a job winning cover letter – and to never have to write one again!

The carbon footprint of my travelling pants

2009-05-26T04:45:00.003+01:00

About six months ago I purchased a pair of 18th Amendment jeans off eBay. I was living in London, the seller in Sydney. I paid about £20 for them (plus postage) and they were sent via airmail.

Two months ago I moved home to Sydney. My jeans came with me.

And a week ago I listed said-jeans back on eBay. I had yet to wear them – along with a handful of other previously-thought-MUST-have items – so I thought best cut my losses and recoup much needed funds. Bidding on my jeans closed this morning. They sold for $41.50 (plus postage). Their buyer lives in London.

I haven’t yet seen Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (or indeed the film’s sequel), but I immediately had flashes of Blake Lively donning my old Amendments; and then I thought about the greenhouse effect. Suddenly my penchant for impulse spending didn’t seem so funny.

I know that my jeans won’t be the only things boarding a jumbo back to London Heathrow but I do feel slightly guilty about the ease with which I choose to import – and export – items of clothing. Not simply because I should be more conscious about supporting local designers, which is really important, but because every delivery van, every aircraft, every postman’s motorbike leaves a mark – and carbon pollution is so last season.

Blake and I... two peas in varyingly shaped pods

2009-05-21T04:13:00.003+01:00

Yep, another mag distorting a girl's notion of 'normal'. Apparently Blake Lively is our new poster girl for "healthy living"... hmmm. I've also heard she makes the Gossip Girl stylists tear out the labels of all clothing bigger than a size 0. For her story and more check out June's Cosmopolitan magazine - or read my review at GWAS!

Seriously?

2009-05-20T23:23:00.003+01:00

Yesterday I posted an ad on Gumtree. Freelancing is all well and good, but I need some REAL moola to start feeling a tad more independent (and to buy stuff… I really like buying stuff). So I decided to get back to basics and offer my services as a babysitter once more.

Not long after posting I received an email from Blackunicorn90 asking me to specify how much I ask per hour. Thinking nothing of it I replied: “A flat rate of $15…” and went on to gush how I’d be happy to sit a few nights a week, including both Friday and Saturday nights. I was pumped. Paid work at last!

I waited, but got no reply email came through. Then last night – while at a friend’s place for dinner – my phone rang. It was a blocked number so I thought it was my Boy calling from the depths of Thailand. No. It was David. David was replying to my ad – was it only babysitting work I was after? Hmmm… “What other work were you thinking of, David?”

David was after a companion for the weekends. Gross! Shocked at first, I simply declined the offer, ended the call, and then relayed the conversation to my giggling girlfriend. While I was disturbed, she found the whole thing hilarious.

To add further insult, this morning I received yet another email. This time from Steve9181, a ‘new’ photographer interested in finding ladies to practice on: “in various styles depending on what [I’m] comfortable with.”

Geez, Steve. How nice of you!

What’s wrong with these people? My ad was very clear. I want to babysit not proffer my services to sad-and-lonelies. One more dirty email or phone call and I’m taking the ad down. Obviously the recession hasn’t hit the perves of the world.

Frankie... she's my friend

2009-05-19T11:29:00.002+01:00

The great thing about writing for someone elses blog is the opportunity it gives you to think outside your own little box. Reviewing for GWAS I get the chance to read mags that I love and mags that are new - Frankie was one such newbie... now she's a bestie! Read on...

Us and them

2009-05-18T01:29:00.003+01:00

Further from the ‘trifecta’ – Job? No. Home? Living with the parentals. Partner? Long distance – than ever before, I’m surprised by my current state of calm. But I am calm, and strangely happy.

In the early hours of Sunday morning I woke, pulled on Saturday night’s clothes and prepared myself to drive Boyfriend to the airport. We’d had an interesting 48 hours.

On Friday a bunch of us drove up to Copacabana Beach on the Central Coast to celebrate a friend’s thirtieth. In a convoy of four cars we embraced the sunshine and freedom that comes with taking a self-imposed long weekend. But at the pit of my stomach was a niggly dread that a night with our mates was the thing I wanted. After all, Boyfriend was flying out at dawn on Sunday, and I knew that however gorgeous our beach surrounds, the last thing we’d be doing would be spending quality time together.

Sure, catching up with friends is great. Chucking meat on the barbeque, tossing together salads, and chatting about life is a very pleasant way to end the working week. But what starts off civilised always turns to debauchery, especially when you get together a bunch of boys who’ve not seen each other in months – even years. So come sunset the plates were stacked and the cards were out. A drinking game was called for, then another and another. After three the girls sat out and the boys continued on their binge. At midnight it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to go check out the memorial lookout (being pitch black and all), so we girls headed off to bed.

I showered, moisturised and took to our loft bed. Twenty minutes later the boys returned, the music and the lights put back on and our previously cosy loft bed location the last place in the house that a girl could get any sleep. I passed the boys, all drunkenly unaware of my seething form, and headed downstairs. I found a room with two bunks, climbed to the top of one (I figured the top to be the safer option given a boys propensity to throw himself on the first mattress he sees) and tried to resume a state of sleep.

After forty-five minutes of tossing and turning in walked two boys, ready to call it a night. Fifteen minutes later, their symphony of snoring was added to the doof doof pumping from upstairs. I managed to fall into a semi-unconscious state until woken by the crashing thud of someone falling to the floor: 2.54am.

Thanks be to mobiles, I texted Boyfriend the likes of, “Baby, please keep it down,” – to which he replied, “Sorry baby,” and managed to keep his mates quiet for all of five minutes. My next text, “Seriously, turn that shit down” got a little more notice, until at 3.25am Boyfriend texted me to come back upstairs. Thinking they had all decided to end the festivities, I made my pyjama-clad way past a dreary-eyed, somewhat grey-looking boy who was heading to bed, only to find another three still nattering away in the lounge room – right under our loft! I was fuming: my body actually shaking with rage. Innately aware of my anger, Boyfriend moved further across the bed.

I lay there for another half hour until the boys downstairs finished their political debate and finally went off to bed. When the sun rose three hours later, I got up, showered and waited until enough people were up for us to say our goodbyes and head back to Sydney.

I guess the reason I’m calm now is that far from getting angry with his disapproving girlfriend, Boyfriend understood why I was mad and so kept quiet. We managed to get back to his place and finish his packing without one harsh word. After almost five years we’ve found a really nice balance – ‘us’ and the rest of them. Both exhausted we shared an afternoon nap, enjoyed a farewell home cooked meal with his parents and were in bed before 9pm.

It was then that we cuddled, reminisced, laughed – and I cried. It would be our last night together for at least seven months. But then what’s seven months out of a whole lifetime? Nothing.

We have all the time in the world.

Note: Above pic taken last atop the Eiffel Tower, October 2008

SHOP... your path to health and wellbeing

2009-05-14T01:55:00.004+01:00

ACP Magazines attempts to take the focus away from finances and back onto fitness with their 30 Days of Health & Wellbeing promotion. And SHOP editor, Justine Cullen stands up to the challenge: find just what you need to keep fit, lose weight or just look hot when you're sweaty in the June issue, out now.

Or you can read my little review at Girl With A Satchel...

Slice of budget anyone?

2009-05-13T06:30:00.004+01:00

With the news out that the ‘winners’ of the Federal Budget 2009 are homebuyers, pensioners, students and parents-to-be, I got to thinking: how can I get a slice of the profitable pie?

I just missed out on K. Rudd’s $900 stimulus payout (2007-08 being the first and only complete financial year in which I didn’t pay taxes in Australia), and since it’s being argued that the government’s knee-jerk, spend big response to the GFC is likely to put Australia into financial ruin for generations to come, I’m especially eager to score something now. Be buggered if my kids end up paying for a present I didn’t even receive!

What to do? Age prematurely? Go back to school? I certainly don’t have any money to go out and buy a place… that leaves babies. Yep, I could use my unemployed time wisely, get up the duff and pop out some more little Australian mouths for the government/tax payers to feed.

Perfect. If Boyfriend and I hurry – he flies out Sunday – we can get pregnant in 2009, I squeeze out the kid in 2010 (earning us a healthy $5,000 per child) and by 2011, when things start looking up recession-wise and the government’s new paid parental leave kicks in, I can get a job, fall preggers again and be eligible for 18 weeks paid leave – all thanks to K. Rudd and his team of Merry Gentlemen.

The old proverb, "Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he will eat for a lifetime,” rings in my ear. Would it not have been better for the government to put more money into businesses and business development than just hand out lump sums to individuals? I know most of my friends spent their stimulus money on shoes – good shoes, lovely shoes, but shoes nonetheless – and jeez, what we wouldn’t all give for jobs right now.

Gen-Y and wondering

2009-05-07T04:57:00.007+01:00

It's May and the sun's still shining. By all accounts, I should be having a ball. I have time on my hands to run, walk, skip or jump (at mantrayoga.com.au I can even get cheap classes, being unemployed); I can laze about the Parental's abode reading mags and watching daytime television and I'm free to catch up with friends - for lunch, for dinner, whenever. Yep, one day I'll look back on this time and want to slap the sorry, whinging version of myself sitting here now. But that's what hindsight is for...

Right now my glass is looking decidedly half empty. And I hate that.

I've just come back from a long brunch with a girlfriend (she ordered eggs, I sat on a pot of peppermint tea for two hours), who at all of twenty-two is still cocky and confident and certain the world is her oyster while I'm trying to weigh up the pros and cons of a career change. Said-girlfriend has known me for almost a decade - since I briefly dated her older brother in high school - and always saw me as such a go-getter; a girl who would take on the world. I guess that's why I find my current unemployment so devastating. I feel like I've let her, and others, down. In her youthful (Christ, she's only three years younger!) exuberance she sat there dishing out loads of advice, "Try X... Could you maybe do Y?", while I smiled, nodded and ultimately poo-pooed each idea.

I'm not negative by nature and I know my personal slump has more to do with the economy than my own drive, but I just wish there was something else I loved to do. Then thinking up pros for a career plan-B wouldn't be so depressing.

GWAS posted a (what I should have found) very inspiring piece on Tuesday about ambitious Gen-Y women turning lemons into lemonade and seeing their new found redundancies as opportunities to fulfill their 'other' ambition. Be it going back to uni, penning their first novel or starting a business, these chicks are positive and positively driven.

Back in December the BBC business channel interviewed Tamara Mellon - Founder and President of fashion label Jimmy Choo - on how she brought her dream to fruition and I thought, "Hell, yeah. I could do that!" But now that I have the time and the luxury of no rent, no mortgage, no real job, I also have no idea.

I suppose I should get back out into the sunshine and go for a walk. Maybe one will come to me?

Local government… why would you do it?

2009-05-05T03:21:00.003+01:00

Saturday was a very long day. After two weeks of pre-polling (where my Mum stood from 9 to 5 daily awaiting the chance to talk to pre-election day voters), hours of letterbox dropping and many a constituent phone call, Saturday was the day when our family took to the polling booths to barrack for Mumma.

Before the sun had risen we were hanging up posters and figuring out the best place to stand to capture the market. We weren’t alone. With six candidates vying for one position, there were volunteers (although how ‘free’ their services were appeared dubious at times) from all camps setting up stands. Most wore professionally printed t-shirts; we had Mumma’s handmade lilac bibs (because Spotlight had a dollar-a-metre deal on lilac cotton).

Two of the candidates had hired campaign managers with experience running state elections and had even organised a postal mail out to the electorate the Thursday before, at a cost of more than $10,000. Two more had had their campaigns paid for (in large part) by another candidate, and all, except Mumma, had teamed up with others for first and second preferences.

If you calculate the cost of printing posters, pamphlets, how-to-votes, t-shirts, graphic designers and campaign managers it’s likely this little by-election cost at least two of the candidates upwards of $20,000. Mum spent two. Printing her flyers. We (the fam) did it for love.

On the day it seemed Mum was fairing well. Nothing quite trumps, “Vote for my mum,” and having already spent 12 years as a councillor, many people knew her already and were happy she’d decided to run again. Unfortunately with local government, most people don’t give a toss until they or their neighbour want to develop their house or want Council to enforce parking restrictions in their street. And with a by-election, many are peeved that they need to vote at all. After all, the last election was only in September. Ironically, if people took more time to get to know their candidates, perhaps they wouldn’t have voted in such an unsavoury character as they guy who got booted, thus sparking the by-election.

After eleven hours in the elements – both sunshine and rain – we packed up our booths and headed for home. Exhausted, but happy. We’d done all we could. It would have been a miracle for Mum to triumph over the other campaign machines; in the end she came third. With a normal election – where three candidates are chosen – Mumma would have got in, and looking at the primary votes her tally of 1,520 was just shy of the winner, but with preferences from knock-outs being awarded, it seems money won over.

Just when did local government get so slick?

ELLE... and an old friend

2009-05-01T01:04:00.005+01:00

I got super excited this month when reviewing the US May edition of ELLE for GWAS... not only is Drew Barrymore simply fabulous, but James Kaplan - who wrote the profile piece - was a professor of mine when I attended The New School in NYC!

As a teacher, Kaplan was inspiring and encouraging in equal measure. As a writer, he is vivid and captivating. For those not scared of the overseas pricetag (although at $12.95 US mags are only a few bucks more than their Aussie counterparts) check out his take on Ms. Barrymore, "Drewly, Madly, Deeply."

Just not where I thought I’d be

2009-04-27T10:28:00.007+01:00

A year ago I was a content Londoner, preparing for my final weeks at Harper’s Bazaar and excited about the prospect of a new job. Sure, it wasn’t at another magazine, but it was certainly a financially lucrative move and I was confident I’d be inundated with freelancing gigs. It didn’t quite work out like that.

Since then I’ve freelanced on-and-off (mostly unpaid), been made redundant and finally forced back into nannying. While I love kids, I love writing more. But I just can’t seem to land an on-staff editorial role. It doesn’t help that the economy is so crap that people world over – including truck loads of journalists – are being laid off.

Back in London Bazaar has lost a third of its editorial staff and here in Sydney things aren’t much better. With so many cutbacks publishing houses are putting new projects on hold and those in jobs are cementing their discount-designer-derrières to their swivel seats.

And when a mag vacancy is advertised, every man, woman and university graduate is applying. Applications are generally online forms where in 25-words or less you get the opportunity to tell them why you’re perfect for the role. This morning I received a similarly generic, ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ for a magazine role I thought screamed me. Each dot-point in the job brief linked directly to a line in my CV, and I could even name drop that a top editor in the same publishing house had referred me to the role. But all that didn’t even get me an interview.

To add insult to injury, Boyfriend is taking a tour-leading job in South East Asia. Signing an 18-month contract but promising to break it and be home by New Years, he’ll be away for 7 months. In his mind he’s doing the right thing. With no travel operation jobs on offer here, he sees tour leading as not only a great experience but as a natural step in his professional journey.

So while he’s hanging in Halong Bay, trekking through Laos and shopping in Bangkok I’ll be here, living with my parents and applying for jobs that don’t seem to exist.

And more than two years since I first interned in New York I’ll be an intern once more, in Sydney. At twenty-five, I expected more.

...For some uplifting fashion news check out pics from day one of Rosemount Australian Fashion Week .

On the campaign trail...

2009-04-21T11:05:00.003+01:00

For the first time, in a long time, I’m watching an episode of The Biggest Loser and not feeling guilty. Why? Because in the past two days I’ve put in over 10.5 hours of pavement pounding…

Mum’s running for local government (again), so it’s up to Dad and I – the only mugs still living at home – to help letter box drop her electoral ward. And if trudging up and down grassy knolls, dodging spiders, cobwebs and barking dogs, wasn’t enough, she’s making us wear ultra-identifiable lilac cotton bibs. Chic. No?

Add to that intermittent rainfall and you’ve got yourself a pretty tough workout.

Of course, it’s all worth it. While we have at least another two days of hard slog ahead – and one VERY long day come the election on May 2 – the positive comments we’re hearing from people as we walk past their homes reaffirms just how proud I am of my Mumma.

I couldn’t think of anything worse than being a councillor (politics is just not my thing) but she really loves serving her community and it’s clear from the comments that a lot of people are truly thankful for the hard work she’s put in. Regardless of the long hours, and despite the relentless phone calls from constituents, Mumma never tires of helping others. I admire her strength and her backbone. It takes a lot of courage to put yourself up for nomination, and even more to follow through with candidacy. I’m sure I’m not that brave… so I guess I should just put up with the lilac and keep smiling. After all, over the years Mumma’s done a lot more than that for me!

Big and bruised

2009-04-18T02:30:00.005+01:00

Weddings tend to bring out the worst in me. Not emotionally. Physically. No matter how I plan, or how good my intentions, come the day of wedding (or sometimes the night before) something MAJOR happens to ruin everything.

I know, I know. It’s not my day – yet – it’s theirs. But I just don’t get why wardrobe malfunctions and bodily disorders need to play havoc with my fun?

In preparation for the wedding we attended in Auckland, and for my cousin’s wedding (this afternoon), I bought off eBay a stunning bright green Chloé number. It goes down as one of my all-time favourite online purchases, and yet to date, I’ve been unable to wear it. While it fit perfectly six months ago – when I was all trim from thrice-weekly Pilates sessions – by the time we got home from eating our way through the Middle East my body had morphed into a swollen version of itself. Like a balloon, I’d inflated. With most of the ‘air’ amassing in my boobs.

In NZ, I begrudgingly passed on Chloé for another number in my wardrobe, but I really had my heart set on donning the green for today’s celebrations. I’ve been running all week, drinking tons of water and even bought a new pair of suck-me-in, ugly-undies. Nothing’s worked. My boobs are still massive. And in the interest of decency I’ve had to once again pass Her over. I feel like I’ve let a good friend down.

To make up for my lack of wow-factor attire, I booked in a ludicrously expensive blow-dry (seriously, it was cheaper living in London) and forked out yet more cash on some L’Oreal Sublime Bronze tanning gel. All-bronzed-up, I got to bed early last night attempting to get some beauty sleep. Unfortunately my sister and two of her munchkins were bunking in with me – down from Port Macquarie for the wedding – so what should have been a restful evening turned into an evening of hell.

Baby Nine-Weeks farts and snorts louder than an overweight, middle-aged man – I’m talking constant squeaks and bubbles – and Master Almost-Two cried out for “Mumma” at least half a dozen times. My poor sister, yes; but whattabout me?

Halfway through the night I got up to go to the bathroom and blow my nose – hay fever still plaguing my sleep – only to walk head first into the closed bedroom door! Sister had closed the door earlier that night to help Baby sleep. The loud bang/crack of my nose on wood at 1am well and truly destroyed that plan. I cursed loudly, Sister jumped from bed, Baby cried, and Master Almost-Two wailed in with the best of them. I swear, it was the worst night sleep of my life.

So now I sit with tired eyes, awaiting my blow-dry; looking decidedly orange and sporting a swollen schnoz. Pollen is prevalent, my face is itchy and I still have to wear the suck-me-in, ugly-undies.

Lord, I wonder what will go wrong when it actually is, My Big Day?

My take on Nicole Richie...

2009-04-16T01:59:00.006+01:00

With my boxes of clothes still en route from London (12 weeks and counting!), I'm a girl anxious for some retail relief. Fortunately I can live vicariously through the likes of Nicole Richie and the girls in 'How much is your wardrobe worth?' in May's issue of Shop Til You Drop .

As always, check out Girl With a Satchel to find out more!

Catching my breath

2009-04-14T00:46:00.007+01:00

I've always loved this piece, by Dutch artist, Ellen Kooi. While I'm not one for meditation - breathing in and soul searching seeming a obnoxious waste of time - this picture always gives me pause. Just as the child is suspended mid-air, I too feel light. Dare I say it? I breath in. Deeply.

The last month has flown by. Literally. We left Cairo for Abu Dhabi, spent three days in Dubai. Flew 'home' to Sydney only to fly out four days later to Auckland to spend a week with friends and celebrate a wedding. Back to Sydney, I took off to Port Macquarie to stay with my sister and (try to) help her with her three bubbaloos - all under three!

Admittedly none of these trips were arduous. Even the week in Port - with its endless rain and pooey nappies (that included me scraping poo off two pairs of toddler's Bonds undies) - was lovely. I got to spend time with my sister, perpetually held my adorable 8-week old niece and happily came to the realisation that I may never have my own children. Only joking. I'm sure I will. I'll just give myself time to breathe in between deliveries, unlike my eldest sis.

Poor sister. While on their own her children are gorgeous, delightful little munchkins, together they're a recipe for disaster (and maybe even motivators of self harm). Miss Almost-Three is clever and cheeky in equal measure, while Master Almost-Two worships the ground his older sister skips along, thereby mimicking her every act - especially the naughty ones. Thankfully Little Miss Two-Months is an incarnation of her mother, quiet, selfless and happy to take a back seat to her siblings.

For Easter I helped Sister drive the tiny terrors down to Sydney. We managed to tire the eldest two out with some Dora The Explorer DVD action but 30 minutes from our destination, Baby Bubbaloo let rip with her wailing. Caught on the highway in the middle of the night with nowhere to pull over, one crying baby turned into three. I stretched my arm back to hold onto the tiny, shaking hand of Bubbaloo (a dirty nappy the cause of her outburst). With her fingers wrapped round mine her breathing eased and the crying ceased. Radio reception also returned, so with the sounds of Nova 96.9 calming our nerves we made it to the house in one piece.

Easter Sunday was full of chocolate eggs, my grandmother's 'blessed' ham and bread, and enough food to feed a small army. And although the pitter-patter of little feet spreads crumbs into the carpet, no one can deny that the five most recent additions to our family definitely revive the holiday spirit.

So as I looked through the photos I've taken in the past weeks of my nieces and nephew, I once again came across this dreamlike field of flowers. Tired and weary, I took a deep breath in...

Now I'm breathing out. Slowly.

Intrepid traveller... Catching up in Cairo

2009-03-14T14:26:00.020Z

Ending a tour and farewelling the individuals with whom you've travelled - both the ones you liked and the ones you're giddy to see the back of - is the perfect time to reflect on the type of person you are. After four weeks missioning across the Middle East, it's confirmed: I'm temperamental.

I've been happy (riding a camel), sad (continually battling thieves), excited (diving the Red Sea) and petrified (squealing from the back seat when our 'Speed Racer' drivers rally raced across deserts). I've been patient with some locals and hissed at others (notably the ones who pinched my arse or were obviously picturing me naked); been blown away at the wonder of ancient ruins and bored stiff by others. Yes, I'm temperamental. But at least when I rest my head each night, I manage to see the funny side of life. And travelling in this region, you need to.

Sunrise as the moon sets on Sinai

Our group arrived in Cairo on Thursday afternoon, utterly sleep deprived, having left Dahab at midnight to start the climb of Mt Sinai at 2am. Neither of us religious, Boyfriend and I struggled emotionally and physically with the 6 kilometre hike. Rocky, dusty terrain, herds of smelly camels and their equally smelly Bedouin owners pimping their rides were just the beginning. My tired eyes bulged and the higher we climbed the colder it got until at the summit I lost feeling in my fingers and toes altogether. And even then it wasn't over. Having climbed for just under 3 hours we still had to wait an hour for sunrise - apparently a must-see in Egypt.

Must-see for some (at least 1,000 tourists, mostly senior citizens, joined us, while daily visitors average 3,000 during peak season), but jaded Christians that we are Boyfriend and I merely grumbled. After all, it's not even the 'real' Mt Sinai - that one's over in Saudi Arabia, along with Islam's Mecca - and the sun rises every day, doesn't it? Yes, I'm a totally ungrateful traveller.

After what seemed an eternity, the sun rose enough to warrent us to sigh, "Ahhh," and begin our trek back down the mountain. With the sun came the blazing heat, more grumbles and a dire need to pee. At the bottom I searched for a toilet only to be rudely shocked with a bowl full of used tampons and faeces, for which I paid ₤2 for the privilege.

From there our van drove westwards 8 hours - via the Suez Canal - into Cairo. From middle-of-nowhere to middle-of-mayhem, Cairo is one busy city. Full of dusty streets, falling down buildings next to half-built highrises and 18-odd million people, the city's one saving grace is its proximity to the pyramids.

With a local guide, on Friday, we saddled up camels and rode across the sand dunes until we were right up close. Finally something spectacular. More than four and a half thousand years old, the Great Pyramid of Giza is truly a world wonder. And while theories abound about the details of their construction, when you stand dwarfed by each pyramid's sheer size and magnificence, imagining near-naked, ancient workmen quarrying huge limestone bricks and piling them one by one, makes you appreciate just how easy life is now.

Like the millions before us, Boyfriend snapped me 'kissing' the Sphinx. We crawled into the sweaty depths of the Second Pyramid and even checked out Cheops' Solar Boat. Today we visited the Egyptian Museum to see Tutankhamun's gold bust and other tomb relics. Unsurprisingly the other 120,000 ancient Egyptian items on display are arranged in Arabic-disorder, most without labels and almost all without dates. Nearly two hours later we emerged into the sunshine, mummied-out and hungry.

Now we find ourselves preparing for our flight to Abu Dhabi. In the chaotic Khan el-Khalili Bazaar we bought a bigger carry-on bag to unload some of the weight from our checked baggage: sadly Etihad's limits severly restrict consummate consumers like myself. And in the land of the burkha, I doubt I can smile my way out of an extra 10 kilos!

Intrepid traveller... Diving Dahab

2009-03-11T13:53:00.013Z

My cheeks are rosy, my shoulders bronzed and my skin has that tight, sun-dried, sandy feeling that you only get from beach exposure. Yes, I've finally found the sunshine. Happily, in Egypt.

Although interestingly enough, I spent most of the morning underneath the water. Having wanted to scuba dive for years but lacking both the funds and locale, Boyfriend and I signed up for an intro dive with Big Blue Dahab. We figured the Red Sea was as good a place as any to don wetsuit and fins and start breathing underwater. And while the concept isn't such a tough one, the reality was more of a challenge.

Squeezing into the micro sized wetsuit was the first hurdle. Thankfully I'm well practiced in jumping-like-a-moron-to-fit-into-skinny-jeans; Boyfriend struggled more so, initially putting his on inside-out-and-backwards.

And it wasn't like we'd not sat through 45-minutes worth of instruction - about equalizing water pressure on our eardrums, clearing water from our goggles while submerged, learning the relevant hand gestures and most importantly breathing in and out through our mouthpiece - but when it came to taking the plunge (pardon the pun), a huge part of my conscious mind started to panic. Just what the hell was I about to get myself into?

Our (amazingly patient and downright lovely) instructor, Ibrahim, waded me gently into the water - just off the shore - brought me to my knees and told me to breathe in deep: I did... and I still freaked.

As Boyfriend looked (laughed) on - clearly enjoying my plight - I mustered all my courage and told myself, "Pull yourself together and pretend this is Pilates." I did... and it worked.

But when we took to the water I had another dose of panic attack, having not quite fathomed the fact that we'd actually started our dive. Ibrahim had asked us to link arms and swim and I'd taken that to mean we'd 'practice' our swimming technique; as we began to delve deeper into the blue-black hole that was the sea I forgot my breathing, lost my serenity, threw Boyfriend off my arm and scrambled to the surface. Graciously the boys gave me another go. So down we all went to explore the wonder that is a live and vibrant coral reef.

I'd love to say that I took in every sparkling angel fish, every brilliant damsel and clownfish, all the wonderful coral clusters and the vast depths of the ocean, but I didn't. Sure I glimpsed them all - they were there in abundance - but as a first-time diver I spent the majority of the 46-minute dive breathing in, and breathing out; kicking from my hips and worrying that my ears weren't popping properly. Of course once it was over I wanted to dive again and again...

Just next time, I might meditate first.

Note: Pic thanks to Big Blue Dahab

Intrepid traveller... Jordan: In review

2009-03-09T11:46:00.003Z

One week in the deserts of Jordan with no Net access and limited shower facilities has made me one smelly and anxious lady. Now in Aqaba - Jordan's seriously filthy seaport that borders Eilat, Israel, Boyfriend and I are counting the minutes (and our dinars) until we board our ferry to Egypt.

Not that we're under any delusion that Egypt will be less sandy or dirty, but our first destination is Dahab and our guide, Chloe, assures us that we'll be pleasantly surprised. We're taking that to mean that for the first time in a while our hotel bathroom won't smell like a urinal and that our bedsheets might just have been washed in between guests.

But I digress...

Not knowing much about Jordan other than it shares the Dead Sea with Israel and that it's the home of the wonderfully elegant Queen Rania, I had no preconceived ideas about what to expect. The capital city of Amman was much like Syria's Damascus only with better roads and infrastructure and it was there we met four new members of our group (two Irish sisters seeking some Jordanian sunshine, and an Aussie girl and English guy who will be with us right through to Cairo).

Our day trip to the Dead Sea was ludicrously expensive, and although the weather was great - just shy of 26 degrees - I failed to see the luxuriousness of bathing in a salty, oil slicked-bath. I stayed in long enough to pose for a photo then headed to the resort's chlorinated pools to take a dip in water nearing freezing point. We left two hours later all a little redder and dirtier than before.

Next stop was Petra. We bought a two-day pass, although I don't know why as neither Boyfriend or I are that into exploring old rocks and ruins... But we did the first day justice, covering a whopping 14 kilometres worth of the ancient Nebatean "rose-red city" (c.100 BC). We snapped the famous Treasury and hiked 45 minutes up to the ancient Monestary. And along with a thousand or so Thomson Cruise ship tourists - who'd been bussed-in for the day - we battled the blazing sun and the oppressive stench of donkey and camel urine. While the sheer size of the site can't help but be impressive, the litter everywhere and the pushy Bedouin salesmen (some as young as two years old) made the experience more of a challenge. Similarly, we found little beauty in watching donkeys being whipped across the mouth as they lugged lard-arsed tourists up the rocky cliffs. Petra certainly shows tourism at its worst.

From there we ventured further into the desert to stay a night in a 'traditional' Bedouin camp. A short safari jeep ride (to see some old rock inscriptions) and a mighty sandstorm later, we woke this morning ready to brace more sunshine. We've sand all through our bags (Australian customs is going to grill me for sure) and all our clothes are filthy...

What I wouldn't give right now for a flushing toilet and a real shower!

Note: Pic thanks to Sacred-Destinations.com

Intrepid traveller... Damascus

2009-03-04T12:55:00.016Z

It's the early afternoon and I'm in a dusty internet cafe, cloaked in the smoke of a dozen Arab gentlemen all sitting around sipping tea. Boyfriend is tucked away in our hotel watching B-grade Hollywood movies having officially called it a day, in Damascus.

More mosques, more rubbled remains of 'great walls' and another grand bazaar... Damascus, our last stop in Syria, hasn't exactly wowed us. True, the ice cream rolled in pumpkin seeds served at Bakdash ice creamery in the Al Hamidiyeh Souq was lovely (if not a little gelatinous in texture) but apart from those, we're starting to see a sad trend of 'same-old, same-old' when it comes to Middle Eastern menus.

Usually a huge fan of kebabs, falafels and the like, Boyfriend today announced that if he has to eat one more falafel sandwich he'll dry reech. Just over halfway through our trip, I'm hoping he's exaggerating. Although I think his negative attitude has more to do with the fact we've had more money stolen - this time from my wallet which was inside our last hotel's safe...

At the rate we're hemorrhaging money I'm thankful at least our flights home our paid for!

Note: Bakdash ice cream pics thanks to Flickr.com

Intrepid traveller... Still wandering

2009-03-02T20:55:00.007Z

We find ourselves amid a vast expanse of desert (only 230 kilometres from Syria's border with Iraq) in the ancient town of Palmyra (above). As I battle to blog via a dial-up connection let me reminisce our last few days.

En route from Aleppo to Hama - an important agricultural and industrial region of Syria - we passed the ruins of the Temple of Saint Simeon, a 5th century extremist-Christian monk who spent the last 36 years of his life living atop pillars (ranging from 9 to 60-feet high). In his quest for the meaning of life, and following a revelation he had in a dream, Simeon joined a monastery at 16 only to be dismissed for his extreme forms of penance (allegedly Simeon was a cutter). Seeking solace in the hills he went to live in a cave but when word spread of his devotion he soon found himself the object of pilgrimages. It was then he began to build pillars. Thanks to pilgrims and monks providing him with food and water via ladders, Simeon was able to live permanently mid-air. Why exactly he was made a saint is unclear, although the fact that he was reflects the favouritisms of the Christian church: Simeon taught that women were the spawn of the devil and refused for women to come anywhere near his pillars of solitude.

The Temple of St Simeon - the boulder representing the site of his first 9-foot-high pillar

Not exactly a hot spot for tourists, in Hama we were met with cautious smiles (revealing rotten gums and blue-black, bead-like teeth) and a good numbers of, "Well come"'s. Promoting tourism isn't big on the Syrian Government's agenda; however, Hama is considered a 'go to' place for locals to visit the 14th century water wheels (or norias) that border the Orontes river. Sadly the wheels weren't turning for our visit.

While revered by the townspeople, that doesn't stop them using it as their local dumping ground for waste. One woman begging on a bridge, with her crying toddler on her lap, casually threw a used diaper over the edge in between her wails of, "Baby. Money. Baby. Money." The build up of refuse has even caused a phenomenon I've termed, 'bubbling river' – first we thought raindrops were falling, but then we realised the bubbles were actually rising from below the green-murkiness. Lovely.

From Hama we bundled our group of four into the back of an old Merc (c.1955). The boot full to bursting we sat with bags on laps for the four hour drive to Palmyra, stopping just out of Hims for a guided tour of Crac des Chevaliers - one of the best preserved Crusader fortresses in the world. Only 30 kilometres from the border with Lebanon, Boyfriend was able to see the snow-capped mountains of his mother's ancestral homeland; although being as sentimental as a stone it required some coaxing on my behalf for him to eventually take a photo. As far as ruins go, Crac des Chevaliers is definitely one to see. Built in the early12th century by more than 1100 slaves over 75 years the result was a castle fit for fairytales. Heavily protected by two moat systems and innumerable holes in the ceilings and walls from which hot oil was supposedly poured over anyone attempting a break-in, the castle was never penetrated. Instead the Crusaders gave it up to the Islamic army in the late 13th century in return for safe passage out of the region.

Arriving into Palmyra in the late afternoon we were once again met by a semi-ghost town. Not ones for working excessively at the best of times, it would seem Syrian's take the words "off season" literally. Of the few shops open for business we had the options of dusty jewellery, carpets, remodeled Roman and Islamic helmets and shisha pipes for sale, and two run down restaurants. But according to The Lonely Planet, Palmyra is the place to see.

And to be fair, the ruins of the ancient city are fantastic. Set in a desert oasis and established in the 1st century, it was a prosperous city along the trade route linking Persia to the Mediterranean ports of Roman Syria. Having seen lots of (as Boyfriend calls them), "bundles of old rocks," on this trip we were surprised by the sheer size of the ruins and the enormity of the relics that have been restored. A trip at sunset to high hilltop where Palmyra's citadel still stands, gave us a wonderful panoramic view of the site. If only the new town were half as grand.

In the spirit of the Bedouins, tonight we ate a traditional underground-oven cooked dinner of chicken and rice in a carpeted tent amid the oasis. Suitably stuffed, we all agree that the food on offer in Syria has surpassed that of Turkey. Hummus, mattabal and tabuleh are provided in abundance, along with to-die-for falafel wraps sold by street vendors for a mere 20 cents (US). How strange it is to be in gastronomic heaven, amongst all this dust and debris.

Note: Top pic thanks to Flickr.com and St Simeon's boulder courtesy of Atlasttours.net.

Intrepid traveller... Searching Syria

2009-02-27T12:49:00.006Z

Syria is a land of contradictions. While the government heavily censors web access (Facebook is banned, as is Blogger but I've managed to break through via Mozilla Firefox) the streets around Aleppo - the country's second largest city - are littered with lingerie stores selling an array of neon coloured undergarments that would put Amsterdam's Red Light district to shame. Every house, flat or shop boasts a satellite dish - Aleppo from the air resembling a pock-marked teenager - with said-satellite television offering more than a hundred (graphic) Arabic porn channels. And yet of the few women seemingly granted 'street privileges,' all are covered from head to toe in floor-length overcoats and veiled burkas that shroud even their eyes from view. So just who is wearing the lime green knickers?

Crossing the border on Thursday - border control yet another example of Middle Eastern inefficiency where no fewer than six men are employed to do the work of one, as another half dozen look on smoking cigarettes and sipping tea - we spent the afternoon roaming through the souks. After buying a small child's weight in scarves, Boyfriend dragged me out of the musty, smelly mayhem (where lamb carcases hang in the open air next to stalls selling dried fruit, nuts and sweating cheeses) and back to our hotel.

On Friday, Islam's day of rest, we walked the deserted streets to the historic citadel. Aleppo is another city claiming the title of 'oldest inhabited city'; it's citadel a testament to the notion that at one time, the city was in fact quite grand. The hill, on which the ruins of a fortified medieval palace (c.1100 CE) now stand, is claimed to date back to the 3rd century BC. Sadly restoration of the site has slowed to a near standstill. The ruins reek of urine and the pathways and remains lay covered in people's rubbish. With most of the visitors local Syrians - we were among perhaps a handful of Westerners visiting with the masses - it's hard not to chastise the locals for their lack of pride in their great city's monument.

Looking out over the high limestone walls, across the great expanse of Aleppo - the city spanning 16,000 km² with a population just under 5 million - our 360 degree view was bleak. Searching for areas of vegetation left us wanting, with the only dots of green the patches of dying grass amid decaying buildings. It seems that repair and restoration is an unfamiliar concept to 'modern' Middle Easterners. Decrepit buildings are simply propped up with wooden sticks and new constructions are left incomplete to avoid paying the full amount of home owner tax. Even the 'grand' government building at the base of citadel hill had broken windows and debris spilling out into it's courtyard.

It baffles the mind as to how the same region that founded the civilised world, where impressive structures were built to stand the test of thousands of years, can now be so backward. Dust and dirt is everywhere and no one seems the least bit concerned. Travelling through India, Peru and even parts of South East Asia I found the same, poor people living amongst their own squalor. It costs nothing to pick up the rubbish strewn over your own balcony, roof top and outside your own front door - nothing except time; and time is certainly something the people seem to have in abundance.

Sorry, but my (independent/liberated/Western) female mind can't help but judge.

Note: Top pic courtesy of Bugbog.com, rooftops thanks to Flickr.com

Intrepid traveller... Rub-a-dub-dub

2009-02-25T16:56:00.013Z

We're in Gaziantep, another of the supposedly 'oldest inhabited cities in the world,' and this morning I was scrubbed down by one of it's oldest residents.

At four-foot-nothing and wearing little more than a bra and shorts, my masseuse was otherwise the quintessential Turkish grandmother - albeit armed with a sanding mit, loofah and shampoo. For a country so consumed with covering up, the ladies working at Naib Hamami (Gaziantep's historic bath house built in 1640 at the base of the city's citadel) were all for stripping down.

Speaking no English, they shooed Chloe and I through to a marble changing room (complete with wooden cubicles and the odd Turkish rug), where we donned our bathers and flip flops, and led us by the hand through a doorway fit for hobbits and into the first of our washrooms.

I was sat on a metal stool as grannie doused me in hot water. She then scuttled me across to a large heated stone alter where I was made to lie down like Jesus on the cross, staring up at a ceiling spotted with star-shaped holes. This was apparently for 'quiet time' and to give our pores a chance to really open up... Chloe and I giggled continously enjoying the madness of our latest endeavour. After five minutes - and some static instructions in Turkish - my little lady brought me into the massage room.

The next 45 minutes were truly something. I lay on the marble floor, was scoured to burning point and rubbed and scrubbed in areas previously only visited by boyfriends and waxing ladies. When she straddled my recumbent body kneeding my breasts like dough I knew I was getting the Royal Treatment. Desperate not to start laughing I closed my eyes, but I couldn't quite get over the vigour with which this tiny person was scrubbing me up and down. The clumps of dead skin outlining my body the only reminder of what exactly I was there for.

After the scrub she took to my hair, emptying half the contents of a bottle of Pantene 2-in-1 onto my scalp; the other half she used on my body for the final rub down. Not once skerrick of my body was left uncleansed. I'd reached spa nirvana.

Not for faint hearted... more for those seeking a little bit of crazy: haman is undoubtedly my favourite Turkish experience.

Note: Top image courtesy of I feel it too, Naib Hamami thanks to www.suleymanucar.com

Intrepid traveller… Cappadocia

2009-02-23T15:56:00.007Z

11 hours and 10 kilometres from our destination of Göreme, our overnight bus kicked us off at a small depot in the middle of nowhere, amongst yet more snow. Little explanation was given other than our bus was no longer travelling into Göreme – at a whim, the driver was heading straight to the next town.

Bag-laden we huddled together in the cold (offers for us to sit in the smoke filled reception room not-so-graciously declined) as we waited for the next coach to come along. It was 7am and the coach was due for 8am, Turkish-time. As we’ve come to realise the clocks in Turkey tick to their own beat, so our guide rang our hotel to see if they might collect us. Thankfully they were awake and answered her call.

Göreme is a small town in Cappadocia – a historical and unique area of Asia Minor known for its fairy chimneys (conical rock formations formed after volcanic eruptions more than 8 million years ago). Naturally porous and easily shaped, these conical hills became homes for the people of the area. Digging out the insides they were able to create cave dwellings that have stood for thousands of years.

Most of the cave houses have now been abandoned – their foundations finally crumbling – and those which are still occupied are owned by the government, leased to families and passed down the ancestral line. We were lucky enough to be invited into one such home yesterday, for tea and some soft-selling. On a walk through the town we bumped into Haditha, a local in her late fifties who moved to Göreme 28 years ago when she married her husband. It was his family home that she welcomed us into, showing off her 7-year-old granddaughter as well as her handmade scarves, etc. As nothing in Turkey is ‘for free’, Anna and Glen took one for the team and bought one of her handsewn pillow cases. Haditha told us it was real Zebra skin… although its leopard-like print made us question her translation.

Not ones for settling on simple caves above ground, the ancient people of the region also dug below, with more than 40 underground cities created from around 2,000 BC. These cave cities protected their inhabitants during war time, even housing livestock. We visited the biggest and deepest, Derinkuyu – with eight floors and extending to a depth of approximately 85 metres.

Tomorrow we continue to travel eastwards, to Gaziantep, on our way towards Syria.

Note: Sadly, my trusty Dell laptop (c.2003) has suffered a fatal blow – the connection to the main power supply no longer ‘connecting’ – so posts from now on will revert to using stolen photos from net (top pic thanks to Jim Shannon's photostream and Derinkuyu caves courtesy of Encounterturkey.com). I’m devastated; mainly because now I have to lug around 3-odd kilos of dead weight.

A darling addition...

2009-02-23T15:29:00.004Z

Just past midnight on Saturday morning, as I lay cuddled-up to Boyfriend in our wood hut in Olympos, I woke - somewhat disorientated - to the sound of my mobile ringing. Before we left London I made sure to top up my credit, awaiting this phone call.

Sure enough it was news that my (middle) sister had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. A new sister for almost 3-year-old niece - and the fourth of my nieces - this little cherub enters a very female-focussed family. It will be a few years until I start a family of my own, but seeing my sisters with their babies only further endorses motherhood.

Only a few more weeks until I get to meet her (and her two-week old cousin) in person... My mission now: to find some gold, frankincense and mir for the little darlings.

Intrepid traveller... Man make fire

2009-02-21T13:13:00.011Z

We spent the night in Olympos, a small bungalow 'community' slightly off the beaten track. Once a great port town, established in the Hellenistic period, now it's kind of a tourist trap for those wanting to chill out on an isolated pebbled beach, smoke shisha and disappear for a while.

According to our itinerary, halfway up Mount Olympus (one of the twenty or so Mount Olympos' throughout the old Roman Empire) there are holes in the mountain that spontaneously ignite with flames: the area named Chimera after a mythical Greek fire breathing creature. Usually seen at night, Chloe suggested the 'legend' more impressive than the reality (apparently a thousand years ago ships could see the flames from the sea) so we skipped the 15 lira evening tour bus and instead chose to hike there this morning. We're taking our first overnight bus tonight so we were all keen for a bit of strenuous activity.

The sun shone brilliantly so the 12km walk was actually a pleasure - except for the part where we had to wade barefoot through a pebbled creek bed and sunk in quicksand.

But it was worth it. We climbed from the base up a good 800 metres and there in the clearing were a dozen or so open flames - like an abandoned campsite, although these barbeques have been burning for thousands of years.

While the flames were little, the boys were able to amuse both themselves and others by dousing the fires with water and reigniting them using various sticks and dried grasses they found. This activity wore on for a good hour or so before Chloe and I dragged them back down. Although the fact that two tour buses had arrived with others wanting to play with the flames helped our cause.

On the beach below Mount Olympus

The smile on Boyfriend's face was priceless. On the way home he even got to skim pebbles across the creek... fire and rocks made for one satisfied Homosapien.

Intrepid traveller... Snow bunny

2009-02-19T18:54:00.006Z

As I type I lie cocooned under three heavy woollen blankets, in the white tiled bedroom of our hotel in Dalyan. The temperature outside is just a fraction above freezing and rain has been teeming intermittently all afternoon.

Thankfully, the electricity is back on. It enjoyed a brief interlude a short while ago, as it seems that everything here is on a timer, and our visit (and subsequent desire for warmth and running water) just isn’t in the winter schedule. We’re all eagerly awaiting the hot water – set to turn on at 8pm – although I don’t fancy the chances of it staying hot long enough for all eight of us to shower.

Dalyan is a little town that needs to be seen in the summer months. On the banks of a river and overlooked by a cliff face cut with Lycian tombs, it’s just a short boat ride to İztuzu beach: the site of one of the few remaining nesting grounds for sea turtles.

But in February the turtles are nowhere to be seen, and the nearby Sultaniye hot springs are closed. While the place swarms with chavvy-tourists during spring and summer – evidence of their seasonal-occupation seen now in the emptied swimming pools and castaway sun chairs – for us Dalyan is more of a pit stop en route to Olympos.

Today we battled another 7-hour bus journey, even passing through a snowstorm. At first I took a few pictures out of the window, thinking no one back home would believe we’d lucked-out with more snow in Turkey, but when the bus pulled to a stop atop a mountain in the middle of nowhere I realised once again the power of the elements.

Praise Allah, one of his handy followers was onboard and he hopped out to help the driver put on some snow chains. At one point the bus started to slide a bit and our guide, Chloe, jumped up to reapply the handbrake. Crisis averted, it was still enough to shock us all with visions of ourselves being thrown, cocktail shaker-like, headfirst off the cliff.

Amid the excitement I managed to take a few more snaps. Later when Our Saviour took his exit he handed me his card as he mumbled something in Turkish. I turned and looked quizzically at a young guy who I hoped might speak some English; he reassured me that the man was simply asking for me to send him a copy of the photos I’d taken – not propositioning me for wifedom. I flourished a smile and a thumbs-up in agreement. After all, without his help we’d likely still be snowed-in atop a mountain!

Turkish playlist: TARKAN

2009-02-18T18:42:00.012Z

As far as bus rides go - our tour's chosen mode of transport - I have to say that, from the ones we've used, Turkish bus companies do their nation proud.

Both the large and small coaches have been comfortable, with air-con, padded seats and even a maître d' (vest and tie optional). Yes, throughout each journey a little man waddles up and down the aisle serving us tea or coffee(mate), packed cakes and bottled water. The tickets aren't super cheap but still their level of service should be commended.

And we get audio visual entertainment too. The TV is generally set on a Turkish music channel but language barriers aside they're a lot like Western filmclips: a bunch of half naked men and women shaking their asses. Which is strange, for a predominately Muslim country.

I thought I'd give you guys links to some of the best.

Today's plug goes to Tarkan, a German-born Turkish pop singer - likened to Elvis... Go on. Press play!

Tarkan - Bu Gece video clip, courtesy of Metacafe.com

Intrepid traveller… Limestone walking is an endurance sport

2009-02-18T15:54:00.012Z

We’re now five days into our 29-day tour of the Middle East. Four of our eight group members have been hit with the flu – thanks to air-conditioned buses and a cultural phenomenon of no one covering their mouth when they sneeze or cough – and we’ve spent more than half the money that Boyfriend and I budgeted for the entire trip. But we’re still smiling (sort of).

Remains of the gymnasium, Hierapolis

Today we find ourselves in Pamukkale, a tiny town in south-western Turkey and the site of the ancient city of Hierapolis, where hot springs and calcium pools have been used as a natural spa since the 2nd century BC.

Formed millions of years ago when earthquakes gave rise to very hot springs, the brilliant white colour is a mix of limestone and chalk. Pamukkale means, “cotton castle” in Turkish. While naturally extraordinary, the ruins of the city of Hierapolis are just as magnificent. Spread across such a large area it’s easy to imagine how inspiring it would have seemed during the city’s peak in the 1st century BC.

Boyfriend (right) looking out from the top of the amphitheatre

But where earthquakes create they also devastate, and much of the great city was completely destroyed following earthquakes in 17 CE and 60 CE. It was later rebuilt in Roman style, although successive earthquakes saw it ruined and rebuilt a number of times in the subsequent centuries.

This afternoon we hitched a ride up to the top to explore the old city before slipping off our shoes and making our way precariously down the limestone. As we’re travelling in the “off season” we’ve been lucky to avoid big crowds at each of the sites we’ve visited, and Pamukkale is no different. In saying that, there was still a hoard of people dipping their feet into the shallow, calcium-rich pools. But Boyfriend decided we had to go one step further (pun intended), so we began to make our way barefoot down the 525-foot slope.

With no clear path and certainly no handrails I queried the level of safety of this, his latest challenge. But in the spirit of the gladiators and Who Dares Wins, I accepted. I learned fairly quickly that the soles of my feet are dainty, pretty things that do not take kindly to jagged edged limestone and an abundance of pebbles: my squeals and squeaks amusing Boyfriend greatly.

It’s clear that Boyfriend and I are a rare breed of a sadomasochistic couple.

* Top pic: 'Less than impressed' (Mission complete, now bend and tie your laces).

Intrepid traveller... Ephesus

2009-02-18T06:23:00.008Z

Rejuvenated after a nice sleep-in, Boyfriend and I set off for the 3.5 kilometre walk from our hotel in Selçuk to the ruins of Ephesus – the best-preserved ancient Roman city of the Eastern Mediterranean.

We picked up Anna and Glen – a Kiwi couple from our tour group who’ve spent the past two years backpacking through Europe – and followed along the main road out of town. Only a few minutes had passed before we made a right-hand turn to stop at the ruins of the Temple of Artemis. Once one of the great Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, now sadly a bunch of broken marble and stone pillars. Apparently the Pyramids of Egypt are the last of the ancient Seven Wonders still predominately intact – luckily we’ll get a chance to see them in a few weeks.

The last standing relic at the Temple of Artemis

Anna and I in the amphitheatre at Ephesus

At Ephesus we decided, in the interest of saving our liras, to share one audio guide between the four of us. Anna and I each took an earpiece and attempted to relay the information to the boys. I came to the conclusion quite quickly that I would suck as a translator: stumbling over words as I repeated statements in English is a sad indication of my communication skills.

Two hours later we were still wandering the ruins. I think we were all surprised at how extensive they are. Ephesus was a great trading city in 1st century CE; it was also the centre if the cult of Cybele – the Anatolian fertility goddess – until Cybele became Artemis – the virgin goddess of the hunt and moon – and later Diana, when the Romans conquered the city. Later Ephesus was the site of Saint Paul’s famous speech to the pagans. The pagans retaliated with three hours of chanting, “Artemis is great,” and consequently Paul was thrown out of town.

The library of Celsus, Ephesus

Audio-guide weary, we took our leave when the remains of fountains and gymnasiums and latrines (it’s surprising how little the shape of a toilet seat has changed in two thousand years) all started to merge into one. Taking in the ancient world is a tiring task.

Intrepid traveller... Gallipoli and Troy

2009-02-17T08:17:00.006Z

Yesterday we visited the site of the Gallipoli landings – 25 April 1915. It was freezing cold, with snow covering the hilltops and gravesites around Lone Pine, but our guide, Aykut, made the experience more than memorable.

A sturdy Turk no taller than me, with startling blue eyes and an inability to feel wind-chill, is one of those extraordinary people who can retain facts and stats on every subject from every era. His knowledge of Gallipoli and the reasons for the Allied attempt on the Dardanelles is extensive, while his knowledge of Australian and New Zealand politics and propaganda during WWI put all of us Aussies and Kiwis to shame.

The Australian Memorial at Lone Pine

What struck me most was how small the whole area was. The beach at ANZAC Cove is only a few metres deep, with the length of the shoreline only 3.5 kilometres. The 9-month campaign covered three areas of fighting at the southern tip of the European side of Turkey, to the left of the Dardanelle passage and on average each side incurred casualties of 1,000 men per day. That’s 500,000 men killed or injured in just over 250 days of fighting – and in the end, the Allies were evacuated. Their fight goes down in history, as the only military landing that did not achieve its final objective. And yet, the men that fought there, on both sides, were undoubtedly heroes. Today their children and grandchildren continue to march in their honour, while others make a pilgrimage to Gallipoli to help keep their spirits alive. Last year 9,000 Australian, New Zealand and British tourists came to celebrate ANZAC Day, along with 10,000 Turks. I honestly can’t imagine how they – not to mention the soldiers back in 1915 – all fit.

A statue of the Trojan Horse from the film, Troy (2004) - donated to Canakkale by Warner Bros.

From modern history to ancient times, this morning we drove from Canakkale (on the Asian side of the Dardanelles) to the ruins of Troy. Aykut proved himself, once again, the human-Encarta, reminding us of the story of Homer’s Iliad while linking the fiction to facts. Up until 2003 the actual site of Ancient Troy was a point of contention – with ruins in Sweden and London being put forward by some archaeologists – however, excavation began on this Turkish site in the late 19th century. With its key position at the gateway to the Dardanelle passage, the city of Troy was inhabited for over 4,000 years, with the oldest human remains dating back to 3,500BC. Today we saw the remnants of walls more than 5,000 years old, once standing 12 metres tall, now around 7 but still 6 metres thick.

The view across the plains of Troy (the Roman pillar a relic from the period post 1,000 BC)

When you’re standing amongst so much history its easy to get overwhelmed, and while I heard a lot of interesting facts today, the one stuck was Aykut’s story about the Trojan invention of doors and windows (circa 2,400BC). As a seaport used by the ancient civilisations, Troy sparked the imaginations of the Greeks and Egyptians who started poking holes in their homes in 2,200 and 2,100BC respectively. File that one for your next trivia night!

Intrepid traveller… The good, bad and ugly in Istanbul

2009-02-16T06:06:00.005Z

Valentine’s Day was a mixed bag. We started off slow, escaping the torrential rain with tea at a café near our hotel that offered Wireless and when the sky cleared, we made our way down to the Kumkapi fish markets – via every conceivable side street, because Boyfriend has a ‘thing’ about always taking the scenic route.

Squeezed between the waters edge and Kennedy Caddesi, one of the city’s busiest roads, the Kumkapi markets are famous for their live catches and reasonable prices. As we’d already lunched on Turkish pizza rolled with coriander leaves, sliced tomato and fresh lemon juice (all for 4 lira) our visit was purely voyeuristic until a conversation began with a local restaurateur, Garip.

This guy not only addressed me personally – as I was snapping away at his sardines and sea breams – but he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say: I was putty in his hands. It turned out that Garip’s uncle had immigrated to Melbourne 45 years ago (Garip even scrolled through his mobile address book to show said-uncle’s Australian phone number) and had recently flown back to Turkey to visit Garip’s dying father. In less than five minutes we’d learned all about his family and shared tales of both the joys and sadness that come with immigration (me regaling my mother’s own story of moving over from Slovenia). So of course I promised that we’d return for dinner that evening and bring our new tour group. Happily envisaging his prospective table-of-eight, Garip continued to wave to us from across the caddesi as we made our way back up the hill into the city.

Knowing full well that we wouldn’t be making the trek back to Kumkapi I spent the next hour composing the apologetic postcard I would send to Garip from our next port, Boyfriend chiding me once again for being so naive. Then he noticed a dropped brush of a shoe shiner who was racing down the path, he pointed it out and the man thanked us profusely – then turned and motioned for me give him my foot, to polish my very muddy knee highs. Thinking his gesture one of thanks for saving his mislaid brush I too thanked him profusely. He then went at Boyfriend’s trainers with a toothbrush as I began searching for a few coins for his hard work. But it turned out he was after more than a few coins, asking for 14 liras to compensate his efforts. We literally only had 10 lira on us. After checking our money purse for himself he took the 10 and a few cents and walked off in a huff. I was mortified… for about two minutes until the next shoe shiner that passed our way also (deliberately) dropped his brush in our path. The nerve!

We were feeling decidedly used as we arrived back to our hotel ready to meet our new tour group. We went to our room to gather our things, including our local payment money for our guide, and convened with our group in the lobby. It was then that Boyfriend realised we’d been robbed. While we had gone to the trouble of putting our wallets and passports in the hotel safe, Boyfriend had forgotten about the American dollars we’d had converted for the tour – that $880 he’d kept in his travel pouch tucked into the bottom of his daypack. It turns out that morning our cleaning lady had down more than simply make our bed and change our towels, she’d helped herself to $160! Of course the guy at reception denied any hotel staff involvement, but Boyfriend, being even more anally retentive than myself had noticed that the travel pouch had not only been moved but that the sheets of paper within the pouch had also been put back in a different order.

Needing to bond with our new friends, we went out to dinner and planned to drop into the police station on the way back, to file a report in the hopes that I might be able to claim it back on insurance. The police station was right by our hotel, we envisaged the process might take an hour, at most.

And so began the saga of our night in a Turkish police station.

First off none of the policemen spoke English; one who spoke a little bit – a sweet guy in his late twenties with a vicious receding hairline – came over to our hotel to talk with the receptionist and apparently watch a copy of the video surveillance from the corridor outside our room. However, the only person with access to the surveillance tapes was the owner, and he was out with his wife for their Valentine’s Day dinner, and not due back until Monday.

We went back to the station and waited. It was at this point that our nice policeman scattered off. The next hour and forty-five minutes was spent perched on two plastic chairs in the bare, smoke-filled room that constituted their police station. It was obvious the sergeant in charge - a sturdy, arrogant bastard in his late forties – had no desire to help; telling me (via the very broken interpretation of a visitor in the waiting room) that $160 was ‘nothing’ and it was our fault for leaving the money in our room. Six policemen stood around chatting in Turkish (laughing at us), sipping tea and chain-smoking cigarettes as we waited for the return of the English speaking sergeant. Another, pimple-faced sergeant asked – via the same visitor-interpreter – if we knew the serial numbers of our alleged ‘lost’ bills.

Finally the English speaking one returned, only to tell me that they wouldn’t be able to help us: that there was no proof of a theft and that the tapes had been watched – they hadn’t – and no one besides us had entered our room. I had explained a number of times that we didn’t want to claim against the hotel or find the suspect; just that we needed an official form to say we’d had money stolen so that we might claim against our travel insurance. A process that should have taken 20 minutes had now taken over two hours.

With the clock rapidly approaching midnight and them all jabbering in Turkish and looking at me as if I was a madwoman, I finally cracked. I burst into tears, called them all liars and ran outside into the cold. Coming to my defence Boyfriend stayed to attempt to explain my outburst and in his own way berate the Turkish justice system. With everything getting much more heated inside and me bawling out in the rain, the young guy ran out to ask me to come in, promising to write up the report and begging me to stop crying. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

So two hours and twenty minutes after meeting him, Sergeant Nuri finally wrote up the report – albeit in Turkish – and gave me his personal email address should I require any further copies be sent back to Australia. He even offered us dinner at his friend’s restaurant to apologise for how we’d been treated. In stark contrast to the animals in uniform in the other room, Sergeant Nuri proved himself a true gentleman.

Travelling overseas it’s hard not to make comparisons to life ‘back home’. And the sad and twisted thing about this saga is that I’m not even sure I’ll draw on my insurance in this case. But it was the way those policeman tried to bully me into submission by deliberately sending Sergeant Nuri off and keeping us waiting as they chatted amongst themselves, clearly not working, that made me furious and determined enough to waste my last evening in Istanbul in their company. I hate that it took tears to break them, but if the hoo-ha I caused makes our hotel think twice about the trustworthiness of their cleaner – their name now smeared in public record – and makes the police redress the way they treat the next foreign victim of theft then it’ll have been worth it. Not worth $160 perhaps, but worth the two hour wait.

Intrepid traveller... Paling into insignificance

2009-02-14T09:40:00.001Z

This isn’t the first time I’ve travelled within a predominately Muslim country, but it’s certainly the first time I’ve been accompanied by a man. I’m noticing a distinct difference. That is, I’m not being noticed at all.

Respectfully covered from neck to toe – except when it’s raining, and engulfed in my hooded parka I resemble a Jedi Knight – I’m certainly not intending to make a scene. However, I’m finding the extent to which I am ignored by street salesmen and restaurateurs somewhat disconcerting.

Boyfriend enjoying his compliments-of-me coffee, at Haydarpaşa ferry wharf

Yesterday I ordered two Turkish coffees at a small kiosk as we waited for the ferry to take us back from Haydarpaşa (on the Asian side) to Eminönü (in Europe), but the waiter turned to Boyfriend to ask if we wanted sugar mixed in. When it came time for the bill, I paid; yet the waiter returned with change for my man. He then asked Boyfriend’s name and where he came from, shook his hand, smiled and went back to serving. It was like I wasn’t even there.

At other places too they have gone to great lengths to introduce themselves to Boyfriend, congratulate him on being from Australia and/or being “such a big (tall) man,” and I merely scuttle along behind. It definitely appears that the ratio of men to women in Istanbul is skewed, and from reading excerpts of the Lonely Planet we’re told that – tourist-dense areas aside – most restaurants in Turkey are segregated and some are even strictly ‘female free’ zones.

The Blue Mosque

Today in the Blue Mosque I noticed that the back of the large prayer hall was cordoned off for women; only an eighth of the whole space deemed necessary for female worship. I’m not going to argue the pros and cons of Islam, but I do question the reasons behind, and need for, any form of segregation – be it of women and men or one race from another.

There are certain times when I like Boyfriend to take the lead: when booking travel and accommodation and getting us from A to B in general. It’s at these times I like to be a bit lazy. But I’m no wallflower and neither are any of my girlfriends. I think I would find it hard to live and work in the Middle East, although for now it is an interesting place to travel.

Last night in London (revisited)

2009-02-14T08:44:00.006Z

For you, my sweetnesses...

Intrepid traveller... Istanbul

2009-02-12T18:52:00.009Z

So we farewelled London with a dinner of roast pork and red wine with two of our loveliest girlfriends (will post pics as soon as my laptop is up-and-running), and early the next morning we set off to Luton - heaven help me - for our flıght to Istanbul.

Thankfully both our three hour flight and subsequent hourlong bus ride to our hotel were event-free; unfortunately it seems we've brought a years' worth of London rain with us.

From what we can see, through the teeming rain, Istanbul is indeed a vibrant city. Stretching across two continents, it is also one of the oldest cities (excavation in 2008 unearthed evidence of a Neolithic settlement dating from circa 6500 BC). Today we managed eight hours on foot (on both the Asian and European sides) and we barely made a dent in the map. We did, however, manage a trip to the renowned Grand Bazaar - the largest covered markets ın the world, with more than 2,000 stalls crammed into 58 streets - although Boyfriend kept me on a tight leash when we passed the jewellery stores so sadly, I left empty handed.

While the food so far hasn't impressed us too much, we're both big fans of their Turkish tea and coffee. With two cubes of sugar per tiny serving, it's hard not to like stuff!

Along with a serious caffiene addiction, it appears every man, woman and child in Turkey smokes. And if our current hotel is anything to go by, our rooms will be filled with the sweet (suffocating) scent of tobacco for the next five weeks. Boyfriend - who hasn't smoked in two and a half years - even had a dream last night that he was lighting up. My hair reeks and my skin is dry. Add to that the sadness that is my soaking Alberta Ferretti parka and my almost-mush Converse trainers, I go to bed on this our second night, one sad panda *.

Apology: Without Wireless internet my laptop is sitting idle, so any of the photos I post are borrowed from Google images. When I figure out a way to upload my own pics I promise I will... in retrospect too!

*For you... my darling Anna!

Welcome to the World...

2009-02-10T18:39:00.008Z

On Sunday my eldest sister gave birth to a beautiful (beach-ready) baby girl. Now the proud mum of three under three, my sister continues to amaze and inspire me...

While her and hubby's new seaside home obviously had an affect in utero: check out bubbaloo's natural streaks.

The Indian Connection

2009-02-09T11:25:00.007Z

It’s sleeting in Hamburg as I sit cocooned in my girlfriend and her fiancé’s flat, praying to all Gods-that-be that my 21:45 easyJet flight back to London not be cancelled. In under 72-hours Boyfriend and I need to board a plane to Istanbul, and true to form I’ve organised a million things to do before then. First and foremost, get home from Hamburg.

Girlfriend and I on a beach in Goa, Feb 2005

Four years ago said-girlfriend and I bonded for life when we endured 6 weeks backpacking through India. We survived 36-hour long train rides, 24-hour sleeper bus trips; were objectified, groped, spat at by some and revered by others (mostly native honeymooners, the wives of whom wanted to have their husbands photos taken with strange white women – us!). A strong and striking German with jet-black hair and crystal blue eyes, my girlfriend earned her degree in Australia while working in the same café as Boyfriend and I. In 2005 when I mentioned I wanted to take the summer off and explore the Wonder that is India she immediately agreed to take the journey with me. We had visions of practising yoga on the beaches of Goa and playing card games with children on the streets of Mumbai. The reality of our experience was far more wild and wonderful, with our friendship etched in the marble tiles of the Taj Mahal.

Nowadays she’s back in Germany, recently engaged and living in Hamburg. I came to visit one last time before I head Down Under, having promised to help her find a wedding dress and break down the guest list, as I may not be able to make the trip again for their wedding in August.

My flight was scheduled for 17:55 on Thursday evening. Thanks to a taxi demonstration around Trafalgar Square, my 50-min shuttle bus to Luton Airport took well over two hours; and thanks to the inefficiency of EasyJet the plane sat waiting on the tarmac for two-and-a-half hours for the snow (that had fallen on Sunday) to be removed from the wings and the plane treated with a de-icing solution. I finally arrived into Hamburg at 23:00 – both elated and exhausted.

FYI: Not the dress

Girlfriend and I had two bridal shop appointments on Friday: The first in a tiny (shabby) boutique off Lehmweg, where the attendants were pack-a-day smokers with bleach blond hair and caked-on make up; and the second on Eppendorfer Landstraße. The latter’s attendant was equally chic, wearing too-tight, pastel blue cargo trousers with a stripy blue shirt layered by a white-washed denim shirt. A diamonte hair-tie and black trainers completed her look – but the dresses on offer weren’t atrocious. Both ‘boutiques’ had a range of styles for Girlfriend to try on, with corsets and veils and all the trimmings. Typically unemotional, Girlfriend even wept a tear when she saw herself dolled-up for the first time. To be honest she would look stunning in a paper bag so I think she did the dresses more of a favour than the other way around.

On Saturday we experienced a far more comfortable and indulgent bridal fitting at Janine Kuhl Brautmoden, on Ludolfstraße. No champagne on offer but sweets and sparkling water saw us through the two hour dress marathon where Girlfriend tried on no less than ten dresses all with complicated lace-up backs. She twirled around in all that glittered, although sadly we found ourselves no closer to The Dress.

With just under seven months to go, no doubt she’ll be fine. Although reading the hoo-ha that bridal mags sell you, she should be close to wrist slitting if she’s not sorted her location, caterer, cake, guest list, photographer, seating plans and dress all before the sun sets on six months before ‘I do’.

Their wedding aside – as I’m convinced all will be fine and dandy, come August 15 – Hamburg has been a delightful host city. The sun shone brightly on Friday, retail delights abound around their flat in Eppendorfer (Anita Hass also on Eppendorfer Landstraße is a must for savvy shoppers after designer goodies) and we even managed a harbour cruise and a stop off at Hamburg's Red Light district this afternoon before the storm of hail and snow set in.

Now as I look out their window the grey clouds are clearing… Yes, I just might make it home on time.

At time of posting: My plane out of Hamburg was delayed over an hour due to further snow at London Luton. Then it took an hour to get from our 'landed' plane to border control at Luton as their ground staff had gone AWOL. Thanks to easyBus cutting costs and now hiring spaces onboard Greenline Bus Services I was then made to wait for the 00:30 bus to London Victoria (having missed my scheduled 23:00 service). A dozen stops and a few catnaps later I found myself in the middle of Buckingham Palace Road hailing a cab at 2am - but the ₤22.00 fare back to Balham was the final blow.

Farewells and (role) models

2009-02-03T13:14:00.004Z

Thanks to the heavy snowfall my kidlets have had the past two days off school. Mercifully their parents arrived back from Australia on Sunday, which means I’m off duty. Back in my Balham flat I’m enjoying ‘quiet time’ (as we sold our TV at the weekend in preparation for our move) and some much needed all-about-me time: Pilates and relaxing in a bubble-filled bathtub the highlights of my day so far.

Where my Aus-family is full on, babysitting my American cherubs has always been a breeze. To their 14-year-old son and twin 12-year-old girls I’m less a sitter and more an older sister. I take them out for dinner, teach them the eBay trade and most importantly ensure they get their daily dose of quality television shows like, The Biggest Loser, X Factor and America’s Next Top Model (I’m all for the well-rounded approach to TV-viewing).

Tonight I’m seeing these munchkins for the last time before I leave. The girls and I are going out for dinner at Wagamama, anywhere else would be breaking with tradition.

Boyfriend thinks it callous of me to accept money from their parents for simply ‘hanging out’, and to be honest, sometimes I do wonder who is entertaining who; but at the end of the day I need to take my earnings where I find them. It’s just a bonus that this job has more perks than burdens.

I’m definitely going to miss both my London pseudo-families. But I like to think that through them a part of me will always be in here, even if it’s just the bossy bits!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

2009-02-02T09:50:00.010Z

London is knee deep in the fluffy, white stuff. Cars are buried beneath inches of ice and snow and everywhere you look a person is slip-sliding their way as they attempt to get from A to B. It's fantastical!

I haven't seen snow like this since NYC. And while Londoners normally keep their heads down to avoid any form of communication or contact with other commuters, today it seems we're all smiles - on my way back from pilates I even saw a stranger offer a balancing hand to another who'd lost her footing!

Schools and offices have called a 'Snow Day' as the heaviest snow fall for London in 18 years has been recorded. Fifteen centimetres fell overnight with more snow due on Tuesday. Now housebound, Boyfriend and I are rugging up and enjoying the magic outside from the warmth of our living room (see above). Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Our little home...

Me and Su

2009-01-30T13:03:00.004Z

My glutes are pinching. Triceps pulsating. Laughing causes ripples through my obliques. I’m three weeks into my personal training Thursdays with Suru and after each session I feel just as broken as the last – in a good way!

As one who likes to be pushed to her fitness limits – except when it comes to static lunges while holding dumbbells or playground antics like sprint tests – I thrive with one-on-one trainings. And with my return to Sydney imminent I’ve been upping the ante: adding a PT session to my three Beautcamp Pilates classes each week has enabled me to drop a little of the December-bulge I managed to gain around my hips and thighs, but it’s the adrenalin that really gets me.

No matter how physically exhausted I am after a class or session, mentally I could run marathons. And suddenly that croissant or chocolate bar doesn’t hold the same allure…

Chatting to a girlfriend who had recently taken up her own Bikram Challenge we discussed how expensive keeping fit is these days, especially given the current economic climate. Ironically while credit is being crunched, more and more people are cancelling their gym memberships. Yet those same people are still patrons of the pubs on Fridays and continue to buy up big in the ongoing retail sales.

But surely if you’re going to spend money on anything, your health should be up there as a top priority? Personal training sessions might be costly, but they’re far more effective when it comes to achieving your fitness goals and losing those extra pounds.

While I’m going to miss the friends I’ve made in London, through the wonders of email and Facebook and phone lines I know we’ll all keep in touch; but I’m truly gutted about saying farewell to Beautcamp and my trainer. Suru’s classes are dynamic and his encouraging and softly spoken personal training style ensures that while I always break a sweat, huff and puff and stagger out aching, I’m able to leave with a smile on my face… Endorphins pumping!

For those in the London area who want to visit Brick Lane for something other than a curry, check out Me&Su for a free fitness assessment.

Me&Su Fitness

The Old Truman Brewery

91 Brick Lane

London E1 6QL

Eight is enough

2009-01-27T13:54:00.006Z

As I struggle to get two children under nine, up and dressed and breakfasted in time for school each morning, I marvel at those mothers – my sister included – who are dealing with multiple babies and toddlers. As soon as a child learns to crawl life gets very hectic, very quickly. These women are inspiring. Selfless. Amazing.

A mother-friend of mine once joked, “You spend the first two years of your child’s life teaching them to walk and talk, and all the years after that pleading with them to sit down and shut up!”

So just how is life going to change for the Californian woman who yesterday gave birth to octuplets? Six boys, two girls: weighing between 1.8lbs and 3.4lbs each. Initially only expecting seven babies, the eighth, Baby H, surprised all concerned. Somewhat disconcertingly, Dr Harold Henry, chief of maternal and fetal medicine at the hospital, asserted: "It is quite easy to miss a baby when you’re anticipating seven babies. Ultrasound doesn’t show you everything.”

The mother, who remains unnamed, spent the last seven weeks of her thirty-week pregnancy within the confines of the Kaiser Permanente hospital in southern California. While she’ll be released in a week, her babies will spend the next two months growing under the watchful eyes of hospital staff.

It’s unclear from reports whether the couple has other children, but the theme song for the ABC’s seventies sitcom, Eight Is Enough, is certainly playing loud and clear in my head!

Click to hear what the doctors have to say...

nip/tuck nabbed

2009-01-26T13:40:00.004Z

I’m devastated. I’m also acutely aware that by living this past month as a pseudo stay-at-home mum my world and what’s important has shrunk to within the three mile radius that encompasses the kid’s schools, the butcher and green grocer, and ‘our’ home. As such, this morning’s trip to the local video store to dose up on my next instalment of nip/tuck (addiction de jour: DVD boxed sets of the best television has to offer) only to find that some other mother has already nabbed disc 1 of season three, has left me utterly bereft.

To add insult to injury, today is the one day this week where both kidlets have after school activities that grant me ‘free-time’ until 4.30pm. I’ve pilate-d, the fridge is full, lunches have been pre-packed ready for tomorrow and I’m sitting idle, wondering at the fate of Dr. Christian Troy.

Season two climaxed with the ultimate adrenalin rush: Dr. Sean McNamara lies in wait for The Carver – gun loaded – while across town Christian is face-to-face with the masked serial-slasher, the swish of whose knife cuts through a compelling and emotive musical score. I need to know what happens!

Okay, so season two aired back in 2004. I understand I’m a little behind. But with good reason, season three began when Boyfriend and I moved to New York and without the FX channel I lost touch with the Sean and the gang. But now I’m back. Repentant. And ready to give them my undivided attention. With season five now available on DVD I’m in catch-up mode before I head back to Oz.

For loyal viewers, you will understand my obsession. For any of you who have yet to tune into Dylan Walsh (Dr. Sean McNamara) and Julian McMahon (Dr. Christian Troy) and their sexy and scandalous antics, then do yourself a favour and beg, borrow or steal the DVDs. Cosmetic surgery will never be the same again.

Gloss

2009-01-23T10:11:00.004Z

Not having to buy my own groceries whilst live-in nannying – instead I’m account-living; fruit and veg from their local grocer and yummy free range and organic meat and poultry from Lidgates – I rationalised that I could afford a long awaited visit to my fave nail parlour, Julie Nails, in Kensington.

So yesterday, after a brutal personal training session and lunch with a girlfriend, I made my way down Kensington Church Street, ready to be pampered. This really is the life.

And the ladies at Julie Nails are the best. Super friendly, their shop is always full and while their prices are very reasonable –not only for the area, but for London in general – unlike other parlours they make an effort each time to ensure their service goes above and beyond. Tea or coffee? Yes please. Magazines? Choose from a full range of the latest glossies. They even have a wide screen plasma TV for clients whose hands are out of commission as their nails are being polished and painted.

But complimentary beverages and magazines alone do not maketh the manicure… it’s all about attention to detail. A typical Mani Pedi (priced at £36) lasts well over an hour and you’re ensured a perfect finish.

After months of neglect the soles of my feet were begging to be buffed and razored, while my painfully thin and tearaway nails were itching for cuticle-attention. My technicians set to work, determination in their eyes, as I reclined further into my vibrating massage chair absorbed in the TV-viewing tragedy that is Celebrity Big Brother.

I know it’s a total extravagance, but every once in a while it’s nice to take an hour or so for yourself and do something for purely aesthetic reasons. It’s not only the end result – although I am in love with my O.P.I. Lincoln Park After Dark varnish – but for a busy, working woman I believe that hour is the closest she’ll come to meditation. How can a glossy finish ever be denied?

Julie Nails
48 Kensington Church Street
London W8 4DG
Tel: 020 7938 4883

What credit crunch?

2009-01-21T18:29:00.003Z

The global economy is the Cookie Monster’s biscuit and the world now suffers his every crunch. We’re all feeling it, aren’t we?

According to friends and family we definitely are. Purse strings have been tightened, planned holidays have been cancelled – with cancellation fees humbly accepted, as we mutter “for the greater good” – and figures show that one in three of us have, either personally or by association, been affected by redundancy. This Crunch is huge. It’s big and nasty. So how come my employers (and their Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea-friends) are still spending large?

For the month of January I’ve been live-in babysitting for my Aussie family of five. Well, just Master 9 and Miss 6 actually, while their parents take the eldest, Master 12, off to Australia to settle him into boarding school. I’ve been left as sole carer of their youngsters, with full use of their Holland Park abode, their cars (a Golf and Mercedes) and more importantly, their cleaner!

The Help, a softly spoken Spanish girl – probably no older than me – visits Monday through Saturday, to scrub the kitchen and bathrooms, dust the shelves and do the washing and ironing… she even irons our socks! So comfortable with hired-hands, my little cherubs apply the use-and-dump method to not only their toys but also their attire. Master 9 and Miss 6 happily change outfits two to three times a day and when they do de-robe, simply walk out of their clothes like they were the Emperor of some far flung land. Heads held high.

Having been raised by a no-nonsense Eastern European mother, the concept of picking up my own things is fiercely engrained. I struggle with the complacency of my charges as I earnestly try to reason with the unreasonable. The only lessons they learn are the lessons they lose from: if they don’t do X when asked they don’t get Y (something they’re looking forward to). I take Supernanny’s advice and offer up three warnings, explaining each time – at eye level and with a firm tone – what exactly it is about their behaviour I’m finding so unacceptable but nine times out of ten they lose Y.

As there is so little these kids are actually expected to do I’m making it my mission over the next three weeks that they’ll at least learn to put their dirty clothes in a laundry basket (there are, in fact, six strewn around the house). I’m hopeful; after all, it’s only taken a week to get Miss 6 to master the application of her own toothpaste to toothbrush.

However manipulative the kidlets are – and they are – blame cannot be laid squarely on their shoulders. The world they are growing up in is luxury in the extreme. The children they attend school with include the sons and daughters of lords and ladies, politicians, actors and models. They are chauffeured round London by drivers named Eddie or Ahmed and their meals are cooked by the nanny or house keeper or delivered direct from Wholefoods and Ottolenghi. They are indulged, and continue to be indulged while the rest of the world tightens their belts.

And while I benefit from their good graces and generosity, I can’t help but think that it would be good for their kids to see every now and then how the other half live… but likely they’ll inherit the good fortunes of their forefathers and never want for anything. Sadly, that’s generally how the cookie crumbles.

'Our Cheryl'... okay then, I guess I'm one of 'em!

2009-01-20T17:15:00.005Z

Despite the best efforts of, amongst others, my old Clapham flatmate, throughout my two years in London I have resisted joining the UK-Soap fan-phenomenon; and proudly know by name only the likes of East Enders, Hollyoaks and Emmerdale...

But I definitely bought into their X Factor, and I think it was Girls Aloud starlit, Cheryl Cole that got me: hook, line and sinker!

Read my February UK Vogue review in GWAS, and fall in love with Mrs. Cole for yourself.

Leaving London: part two

2009-01-19T10:29:00.007Z

Way back in November 2007 I posted a blog about fad diets and detoxing – I was coming out of yet another lose-weight-quick scheme in preparation for my first trip back to Oz; then in March of last year I tried hypnosis, in the hopes it would finally kick my craze of dieting and food-guilt. It’s now January 2009 (exactly two months, to the day, until I arrive back in Sydney) and lo and behold I’m once again tipping the scales and hoping for a miracle.

It’s not that I’m huge (I know that), it’s just that I feel swollen. I’m not a victim of the Heathrow-injection either, because I was about this size when I moved here from New York two years ago… I’m just a girl who likes her exercise, and her chocolates and biscuits too!

I try running, I try yoga; I mix detox with pleasure. I attempt moderation and when I don’t see results, I ultimately ‘research’ the latest (and greatest) in slimming sensations. And while I promise myself time and again that I won’t buy into another diet pill or weight loss tea, the truth is in my bank statements and another fad diet bites the dust.

My one constant – and true London love – is Beautcamp Pilates. Thrice-weekly classes put a smile on my face and pump endorphins through my veins. My instructors inspire me and the girls I sweat with encourage me; in this case, obsession loves company.

But with only three weeks left before Boyfriend and I take off for our travels I’m sad (and scared) that without drastic measures I won’t fit into the dresses I’ve already bought for our friends’ weddings when we get back. While Bride Wars is not exactly a film for the ages, Kate Hudson’s desperate voice plays over in my mind: You don’t alter a Vera Wang to fit you; you alter yourself to fit Vera! And while my dresses aren’t Vera’s, Chloé and Doo Ri deserve similar respect.

Following the mantra Eat Less, Move More, while also enlisting the services of a personal trainer to kick my butt each Thursday with an hour-long weight session from hell, I’m hoping to shift an ambitious 5 kilos (that’s 11lbs for my English and American readers). According to my new PT, weight sessions that incorporate cardio (think circuit training with weights) burn twice the calories than cardio machines alone, as your ravaged muscles continue to burn hours after you’ve thrown in the towel. If last Thursday’s session was anything to go by, I believe him. It’s Monday morning and I’m still walking down stairs like a woman who’s just given birth!

Last night as my eyelids drooped and I prepared for bed, I caught a glimpse of British hypnotist, Paul McKenna, on his TLC program, I Can Make You Thin. Among other mind over matter techniques, McKenna espouses four home-truths about how thin people stay slim – and they don’t sound that crazy:

1. When You Are Hungry, Eat
2. Eat What You Want, Not What You Think You Should
3. Eat Consciously And Enjoy Every Mouthful
4. When You Think You Are Full, Stop Eating

So we’ll see how this one goes.

Moonlighting again... Glamourizing GWAS

2009-01-15T22:37:00.004Z

It's nice to be able to justify frivolous spending as 'work'... while everyone else seems to be tightening their belts, I'm buying mags - ready for review - in a bid to keep you all informed.

Selfless, I know.

For February's UK Glamour, check out GWAS!

Leaving London: part one

2009-01-15T22:10:00.005Z

Only four more weeks until Boyfriend and I catch our last tube out of London, destination: Sydney (via Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt and the UAE!).

I’m excited – which might have something to do with the fact I’m still nannying: slowly losing my vocabulary as I gain ever more inches round my belly. Boyfriend, on the other hand is less enthusiastic. He loves his job, likes his mates – mostly cricket buddies he’s commiserated (read: drunk) with this past rained-out season – and doubts he’ll feel the same buzz once we’re back on sun-drenched soil. In the current economic climate I can see his point. Sadly, it’s his lack of a visa or relevant passport that’s shipping us ‘home’.

As we’re travelling for a month before we land in Oz I’ve had to downsize my wardrobe significantly. Two large garbage bags of clothes and shoes went to Oxfam, along with a box of unused/unopened make-up (leftovers from my gains at Bazaar beauty sales) and a box of books. I think I ditched the same amount two years ago when we left New York… living in transit certainly promotes wardrobe-cleansing.

But thanks, in part, to my recent eBay endeavours I have a bunch of clothes with which I dare not part. All those fit into four medium boxes and a small suitcase, or 23 cubic feet (if you include the two medium boxes Boyfriend requires). And while I diligently sorted and packed my belongings early last week, Boyfriend unfortunately is doing his share as I type (grr!), so allowing for 8 – 12 weeks of shipping this means my beloved wardrobe will still be in transit when we arrive.

Since we have a wedding in Auckland the first week we’re back such a timeframe is simply unacceptable. So I bit the bullet and re-jigged my boxes, removing my most coveted items – including some Balenciaga, Chloe, Marni and my new Derek Lam Brigatta platforms (if shoes could be babies…) – and bundled them into two post-bags, ready to be sent Royal Mail. With a retail value of more than £3,000 I’m more than a little bit hesitant. But it’s a catch-22: if I’m honest and insure them for their RRP then not only will I get lumped with huge customs charges but I risk the packages being stolen enroute… and if I lie and state ‘no commercial value’ then I risk them legitimately being lost in shipping, leaving no avenue for compensation. What should a (poor) girl do?

After an encouraging, be it brief, conversation with my mother I’ve decided on the latter course of action. I’ll send them recorded delivery, marked with no value… may the designers forgive me and their fabrics absolve me, and may Etherus (the God of Excess) smile upon my little white bundles and keep them safe.

One Fat Duck

2009-01-04T22:32:00.006Z

Two weeks of eating only meat and stodge in Eastern Europe, followed by a long weekend in Manchester devouring the mountains of chocolate my teacher-girlfriend had been given by her class for Christmas, and I feel (and look) like One Fat Duck.

Which reminds me that I’ve yet to post a review on Boyfriend and my excursion to Heston Blumenthal’s three Michelin star restaurant, The Fat Duck, in Bray.

Our four hour, £400 degustation lunch marked the occasion of Boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday. Notoriously hard to buy for, at least one sure way to my Boyfriend’s heart is through his stomach – via his highly discerning taste buds, of course.

I’d read much about Blumenthal and his Duck: the self-taught, culinary alchemist opened his 40-cover fine dining hideaway in 1995, gaining it’s first Michelin star in 2001 – the third in 2004 – and receiving international acclaim, being named Best Restaurant in the world, in April 2005, by the "50 Best" Academy of over 600 international food critics, journalists and chefs. When I interviewed Blumenthal for Bazaar online, a few months back, I found him in equal measures intriguing and personable. And while his recipes would scare off the average diner, the years of trial and error (yes, years: his "Sound of the Sea" course took three years from concept to consumption) cannot but be admired.

For gastro-gluttons like us, an outing to Bray was simply a must. So I made the call; and called again, and again. Reservation lines open at 10am exactly two months before the date, with places filled within five minutes, but finally I got through. And I managed to keep the whole thing a secret!

We caught the train from Paddington to Maidenhead, then a quick taxi. Its façade is unassuming, however, as soon as we were through the doors we were greeted like old (very important) friends. Our coats were checked, we were led to our table, and eighteen courses later we were ready to roll back to London.

While I admire Blumenthal and his principles of molecular gastronomy – his Pommery Grain Mustard Ice Cream with Red Cabbage Gazpacho was one of my favourites – I did sometimes wonder if I actually liked what I was eating, or was simply enjoying the madness of it all? Sifting through razor clams and baby eels atop sand made from tapioca and grape seeds, while listening to the sounds of waves and seagulls through a shell-encased iPod, is an experience, yes, but delicious, no. And yet we ate on… sharing a few giggles along with our wine.

Ultimately dining at The Duck is a once in a lifetime experience… for most of us that is. But for those lucky enough not to be tightening their belts, Blumenthal offers an equally pleasing a la carte menu, to be enjoyed time and again. Who knows, maybe we’ll return in five years for my thirtieth. Depends what Givenchy has brought out that season!

Le Tasting Menu

Nitro-poached green tea and lime mousse
Orange and beetroot jelly
Oyster with passion fruit jelly and lavender
Pommery grain mustard ice cream with red cabbage gazpacho
Jelly of quail, langoustine cream and a parfait of foie gras
Oak moss and truffle toast

Snail porridge with Jabugo ham and shaved fennel

Roast foie gras “Benzaldehyde” with almond fluid gel and cherry and chamomile

“Sound of the Sea” (as described)

Salmon poached in liquorice gel, with artichoke, vanilla mayonnaise and “Manni” olive oil

Ballotine of Anjou pigeon, black pudding “Made to Order”, pickling brine and spiced juices

Hot and Iced tea

Mrs Marshall’s Margaret Cornet

Pine sherbet fountain

Mango and Douglas fir puree with Bavarois of lychee and mango, blackcurrant sorbet

Parsnip cereal

Nitro-scrambled egg and bacon ice cream with pain perdu and tea jelly

Petit fours of carrot and orange lolly, mandarin aerated chocolate, apple pie caramel “Edible Wrapper” and violet tartlet

Budapest and beyond...

2009-01-01T11:25:00.013Z

Another year gone and Living Out London welcomes 2009 curled up on my couch, bundled in winter woollies, complete with Boyfriend’s socks and (appropriated) hotel slippers. Oh so chic.

And no, I’m not recovering from a big night of partying and fireworks. It’s just that it’s only 2°C outside and our little street in Wandsworth is clouded in fog. Days like these call for couches and hot tea.

But I have been busy. A fortnight ago I said farewell to my kidlets (after swapping Christmas presents and even scoring an end-of-year bonus) and packed my bag headed for Hungary. The plan: two days in Budapest followed by two nights in Ljubljana, and then meeting up with the parentals (currently living the quiet life in Puče, near the Slovenian coastal town of Portorož) for a European Christmas with a few days in Dubrovnik to cap off the silly season.

Boyfriend had scheduled a work trip starting the week before in Hungary, with other meetings in Croatia and Austria, only to be stuck in Budapest for four days thanks to a Hungarian railway strike. He’d managed to catch a bus to Vienna on the Thursday for an early morning Friday meeting, so when I arrived – laden with over 26 kilos of luggage (most of which were books for my mother, who had run out of reading material) – he was still in Austria enjoying a Weiner schnitzel.

Although he’d given me ample instructions for catching a bus, a train and a metro to our hostel, I chose, unsurprisingly, the more direct airport shuttle – for an entirely reasonable 12 euros. Alone, and seemingly bringing London’s rain with me, I took shelter for a few hours in a smoky café (smoking in restaurants having yet to be banned throughout most of Eastern Europe) and then decided to hide away in the local cinema to enjoy some Coen brothers humour and George Clooney/Brad Pitt action in Burn After Reading.

The next day, reunited, we took on a city bus tour, yet another funicular – up to Buda Castle – enjoyed meaty goulash, plenty of pastries and sorted out our means of travel from Budpest to Ljubljana; the union workers on their eleventh day of striking. A trip to the Christmas markets and a bag of honeycomb later and it was time to call it a night.

Sunday started at 5am, stumbling down the stairway of The 11th Hour Cinema Hostel at 6am to catch the metro to the main bus station. Twelve hours, a bus and three trains later, we arrived into Slovenia’s capital, Ljubljana. Ironically I’m the proud owner of a Slovenian passport (thanks to Mumma, and brilliant for working in the EU), even though my mastering of the language is limited to a few pleasantries and the singing of an old folk song, Jaz Sem Mala Roža (I am a small Flower) which my grandmother taught me when I was six years old.

Ljubljana is a small but lovely city, with an Old Town paved with cobbled stone pathways, a traditional fresh food market, stone bridges guarded by dragons and even a castle atop a tree-covered hill. While fog drowned out the city lights it added a certain romance to our two day expedition, with mulled wine and hot chocolate as thick as yogurt keeping us warm (mulled wine for the Boy, hot chocolate for me!).

In the early afternoon on Tuesday, my two excited parents met their baby and her Boyfriend, ready to take us back to their little home in Puče, a stone cottage rented from one of mum's oldest friends. Mumma had rustled up Cyprus pine and flowering ivy to fashion a wreath with gold coloured wire and purple bows, to celebrate our arrival and even converted a single bed into a double with the aid of two chairs, a plank of wood and loads of fluffy blankets so as not to force a separation between her baby and her Boy. Cosy and warm, with a log fire and an endless supply of parma ham, cheese and local wine, we planned our Christmas day feast from the start.

Just like Jamie Oliver we stuffed a goose, braised red cabbage and roasted winter vegetables for the perfect, gluttonous feast. Topped off with a Christmas cake brought all the way from London – and a homemade custard that was more error than trial – our tummies were full to bursting. Games of Scrabble – while Boyfriend caught up on reading – ensured my family's competivive needs were met: Assistant two, Mum three, Dad nil, while a couple of morning jogs with Dad and Boyfriend along the gorgeous Tuscan-like countryside balanced out our copious eating.

On Saturday we bundled ourselves into my parent's Renault, ready for a nine hour drive through Croatia, headed for Dubrovnik. The first signs of snow flurries occured shortly after 'take off' with a full blown snow storm taking hold only an hour into the journey. Weighted by the bodies of four indulgent Christmas eaters, our suitcases and Mumma's array of sweets and nibbles (including much of the leftover goose), our poor little Renault took a beating as it powered through most of the journey at a startling 140kms per hour. Arriving in Dubrovnik just after 4.30pm, The Pearl of the Adriatic was already in darkness.

Exhausted from the drive – and needing some alone time – Boyfriend and I wandered down into the walled city. What we saw was pure magic. Shiny stone paths, worn-slippery from over a thousand years of footsteps, old buildings and churches ablaze with fairy lights, a massive Christmas tree covered in baubles the size of our heads and glistening views of the Adriatic glimpsed through archways leading off to the fishing docks.

Over the next three days we walked in and around the walls – admiring the views and marvelling at the still evident signs of bombs and gunfire from the 1991-92 Serbo-Croatian War of Independence. Dubrovnik is a stunning city. You can just imagine how amazing and busy it must get in summer when the brilliant blue water is warm enough to swim in; but travelling there in winter allows for an appreciation of every nook and cranny.

Mumma and Pappa set off early on the last day, back to Puče, while Boyfriend and I took in more of the town – it's pastries and dried figs. And while our journey home was uneventful, even landing ahead of schedule and sneaking Boyfriend in through the EU passport line with me, we arrived home knackered. At 25 and 30 years of age we are well aware we've aged before our time. And while Boyfriend prefers to spend his last days off experiementing in the kitchen, I'm pining for games of Scrabble with my Mumma and Pappa. So welcome, 2009.

It's GWAS time again... VOGUE, VOGUE, VOGUE!

2008-12-11T21:07:00.008Z

For some people the fact that magazines arrive on newsstands a full month before their cover date is a cause for anxiety. After all, life speeds us by fast enough without our glossy's shoving past us too - but I kinda like it.

Reading What's Hot for January when it's only December allows me a few extra weeks to get on top of my wardrobe, and their lists of Things to do give me a heads up so as not to miss out on all that Arts & Entertainment has to offer.

So lets get inspired for 2009, Vogue-style, and check out GWAS!

Holiday role play

2008-12-11T20:43:00.005Z

Ice skating at the Natural History Museum, singing carols at Miss Six’s school nativity play and spending two full days wrapping other people’s gifts – in branded wrapping paper more expensive than the presents I normally buy… This week I’m playing Mum, Holland Park-style, while the parents travel overseas.

I’ve got the morning schedule down to a fine art: wake, shower and feed myself before Miss Six rises at 6.30am. Get her dressed – in an outfit neatly set out the night before – fed and hair brushed as I coax Masters Twelve and Nine out of their slumbers and into their school uniforms. Make the boys breakfast – force feed them sliced apple – brush Miss Six’s teeth and bundle them all into the car, with just enough time to warm up the engine and pour water on the frozen windscreen. And we’re ready to go!

Now that my little men are officially on term break – Missy finishes tomorrow – I’ve had to plan high-energy activities in order to keep them out of trouble, hence the ice skating. Between this family and the other, I’ve been four times in the past month… I’m now, quite the skater.

Tomorrow I’ll accompany Madame and her classmates to their end of term theatre visit, a pantomime down in Wimbledon. With all the carol singing and the craft – she and I have been making her friends Christmas cards, tied up with string – I’m feeling very Christmassy indeed.

Yes, I know Miss Six throws tantrums daily – she howled for twenty minutes on Tuesday when she realised her Mum had not stayed to watch her walk down the aisle at her school mass, apparently my being there just wasn’t enough – and sure, Master Nine ignores pretty much everything I ask of him, but at the end of the day these cherubs are keeping me young. There’s nothing like mock-sword fighting of an evening to burn a few calories and who could turn down mandatory afternoon visits to Hummingbird's for cupcake sweetness. I just have to get through the next five days of parental absence without letting slip an expletive, crashing the car (as they wrestle in the back seat) or losing one of them mid-transit. Oh the joys of being a nanny.

Party like you want to...

2008-12-01T11:21:00.005Z

Last Thursday I took my new (nightmare) hairdo out for a test run. It was my old work Christmas dinner and I’d been looking forward to it for ages; but to be honest, I very nearly didn’t make it.

To add insult to injury, a gigantic pimple had taken residence on my eyebrow line – much like a third eye – so my desire to stay indoors was strong. Even my mother gave me a Get Out of Party Free card when I called her for a bit of tea and sympathy, saying, “Oh darling, just don’t go!”

But not wanting to miss out on seeing my old friends and of course, a free night out, I donned one of my sexy new designer – eBay – purchases (a SS 08 number by Nanette Lepore) and emptied almost an entire can of hairspray onto my head. I figured, what-the-hay, 90 per cent of looking good is exuding confidence so I embraced my bob in all its glory and attempted messy-chic. I think I pulled it off.

Contrary to my babysitting kiddies, my workmates had nothing but praise for The Do. Not that I’m going to delude myself into thinking that it’s not as bad as I first thought - believe me, it is – it was nice to realise that with a bit of effort and a tonne of product I just might be able to pass these next few months of ‘growing out’ without too many tears.

The night was fabulous! Given the way that I left their employ – within 20 minutes and unable to say goodbye to most of the crew – everyone made a special effort to make me feel wanted. I received squeals of hello, hugs and kisses and not one but two ‘awards’ in the faux-award ceremony.

One friend’s getting married, another is pregnant and I’ve got plans to catch up with a bunch of the girls for lunch in the coming weeks. It was a great way to kick off the silly season… and I’m so glad I summoned the courage to go.

Out of the mouths of babes

2008-11-28T11:50:00.006Z

Now I know that few will have sympathy for my current plight, so just listen up and laugh if you want to. My babysitting kidlets all did…

I’ve been hairdresser-shy for about six months now, after a fiasco cut and colour last May for which I paid a staggering £80. Since then I’ve lived in ponytails, waiting patiently for the hideous monstrosity to grow out. That is, until this week.

With my old work’s Christmas dinner looming (yep, I was invited) I really wanted to make a statement and stand out from the crowd. It was the perfect time to shed the ponytail and embrace the bob, so I looked online for the best salons. For perfection, I was prepared to pay!

And then, like all good Google surfers, I came across a ‘deal’. At Gina Conway Notting Hill they were offering a £10 razor haircut by one of their top stylists as he trained other members of staff. It was like the Gods of Saving Pennies were smiling down on me, so I called up and booked in my appointment. But as quickly as my good luck came my good luck skedaddled and the training session was postponed, until further notice. They told me they’d keep my name on the books but couldn’t guarantee when I’d be called back in. So I logged back online – now that I’d been offered a cut for almost nothing, the thought of paying retail seemed preposterous – and came across an ad on Gumtree: Free bob haircut this Wednesday only.

Ah hah… What was this?

This, it turned out was an opportunity to be a training stylists guinea pig and I, stupidly, signed up. I thought I asked the clever questions… How long had he been training? Three years. When did he graduate? “Oh I’ve already completed my college component,” he said. I figured what real damage could he do.

Severe, as it turned out. This guy took ‘slow and steady’ to the enth degree; to cut straight he had to constantly re-water my hair – upon the ever more aggravated advice of his tutor – which left my neck chilled and stiff. He cut higher and higher until inside I started to panic. But then like I so often do in these situations, I started to feel sorry for the guy; I root for the underdog. I mean he has to learn somehow, doesn’t he?

A pile of hair and almost three hours later he dusted me off and thanked me for my patience. I mumbled a, “You’re welcome. Thanks so much.” And made for a quick exit.

Really wanting to just go home and curl up into a ball – on the tube I looked jealously over at a Muslim girl in her hijab – instead I had to make the trek to go pick up Masters Nine and Twelve from school. Ever-considerate Master Nine looked at me quizzically for a moment and then commented that my head looked “weird”, while later that afternoon Miss Six more theatrically pointed and exclaimed, “I hate it.” Thanks chickens, that’s just what I needed.

My more adult friends have struggled to reassure me that the haircut isn’t all that bad but I can see the glint in their eyes and the strain on their faces as they attempt not to break into giggles. My head resembles that of a mushroom. I’m Madeline, mais dans la brune!

Winter Wonderland

2008-11-24T12:39:00.004Z

London is officially in the Christmas-swing. The lights are up around the city – the West End sparkles but it’s the Carnaby Street snowmen that really steal the show – and people are busy late night shopping to find the perfect something for their family and friends. It’s times like these I miss having my family close by.

And while I certainly didn’t spend five years at university to be a nanny, right now it’s nice to feel included in their families; even if it means I have six extra children to buy presents for!

Last Friday I took one of my kidlets, Miss Twelve, and her friend to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland – pre-opening night VIP tickets, of course. We tried out the ice rink, with each girl taking me round the first few times to get my ice-legs warmed up (who’s looking after who you may ask?), screamed our lungs out on the roller coaster, got lost in the Hall of Mirrors, and enjoyed a 360-degree view of London as we were propelled round on giant swings. We ate giant pretzels, drank hot cocoa from traditional German boot mugs, and devoured more than our fair share of chocolate covered strawberries… I really can’t complain.

Once the park closed up we cabbed it back to their Sloane Square abode, picking up my other Miss Twelve (twins) from her friend’s house on the way, to watch Corrina, Corrina (I can’t believe I was eleven when that first came out) while their parents entertained dinner guests upstairs. I felt just like a big sister, and truly I couldn’t have planned a nicer way to spend a Friday evening.

Hyde Park Winter Wonderland
When: 22 November 2008 -04 January 2009; 10:00-22:00
Where: Hyde Park
Nearest Tube: Hyde Park Corner... Cost: £7.50-£12.50

Strike a pose... Vogue

2008-11-18T20:01:00.005Z

For those of you, dear readers, who are time-poor as well as cash-poor this holiday season, check out the best (and brilliant!) bits of December's UK Vogue with this, my second review for Girl With A Satchel...

GIRL WITH A SATCHEL... The Assistant makes her first cameo appearance

2008-11-14T10:32:00.010Z

Okay, I've been a bit busy lately, what with daily Bikram (I finished The Challenge and am hooked on for another 30 days), Beautcamp and then taking care of the kidlets (oops, scraped their car on the school-run yesterday... eek!)... so I apologise for my lack of posts.

But I did scrounge together a few hours at the weekend to review some mags for fellow blogger and kinda my mentor, Ms GWAS. Check it out!

One-unders

2008-11-06T11:05:00.003Z

At lunchtime yesterday, as the United States was celebrating the victory of America’s first African-American president and Great Britain was preparing for their annual bonfire night – to commemorate the life of the English Roman Catholic revolutionary, Guy Fawkes – a London man threw himself under a train at Liverpool Street station.

Announcements were made over the intercoms of all London Underground lines apologising for the delay to services, as there was a person under a train. These pre-recorded broadcasts are replayed over and over, lacking in emotion and evoking even less from the crowd of passengers inconvenienced by the suicidal person’s final statement; the frequency of such tube announcements resulting in a numbing of society.

Maybe it was because I wasn’t in much of a rush yesterday, but for some reason hearing this news truly made me stop and be thankful for all the ‘good’ I have in my life. Because this guy obviously thought his had hit rock bottom.

Last year in the UK, 194 people killed themselves on the tracks of mass-transit systems, with 50 of those people taking their final leap in the depths of the Underground (this compares with New York’s average of 26 subway suicides each year).* I remember years ago hearing of one of my sister’s friends jumping, a boy she’d known through her school years, he was barely twenty-five.

They call them “one-unders”. And emergency services are on alert each day, ready to clean up the debris, in the interest of an efficient transport system. Apparently the peak hour for tube suicides is 11am – when everyone else is deliberating about what to eat for lunch.

I can’t imagine the horror of feeling that your only option out of the mess and pain of your life is to throw yourself head first into an oncoming train. There can be no more public display of your agony. And then there’s the driver. They get a front row seat as you smash against the windscreen of their train; having your bloody mess of a body etched into their memory long after your ashes are gathering dust. I maintain a belief that suicide is the ultimate selfish act, for it’s those around you – the living – that are forced to deal with all the problems you decided you couldn’t face anymore.

So my heart goes out to the family and friends of yesterday’s jumper. He’s nameless. It seems that with an average of one tube suicide each week the deaths of these people are no longer newsworthy.

Mind, Body, Sweat-it

2008-11-04T12:21:00.005Z

It’s been well over two years since I’ve worn the label of a Bikram devotee, but yesterday I braced myself for a ‘Return to Form,’ of sorts, and signed up for a 10-day challenge at Bikram’s new Balham Studios.

Easing myself into my first 10am practice, I made sure not to eat any breakfast – lest my half-digested muesli make an unwanted appearance during Trikanasana (Warrior) pose – and arrived early to class so that my body might get used to the 40°C room temperature. It didn’t take long for my mind-memory to click into gear and start internally screaming: “Abort mission, abort mission” but I powered through… not least because the class had yet to even start!

Bikram, or Hot Yoga, is a style of yoga developed in the 1960s by Calcuttan native, Bikram Choudhury. It consists of a series of 26 postures (asanas) that are carried out over 90-minutes in a heated room whilst class members are in silent meditation.

I signed up for my first class about four years ago, while I was still at university. I immediately loved it. Undoubtedly exhausting, Bikram is truly a mind-over-matter endurance sport; and true to form, I became addicted. For more than eighteen-months I practiced between two and three classes a week, partaking in ‘Karma’ Bikram whereby I helped out in the studio and was paid in classes. Then one day I thought, “Enough!” And that was it. I hung up my non-slip mat and didn’t look back.

Until New York.

One of the fabulous people I met while living in NYC was an Aussie jazz singer who had recently taken up The Challenge. She radiated a positive energy and had a body to die for, so once again I took to the studio. Only this time my mind-body-spirit just wasn’t into it. Not even a third of the way through the class I had to pack up mat and towel and escape the oppressive heat. I felt defeated.

So I have to admit that when the flyer came in the mail a few months back to advertise a new studio opening just down the road, I was a little hesitant. If only because I didn’t want to risk being ‘that person’ again, who couldn’t hack the heat!

Luckily my chakras seem to be aligned this time round and I’m pumped about the next eight days. Day One was definitely a challenge but this morning’s class was fantastic. My muscles were strong, my mind focused and the sweat poured out of me in constant streams. To all those who powered through the class with me, “Namasté”

Higher learning

2008-10-30T10:58:00.003Z

When I was four or five, I would concoct homework for myself – much to the amusement of my parents – because I wanted to be ‘grown up’ like my older sisters. I wanted to learn and wanted to impress. Yes, I was rather annoying.

Down the track when I was being given genuine homework I remember asking my mother for help, saying something like, “All my friends’ parents give them the answers”… My mum, ever a source of encouragement, responded with the old, “If all your friends jump off a bridge” analogy and then stressed the importance of my finding out the answers myself, if I was to ever really learn anything. And I have to say her method worked. Of course sometimes homework was a struggle, but upon its completion I always felt a sense of achievement (or at least relief!).

These days, however, it appears kids are being held less and less accountable for their school work. Now I know that the families I care for are perhaps more affluent than some, but I think that the expected employment of a tutor for kids as young as six is just plain silly. Yep, the schools that my cherubs attend expect their pupils to be meeting regularly with private tutors. There’s even a spot in their homework diary for their tutor’s signature, alongside that of the parents’.

And this is not because the homework being served is super hard or anything; it’s just regular comprehension, maths and science… the sort of work I was given when I went through grade school – only now they expect the kids to use the Internet as their reference point as opposed to dusty old libraries! If you ask me, kids these days have it easier.

So why the tutors? Is it because the parents at these schools are so busy that they don’t have time to oversee their kid’s nightly dues? Or is it simply a status thing?

One thing I am certain of is that it’s having a detrimental effect on the confidence of my little charges. With someone always watching over their work, and generally spoon-feeding answers, my kidlets are missing out on the basics; like learning their own techniques of study.

I spent over an hour last night with Master 8 working on his geography homework – all two questions. The first question: Explain how animals and plants survive in the desert?, was to be answered after reading a simple paragraph on the way desert plants store water and how desert animals therefore get the water they need through the food they eat. Master 8 had no idea how to identify these two points after reading aloud the paragraph – he just shut down, went silent and covered his face with his hands.

When I commented that question two – Measure the outside temperature from a place in the shade and a place in direct sun – would have to be left for another time and asked him how I knew this to be the case, he looked at me blankly. Appalled I read him the question again, slowly… still nothing. I then broke it down for him and said, “What is the question asking us to do?” – Measure the temperature, he said. “In the sun”, I added getting somewhat tetchy. “So how can we measure the sun now? It’s night time!” Ohhhhhhh… He finally got it.

Now I know Master 8 might not be on his way to being the next Einstein but I also know that having a tutor isn’t helping. Master 12 couldn’t even spell ‘sixty’ for me the other day, adamant that it went S-I-X-T-E-Y. I think years of tutoring have actually dumbed these kids down. Trial and error is a good thing and should be how kids learn from day one.

But for now I am but one voice. I just hope these schools wake up and smell the coffee before it’s too late.

Finding my feet again

2008-10-28T10:50:00.010Z

I have experienced more highs and lows in the last month than in any other period of my life. I was made redundant, holidayed in Spain; became a nanny, long-weekended in Paris. And this past week I lived-in with my charges: juggling swimming lessons, mastering the household’s über-chic oven and dishwasher, and even coping with the six-year-old’s bout of diarrhoea (that exploded all over her bed sheets at midnight on Sunday).

Life isn’t meant to be easy.* Who said that again? But the ups and downs I’ve experienced lately truly give me the jitters. Then I recite my favourite mantra: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

To be honest I think I’ve managed quite well. I’ve sorted out further employment, re-jigged my timetable and still wake up at 5am three mornings a week to go to my Pilates class so as not to break routine. The only sign that I’ve suffered somewhat of a mini-breakdown is the turbo powered activity on my eBay account. In the last 30 days I have spent over £950.00. I hear my mother’s cries of horror through the airwaves!

It’s this insane spending that proves to me that while I’ve been putting on a brave face, there have been deeper issues bubbling below the surface. However, I like to think that my session of self-sabotage is over. My wardrobe is certainly full enough – of designer goodies like a new pair of Miu Miu black patent leather stilettos, a stunning Balenciaga blazer, a take-to-my-grave Chanel LBD and a bright green Chloé gown as seen on Kylie Minogue… to name but a few – and my redundancy payment is more than half spent! After all, 'Admission' is the first step in recovery, isn't it?

The problem is that my new lifestyle (read: timetable) allows too many idle hours in the morning – when friends here are at work and friends back home are sleeping – to waste away on the Internet. And the lure of eBay is that goods can be delivered right to your door, at a fraction of their retail value. But enough is enough.

Scrapping the faeces off the little girl’s bed last Sunday made me realize just how much I earn every penny I make and how I need to start saving once again. For so long I lived in London earning practically no money at all; bound and chained to the discount isles of ASDA and Sainsbury’s, apparently doomed to live a life eating tinned spinach and tuna. Then I landed a 'good job', that paid a decent salary (with benefits) and suddenly I could pay off my debt and start to live a little. When even more suddenly that security was pulled from under me I rebelled in the only way I knew how: I spent.

This afternoon I’ll head out to collect my kidlets driving the family’s Mercedes, wait patiently at the school gates side by side with Elle Macpherson (who’s son is in the class below Master 12) and drive the three kids home to their Holland Park abode ready for their 5pm lesson with their tutors…

A good life, yes. An affluent lifestyle, certainly. I just have to remember, that while I look after Money, for the time being I’m only The Help.

Paris, je t’aime!

2008-10-21T22:35:00.011+01:00

I love Paris in the springtime. I love Paris in the fall… Hell, I love Paris any old time and my sojourn there this past weekend – with Boyfriend in tow – only further nurtured my devotion.

Admittedly, we got off to a rocky start. Having been all loved up for the past few months we were due a little tiff and unfortunately one crash tackled us as we were finding our way from Gare du Nord to Le Marais… on foot.

Arriving Eurostar-style, as the bells of Notre Dame struck midday, we decided to embrace the glorious sunshine and make our way south sans an adequate map and ladled with two heavy carrier bags. Boyfriend’s initial wonderment and awe at the vibrancy of Europe’s most romantic city (for he was indeed a Paris-virgin) seemed to dissipate with each new crossroads and he began to ‘jokingly’ rib me about my lack of direction: “Haven’t you been here before, baby?”

Feeling just a little underappreciated – after all, I had hooked us up with some stellar accommodation on the super cheap (€ 120 for 2 nights, in the heart of Le Marais!) – I kind of snapped, yelled an expletive and called him by his full name… eek! Unsurprisingly, BF took my momentary crack very badly indeed and proceeded with his own fabulously-honed version of le traitement silencieux!

Thankfully the city of love quickly cast its lusty spell upon us once again and we managed our first hand-in-hand tour through Le Marais, across l'Isle St-Louis, into Le Cite and Notre Dame, and ending our evening with a moonlit walk around the Louvre.

Champagne and red wine and croissants and BF’s favourite, le sandwich de poulet et de fromage, consumed us, as we happily ate our way through Paris. Although we did take the opportunity to burn a few calories on Sunday when we hired bicycles and rode up Rue de Rivoli, along the Champs-Elysées, past the Arc de Triomphe, across to le Place de Trocadéro, down to and all the way up la Tour Eiffel, around l’Hotel des Invalides and into la Musée Rodin.

Not one for art or gardens, BF had to be coaxed into the latter establishment… While I reminisced about the hours spent there last summer with my girlfriend, reading our books as we lazed on sun loungers surrounded by priceless sculptures, BF was disparaging such a blatant waste of space, suggesting a mini-golf course as an alternative (and superior) use for the grounds!

On our final day we woke early to take in more of Saint Germain du Pres, le Jardin des Plantes and its menagerie, have lunch at la Grande Mosquée de Paris and a final stroll through the magnificent Jardin du Luxemburg. Apart from more comments about Paris’ severe lack of golf courses, I do believe BF fell a little in love with Paris and its historic charm. But before heading back to Gare du Nord for our evening train we took the Metro up to Chateau Rouge and climbed the (many) stairs to Basilique du Sacré Cœur. Perhaps my favourite view of Paris, our cliché moment was made complete as we listened to the soulful voice of a busker singing Louis Armstrong’s, What A Wonderful World…

Paris, je t’aime!

All grown up

2008-10-10T11:46:00.004+01:00

Without a shadow of a doubt I’ve always known that one day I want to be a mother. Never having younger brothers or sisters, as a child I gravitated towards kids littler than me so I could play act Mary Poppins, make them cupcakes out of sand and leaves and tuck them up for nap time in dusty blankets beside the bottle brush bushes in the school playground – such were the objects at my disposal.

In my current post – as nanny – I find myself dishing out Pick’n’Mix as an after school treat, playing ‘Go Fish’ with giant snap cards depicting fairytale characters and putting my Baby Gap-wearing charges to bed covered in cashmere quilts. Decidedly more comfortable than the bottle brush bushes of years ago!

Privileged, these kids are. Baby Gucci, Baby Dolce & Gabbana… and with every conceivable toy and computer game trend at their fingertips, these kids want for nothing. Half the time their mother is in fact home, so it’s my job to simply play with Miss Six. Where I, at her age, would have whiled away hours chit-chatting to myself and my imaginary friends, Miss Six has me – paid help – to tend to her every whim.

I’m not saying I’m a push over. I’ve seen too many episodes of Supernanny to know that not be the way to a child’s heart… but I do find myself wondering just how much discipline the parents are expecting me to enforce.

The other night, Master Eight (the middle child and cheeky as a monkey with ADHD) blatantly refused to do anything I asked. His shower was postponed on three separate occasions, tens minutes here, another compromise there… and come bedtime it was a sheer battle of wills to get him upstairs to brush his teeth. He finally relented only to stomp so loudly passed a sleeping Miss Six’s bedroom that I thought, “Enough is enough,” and, “They’re not paying me enough to put up with this shit.”

Upon his return – toothbrush dangling from his mouth lest he miss another minute of Robin Williams’ latest kid-flick adventure, RV – Master Eight proceeded to ignore my requests for him to finish up his teeth and make his way to bed. He replied with mature retorts like, “Make me” and “As if I care”. Darling little cherub.

Not wanting to be outdone by a munchkin half my size I drew on all I’ve ever learnt from good ol’ Jo Frost, got down to his eye level and told him that his behaviour was, “Unacceptable” (sans her Suppernanny lisp). Stern words, a steady voice and ensuring he felt every inch the child he was I really thought I’d made some progress. And off to bed he went.

The next day I heard that kind and obedient Master Twelve had relayed the evening’s events to Mummy and Daddy. Mrs X apologised and told me how Mr X would be talking to Master Eight that night.

But I just can’t help the feeling that a talk with his Dad isn’t going to help my cause all that much. Kids nowadays are gruelling. Exposed to so much more from such a young age, they really do think themselves older than they are. I also know that Master Eight is testing the boundaries with me and for my rightful place in the hierarchy to be accepted by him I need to make sure he learns to respect me, from me. Threats from his parents will only serve to push him further away. But how to tell them that?

The sad answer is, I don’t. While a parent knows in their heart their child can be a nightmare, they are just as determined to believe the sun rises with each child’s waking breath. So I’ll continue this little interplay with Master Eight, and experience varying struggles with a similarly stubborn Miss Six until the day comes when my services are no longer required.

And pray that my yet-to-be-born chicklets don’t give me half as much grief!

This little (guinea) piggy…

2008-10-06T16:29:00.007+01:00

Mid-August, in the spirit of helping my fellow woman – and lured by a significant monetary bonus – I enlisted in a clinical trial for a new contraceptive pill (to test its side effects, not its contraceptive function!).

So over the past month and a half I’ve dutifully dosed myself each morning – ten minutes after breakfast – noting the time in my medical diary; I’ve attended half a dozen outpatient visits, waking up at an ungodly hour to get myself to the clinic before a 7am roll call… and patiently waiting as a rather incompetent medical staff band the other ladies and I together for our regulatory Q &A – How are you feeling today? Have you drunk any alcohol since your last visit? Have you experienced any extreme exposure to sunlight? (I wish!) And last week, I even packed my overnight bag to spend a weekend on the ward to be bled dry over the course of a rather rainy Saturday.

On Friday evening, eighteen ‘healthy’ women (myself included) ranging from twenty to thirty-nine years, handed over our contraband mobile phones and midnight snacks and took our place behind the curtains of a certain university hospital just south of London Victoria. After a tasteless dinner of chicken, rice and water-sodden green beans we prepared for an undoubtedly restless sleep. On Saturday we were woken early, pricked and prodded and fitted with a cannula (a small tube inserted into the vein to aid frequent removal of blood), fed a ‘standard’ breakfast (four slices of white bread and two pieces of cheese), dosed, and then bled every half hour until lunchtime and then every hour after that, to test our body’s reaction to drug. Lovely.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such an unpleasant experience if I didn’t suffer from ‘dainty and feminine veins’. Quite literally the only thing ‘dainty’ about me, and it has to be my poor old veins! Not sturdy enough to handle the massive needle that has to be inserted in order to place the cannula, the doctor was forced to make a beeline for my left wrist. With the cannula chafing my wrist bone, what followed was a solid twelve hours of severe pain. Each time a blood sample had to be taken my wrist was pulled and the cannula tugged. It seemed that while this vein may have been chunkier than its counterparts, it was just as reticent about letting go of its goods. By eight o’clock that night I was begging for the cannula’s removal. So the last sample for Saturday was taken by syringe, as were the remaining four vials on Sunday morning.

When I first thought about signing up for medical research I have to say I focussed wholeheartedly on the money – three months of pill-taking for £1,860 – the nitty-gritty details of not being able to drink alcohol or take vitamins or medication when sick really didn’t bother me. Even the numerous outpatient visits and overnight stays didn’t sway my resolve. But while interned in the clinic this past weekend, I realised that this is just as much a social experiment as it is a medical one.

Cooping up a bunch of women – otherwise unknown to each other – for 36 hours, allows insight into the human psyche. Who group together to moan about the food? Which ones whinge about their curtains being drawn at 11pm for lights out and 7.30am for their wake-up call? And just how many girls will utter the words, “Just who do they think they are?” when referring to the doctors and nurses that are aiding their earning of nearly £1,900! I thought I complained, but some of those girls needed muzzles.

I can handle the vein-pain and for our next (and final) overnight stay I’ll even fain enjoyment of the bland, carb-filled meals… but next time I won’t be rushing to chat to my fellow inmates. It’ll be all about watching DVDs on my laptop, soaking up some ‘me’ time and keeping my eye on the prize.

Trocks in frocks!

2008-10-01T16:30:00.011+01:00

Okay, if you live in London or are planning a visit here before this Saturday you just have to stop off at Sadler's Wells' Peacock Theatre and check out Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo.

It’s an all-male drag ballet troupe that parodies traditional ballet romances all the while performing exquisite and flawless routines to show off their perfectly sculpted, utterly scrumptious bods!

An ex-colleague and I met up last night in Holborn for a bite at Itsu before making our way to the theatre, not exactly sure about what we were about to witness, but the three-act performance did not disappoint.

Established in the USA in 1974, The Trocks, as they’re affectionately known, were founded by three ballet enthusiasts Peter Anastos, Antony Bassae and Natch Taylor and originally performed late-late shows in off-off Broadway lofts. A positive review in The New Yorker brought them to the world stage… and Autumn finds them in London.

Attention to detail is paramount in the performance, and not just in the dancing. Their costumes are stunning – particularly the malting-Swan in Act Two – and seeing men dancing en pointe is captivating. If only I’d stuck with physical culture as a child maybe I’d be one tenth as graceful as the darling Trocks!

Heston B takes on Sherry

2008-10-01T10:02:00.003+01:00

Monday evening saw me rushing from a day of babysitting – I’m now in charge of the ‘school run’ for a family with three kids under 12 – and taking on the Central line at peak hour to make it to the ever-so-swanky Shoreditch House by 7 o’clock for an interview with award winning chef and culinary alchemist, Heston Blumenthal.

Blumenthal has been working with The Sherry Institute of Spain on his latest scientific-gastronomic experiment… the molecular pairing of wine and food.

Say what? Yes, that’s right, pairing aromas is so last century. The future is in matching molecules. Blumenthal has discovered a group of taste compounds known as diketopiperazines (DKPs) in Sherry – particularly dry ones – that enhance the flavour of ‘umami-rich’ foods.

Umami is the fifth taste sense following bitter, sweet, salty and sour… we lay people may have heard of it in relation to Chinese cooking, but it flavours-rampant in foods like meat, fish, cheese and shitake mushrooms.

Lucky for me it appears great chefs are among the fashionable set who like to start things late, so while my mad dash from Liverpool Street tube got me to the doors around 7.15pm, Blumenthal didn’t make it up to the press room before 8pm.

Utterly personable and incredibly engaging, this owner of Best Restaurant in Britain (two years running), the three Michelin-starred The Fat Duck, walked into the room of awaiting journos much like an excited kid eager to boast about his winning try in the footy grand final. Blumenthal’s passion for his food and research was clearly evident, as was his love of Sherry.

Now my editor was expecting a story on the pairing of white and reds, and while Blumenthal assures me that such combination analysis will be part of the next research phase, Monday night was all about, “your great aunt’s tipple”.

Question time was followed by a lengthy wait as umami-rich canapés were served alongside their perfect Sherry variety. Allegedly all the evening’s culinary concoctions could be replicated at home – sans the beaker, mortar and pestle – but I think the only one I’ll likely be able to muster is Blumenthal’s take on the toasted cheese sandwich: Gruyere melted with cloves and served with an ice-chilled Fino!

Back from the Basque Region

2008-09-26T13:14:00.007+01:00

Please excuse my severe lack of blogs of late… You see, two days before our trip to San Sebastian, Spain – the story of which I will recount in the following – I lost my job.

Yep, that darn credit crunch came up and bit the College Hill Company on the bum and forced my services straight past “at risk” and into “redundant”. There were tears (mine) and many an apology on their behalf. They told me I was “fabulous” – I knew that already – and that they were “ever so sorry” to have to let me go, but that my £25K price tag proved too much for their withering budget. So at 17:55 hours last Wednesday, 17 September 2008, I forwarded a few contacts from my work Inbox, recycled a bunch of notes and personal files and powered down my College Hill computer for the last time. That night I emailed two of my old recruiters and by Friday I was interviewing… On Saturday we boarded a plan for Biarritz.

Boyfriend and I have wanted to travel in Spain for a while. On this trip I had wanted to head to Malaga in the South, desperate for some sunshine despite the high ratio of Chavs that frequent Spain’s Mediterranean coastline. Given London’s non-existent summer my ex pat skin was craving warmth and Vitamin D. Boyfriend on the other hand wanted us to make our way northwards to San Sebastian in the Basque region, a city highly acclaimed for its amazing cuisine, notably a huge range of bars serving pinchos and even a healthy array of Michelin starred restaurants.

After asking advice of travellers who had been-there-done-that we decided San Seb was the way to go. So we booked a super cheap flight with Ryan Air into Biarritz (in the south of France) and planned to bus or train our way into Spain.

Our arrival in France was reasonably uneventful, except that the little French I thought I retained in my frontal lobe had seemingly escaped me and I was left to battle on with a few pleasantries and numbers when buying our forwarding tickets.

Apparently it's quite common for travellers to head in to San Seb via Biarritz… although you wouldn’t know it from the information available both online and at either location. Airy-fairy details about interlinking trains and a bus service that runs twice a day was all that was on offer, but we finally arrived at our destination that evening, a mere 11 hours after we’d left our home in London!

We’d booked a self-contained apartment only 200 metres from the Old Town and the city’s surf beach, La Zurriola. It was gorgeous and spacious, the perfect location and Boyfriend set about making us a ¡bienvenido a casa! snack of manchego cheese and chorizo on baguette with sangria – our ingredients purchased from the supermercado downstairs.

San Sebastian was definitely the place to be last weekend, with the 56th San Sebastian International Film Festival being held literally up the road from our unit. The weather was warm – 22 degrees at sunset – and thousands of people were walking the streets lapping up gelato and drinking outside bars and cafes. And we thought we’d missed the busy season!

Come Sunday though the crowds had dies down and while the sun was out it wasn’t scorching. We spent the day strolling the Old Town, had lunch at a gorgeous little seaside café where Boyfriend and I feasted on paella and yet more baguette (note: EVERYTHING is served on bread, with bread or in bread in San Seb!). The water’s edge of the Old Town reminded me of scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean and our Islander-looking waitress had me creating stories of her great, great grandmother’s capture by some Captain Jack-or-Other… the food was fabulous – if not a little salty – and her service fantastic. We moved on to spend an hour or so lazing on La Concha beach and then went home for a bit of a siesta.

Each night we made our way back into the Old Town for pinchos and sangria, and while tasty I have to say I was disappointed in their limited offerings. Every bar – and there were hundreds of them – seemed to be serving the same mix of shredded seafood mixed with mayonnaise on baguette, sausage wrapped in ham on baguette or goats cheese with quince jelly on baguette. I’d envisaged heated terracotta bowls full of salt and pepper calamari and servings of grilled haloumi, fried chorizo and seared artichokes but the reality was more like the cheap canapés you get at large number functions. And lots of bread, to fill you up!

On day two we walked to the other side of the harbour to ride the funicular to the top of Monte Igueldo. At the top is a demi-theme park with a haunted house, dodgem cars and water ride with amazing views of the city, but given our autumn arrival Said-theme Park was closed. So we headed back down that mountain and made our way to San Seb’s other high point Monte Urgull where a statue of Jesus takes pride of place.

Climbing to Jesus really took it out of us, so of course another siesta was required before our evening trip into the Old Town for yet more food and festivities. Our funniest moment occurred in one of the buzzing pinchos bars where when Boyfriend asked the customer in front of him the name of the dish he’d just purchased, the man turned to us and demanded we both take a bite out of his as yet untouched sandwich – and he wouldn’t take no for an answer!

Nothing really caught my eye on the shopping front. Even a last ditch attempt at Zara couldn’t satisfy my retail senses so we ventured back to London with suitcases full of only what we’d set out with – Boyfriend was thrilled.

All in all the holiday was a success. Boyfriend and I got the chance to revitalise our relationship – he taught me to play Gin Rummy and I even beat him a few times – and we came back rested. But both of us agree that San Seb, while lovely, isn’t a place we’ll be rushing back to. Had the weather been warmer and we’d been able to spend more time on the beach or kayaking around the coastline maybe we’d have had more fun, but as it was, the best part was just being away together… Ahhhh, yes, I’m such a romantic!

London Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2009... With a splash!

2008-09-16T08:13:00.002+01:00

Stuck in the office this week – my heart pines for the catwalks – I thought I’d ask a few journo friends who are taking on Fashion Week, just who is HOT in London!

By general consensus, the week’s Top 5:

Giles Deacon (Tues 19:30 WC1)

Christopher Kane (Tues 15:15 TS/NW1)

Luella (Mon 10:30 W2)

Temperley (Mon 13:00 SW1)

Louise Goldin (Tues 18:30 TS/NW1)

Models at Luella Bartley's show

With Vivienne Westwood showing her Red label (Thurs 19:30 SW5) for the second consecutive season since moving the collection from Paris.

Best show so far: Temperley – Where Mischa Barton, Alice Dellal, Rosamund Pike and Jacquetta Wheeler took front row seats

The Temperley show - from left, Emilia Fox, Laura Bailey, Rosamund Pike, Jacquetta Wheeler, Mischa Barton and Nick Rhodes

Luck be your Turtle... a few days in Marrakech!

2008-09-11T19:28:00.014+01:00

I love that when you’re squirted with an animal’s urine you’re mollycoddled into thinking you’ve been sprayed by a lucky star. The reality is you’ve been peed on and you should make your way directly to your nearest washroom. On our final night in Marrakech, my lucky star came in the form of a turtle…

Escaping London’s rainy weekend, Girlfriend and I boarded EasyJet’s 7.40am Sunday flight out of Gatwick, direct to Marrakech. Three hours later we found ourselves in glorious 30-degree heat, attempting to withdraw local currency from the airport ATM.

Totally ill-prepared, we had no guide books and no idea of the currency conversion rate. We took a guess at 1000 dirham being sufficient for a day’s rations and off we set. Hassan, our trusty cabbie bundled us in his dusty Merc (c.1980) and off we spluttered into the pink dessert. Past over-burdened, greying donkeys, dodging whole families piled atop converted dirt bikes and through the gateway of the old fortified city of Le Medina.

I’d found us the gorgeous little Riad Amira for our three night stay, just south of the Saadian Tombs and a fifteen minute walk north to all the shopping in the Souks. And shop we did, on the first day. I snagged three utterly adorable baby kaftan pyjamas for my nieces and nephew (en route now to Aus!), six handblown mint tea glasses and even an authentic tajine for the Boyfriend – although I’ve begged him to hold off on his culinary experimentations for just a little bit as three days straight of slow cooked meats and spices have left me seriously tajined out!

On day two we booked one of Hassan’s ‘best men’ to drive us up to the Atlas Mountains and the apple trees of Imlil. Half way there we were lured by the grandeur of Richard Branson’s Kasbah Tamadot. A location handpicked by Richy’s own mother, its 18 individually designed rooms and 6 Berber Tented suites steal breathtaking views of rich red mountain tops and manicured gardens with a spa and hamman and both indoor and outdoor pools… Once checked-in a guest has absolutely no reason to leave.

Unfortunately, we merely procured an hour or so of their terrace barman’s time, indulging in a few glasses of Verve. Two of the hotel’s head managers personally introduced themselves while we were spoiled with bowls of olives, salted almonds and handcut crisps. When we finally tore ourselves away from the magnificence of it all the prospect of hiking a mountain range seemed very unappealing indeed. Instead we climbed an apple tree, pinched a ripe one and made our way to lunch on yet another tajine.

Not wanting to return to London in anyway vexed, we booked ourselves in for a full body jasmine oil massage at our riad’s sister villa in the city’s new quarter - Villa Amira. Acquiring a few bruises – she really went at it with the kneading – I followed my massage with a good dose of sunlight beside their mosaic tiled pool.

On the evening of our last night, Girlfriend and I braved once again the hectic and smelly alleyways to the main square and dined with a few hundred other tourists on lamb and chicken skewers. Besides a little scare over whether our skewer was in fact chicken or cat (the city is full of stray kittens with very few big cats to be found) I’m proud to say that we successfully chowed our way through all the local cuisine on offer… tentative tourists we were not!

So it was natural that I’d take up a stall owner’s offer to nurse a baby turtle. I just didn’t pick that he’d throw the mumma into the bargain!

Inamo, Soho

2008-09-05T13:15:00.001+01:00

Wednesday was a school night, yes, but with the evening temperature a mild 15 degrees Boyfriend and I decided to risk an impromptu outing and headed to Soho for the launch party of Inamo, a high-tec Pan-Asian Restaurant and Bar – the brainchild of Oxford grads, Danny Potter and Noel Hunwick.

Frustrated with waiting for waiters, Potter and Hunwick (physics graduates) teamed up to develop an electro-ordering system using Bluetooth and projection technologies. The result: A 60 cover, interactive dining experience where a table based touch pad allows you choose your own digital table cloth, order from a visual menu projecting actual size images and even print your own cheque! And just to make sure you’re not left in the lurch when it comes time to leave, you can browse the tube map and local taxi booking services while you eat.

Head chef, Anthony Sousa Tam – of Nobu and Hakkasan fame – has created an Asian fusion menu exploding with unique flavours like a ginger and pomegranate reduction, hijiki seaweed, yuzu soy, truffle and spicy chocolate sauce. With over 30 dishes, available in small and large portions, diners are spoiled for choice.

But we were there for the free drinks. Their basement bar – albeit a little cramped – offers an extensive cocktail list, thus inspiring my new signature drink, a Green Tea Bellini (deliciously ripe pear puree topped with chilled green tea and prosecco and served in a champagne flute) while its striking red-light walls and leather poofs create an intimate atmosphere, perfect for a first date or after work drinks with your besties.

Boyfriend and I happily got tippled-pink and are already contemplating our next visit. I’m hungering for Wild Boar rolls with asparagus, enoki mushrooms and moromi miso vinaigrette.

The Hope, Wandsworth

2008-09-02T13:09:00.006+01:00

If there has ever been a reason to head southwards of the river, The Hope with its Wandsworth Common locale, funky décor and extensive range of beers on tap (Fruli, Peroni, Staropramen and Deuchars to name a very select few) just might be it. Especially when the sun is shining!

Last Saturday I arranged birthday drinks at this, my local, never once tempting fate by praying for good weather. It’s London after all. Nine out of ten times the heavens are bound to open – gushing rain. It wasn’t until midday I realised - blow me down – that the sun was streaming through a cloudless, bright blue sky.

I pulled out a long-forgotten summer outfit, black vest top and Urban Outfitters Luxe-range tulip skirt (thankfully I’d treated myself to a birthday wax and pedi) and headed for their refurbished beer garden overlooking the Common. Groups of people were picnicking, playing drunken games of ‘backyard cricket’ (thanks to the take-away drinks – in plastic cups – and prepared picnic baskets of food, wine and utensils on offer from the bar) and generally relishing the surprising sunshine.

Back at the pub we feasted on the delights of their gastropub (for half the price!) menu. Their Casterbridge beef burger with bacon and Monteray Jack cheese (£7.90) soaked up the copious amounts of Leffe most of the boys were drinking, while their extensive range of salads tantalised the taste buds of the ‘vodka soda with fresh lime’-drinking girls.

Friendly wait staff exude laid-back cool while still managing efficient service… to be honest, I felt like I was back in a pub in Sydney. I thank my lucky stars that The Hope is only a hop, skip and a jump away from our place… all the better crawl home afterwards.

The Hope
1 Bellevue Road, London SW17 7EG
tel: 020 8672 8717
closest station: Wandsworth Common

Birthday Bulges

2008-08-28T18:25:00.009+01:00

1 x large Double Chocolate Fudge cake, Sainsbury's £5.49 (purchased for Boyfriend and I to celebrate my special day; ate one slice and licked the plate of the remnants of icing)
4 x Green & Blacks’ Organic Dark Chocolate Flapjack biscuits, gift (devoured throughout the course of today)
1 x Raspberry Bake, Costa Café, gift (still wrapped up… the mere scent of sticky-sweet cake is giving me a headache)
1 x Chocolate Cupcake, Waitrose Patisserie, gift (all boxed-up… if I ignore it, maybe it will disappear!)

I feel bloated and sluggish and another year older – when exactly did birthdays lose their zing?

Waking to the sound of my two-year-old niece singing down the phone line, her own rendition of “Happy Birthday” complete with a “Pip, pip, hooray!” definitely put a smile on my face. And the steady stream of phone calls, Facebook messages from friends and birthday salutations from colleagues have each added to today’s general feeling of ‘specialness’… but really, is that it?

I remember when birthdays were the be-all-and-end-all. Parties would be planned, invites sent out, special outfits bought and innumerable lists written and rewritten to ensure parents and friends would buy exactly the right thing. But for me parties stopped at age twelve (when I developed an irrational fear that none of my invitees would show up!) and my teenage years saw ‘special outfits’ being purchased every other week for general nights out. Birthdays slowly became redundant.

The one thing I can rely on my birthday for is glutinous excess. Friends ‘treating' me to cakes and chocolates, drinks and dinners so The Day itself is spread over the course of a week. My jeans get noticeably tighter, my wallet lighter (I can’t let friends pay for everything, after all) and ultimately I start to feel every bit a year older.

Next week I’m going to detox. Not diet, just cleanse. Lots of green tea and vegetables and definitely no sweets!

Happy Birthday to Me...

Living A Lie

2008-08-26T17:21:00.004+01:00

I am living a lie. Far from Living Out London the past few months have seen me living out work, the gym and… my couch. Following a week day of rush, rush, rushing, I collapse on my couch and open my laptop. Not to write (the shame!) or do anything constructive, but to ‘Facebook’ friends (they’ve taken Scrabulous away… I’m gutted) and scan eBay for the latest deals on Louboutins… I’m officially wasting away My London Life and it’s time to admit it.

The first six months of living in the UK saw me out and about most nights of the week, with at least two social gatherings each day at the weekend. Now I’m lucky to catch up with even one friend late on a Sunday afternoon and then rush home to watch Midsomer Murders at 8pm. I’m a sad and lonely specimen of an Aussie expat, and I’m sorry.

Sorry for my lack of London-antics to entertain committed readers and sorry for neglecting friends I once made such an effort to see. But I vow to make a change.

This Thursday will see me turn twenty-five. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m experiencing a quarter-life crisis, I am definitely struggling with motivation. I find myself in a job that simply pays the bills - a glorified secretary begrudging my colleagues when they ask me to book a cab, courier this, scan that – holding on to slim pickings of freelance work and everyday wishing I was back working on a magazine.

And then I tell myself that this is just for a year, to make some cash, and that when I return to Sydney I’ll be straight back into the Land of Gloss. I tell myself that all writing is about experience and living and working overseas is a feat in itself. I tell myself this as I sit on the couch dipping gingernut cookies into my mug of PG Tips.

The bank holiday weekend just past hosted both the annual Notting Hill Carnival and Clapham Common’s SW4 and Get Loaded in the Park – I attended 0 out of 3. Okay, so I started going out very young – at fifteen using my sister’s ID – but seriously, has my time for partying really come to an end? My girlfriend of twenty-eight went to SW4, with her thirty-year-old sister in tow, and yet I was quite happy passing up on last minute tickets in favour of my beloved sofa.

No more.

Thursday I’m off to engagement drinks, Friday it’s dinner with the Boyfriend, drinks with friends Saturday afternoon and a girly sleepover come Sunday. Who knows, I might even stay up past midnight…

Ready, steady go!

Designer Vagina

2008-08-19T13:29:00.004+01:00

I’m not the type of girl to shy away from talking about my punani. I’ve always been comfortable baring all, be it for a wax or smear test, because the way I see it I’ve nothing to hide. Little did I know that not all girls feel this way… and little did I know how different we all look down there.

On Sunday night my girlfriend begged and pleaded for me to watch Channel 4’s advertised TV-special The Perfect Vagina, a documentary presented by Welsh elfin-minx Lisa Rogers that focussed on Britain and America’s growing trend for ‘designer vaginas’. NHS stats show that vaginal cosmetic surgery or labiplasty, has doubled in the UK over the past five years with the private sector seeing a 300 per cent increase in these elective surgeries. The fashion (or madness) is being driven by commercial and media pressure that has broadened women’s insecurities from our boobs, bums, tums and faces and turned us against our insides as well.

Rogers follows the stories of five women ranging from nineteen to thirty-eight years, who have all considered some form of labiplasty and even one young Muslim girl desperate to undergo surgery to restore her hymen for fear of disgracing her family on her impending wedding night. To a modern, Western world her distress seems unwarranted and her suggestion that her parents would kill her and then themselves should they find out she is no longer a virgin seem archaic. But Rogers questions the benefit of our so-called ‘liberation’ if at the other extreme Western women are chopping off their flaps for fear they’re too big!

Not for the faint-hearted, graphic images of surgery on Rosie – a stunning twenty-one-year-old whose years of being bullied by her girlfriends and even her sister had kept her from having relationships with boys – showed her labia being snipped, sewn and later gushing blood (apparently this is normal as the body heals). Suddenly my biggest dilemma, “Hollywood or Brazilian?” seemed totally superficial… These girls are trimming their skin and all so their vaginas look like the ones in men’s mags and porn films, which resemble prepubescent girls and have likely been digitally retouched.

I remember when I was eighteen I went to see The Vagina Monologues an off-Broadway, Obie Award-winning play written by Eve Ensler and performed by a varied threesome of celebrity monologists. Based on true stories chronicled by Ensler as she travelled the world in search of ‘The Vagina’ each monologue expresses different experiences of a woman’s Mary. Be it through sex, love, rape, menstruation, mutilation, masturbation, birth, orgasm or simply as a physical aspect of the female body. Ensler empowers the vagina as the ultimate embodiment of individuality. And halfway through the play as we in the audience were calling out the variety of names for our punanis I truly did feel empowered. Me and my vagina could take on anything!

So maybe that’s why I’ve not squirmed or run away when faced with being naked in gym changerooms or going all-the-way with a boy – because I believe in the beauty of my own froufrou. Or maybe it’s because I think mine not too dissimilar to the ones I’ve glimpsed in the pages of Playboy.

To be honest, some of the coochies filmed certainly looked very different to those I’ve seen among family and friends. But is a bit of extra skin really as disconcerting to the average male as these girls seem to think? For some men, sadly yes. But mostly Rogers found that guys were shocked to think women worried about it that much. While the amount of hair down there was a point of concern, most men answered that they were happy when they were granted access at all!

The thought that there are girls as young at fourteen seeking surgery disturbs me. This Channel 4 documentary, that began as, “a wander through the wacky world of genital plastic surgery,” became a personal and passionate quest for Rogers to encourage women to love the skin they’re in…

So ladies… do you love your lips?