Budapest and beyond...

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!

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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”