Buda Pests

I’m having some writing block issues so apologies for the blog delays and if this one is lacklustre.

Friday was my first full day in Budapest and I spent most of it in bed or with my head in a toilet- or at one stage bikini clad I actually vomited in the pot plant on the rooftop terrace- class. Hung to the over I was. It serves me right. Apparently I didn't take the hint I needed to take it easy when I blacked out on the plane on the way over, cos as soon as I felt better (thanks mostly to Magda the human beanstalk of a flight attendant) I took on the mission to get rowdy upon my arrival to Budapest and that is what happened…a somewhat classy dinner, turned to a boozy dinner, followed by shots at Alatraz, and ruin bars.

After the pot plant incident I realised I had exited the confines of my hotel room prematurely and sought a couple of hours more refuge in the hotel room. Sarah was great, providing me with coca cola which made me feel better and I settled in watching BBC on rotation. I learnt some interesting facts about apples- Poland are the worlds biggest exporters of apples (£490m industry), 90% of their exports went to Russia (20,000 apples in 80 trucks per day). Now with the trade between Poland and Russia ceasing- basically Poland are stuffed.  Also watching BBC I decided I’ve lost track of who is killing who, the Iraqis are killing themselves, ISIS are living in medieval times bringing back the beheading to anyone and everyone, and the Gaza strip is on fire- Egypt are even trying to broker deals... So much bloodshed at present, it has got me thinking the world has become really confused. (Trigger side tangent) I remember when I was little hearing the same about the wars in Eastern Europe thinking it would never end. I love the fact that now having travelled through Croatia, Bosnia and Slovenia and having a mix of Serbian and Croatian friends that live in peace how lucky I am and hope that one day that the same can happen here. Although I actually think there will be a tipping point at some stage in the UK and it will just cause more madness. Perhaps that’s why I took so much more in of my hangover time absorbing facts about apples…before donning my sunglasses and braving the world… in aid of a kebab which, thankfully like bars- are everywhere.

Budapest is an amazing city. Its beauty is matched only by its bars. They are scattered everywhere and remind me very much of eclectic Fitzroy that I miss so much. We had an early night and decided to take the delights of Budapest in the next morning. We woke up early, fresh as daisies and took to a walking tour. What a beautiful city, with a vast history of wars and battles (mostly lost). Having walked it, and discovered the history it all made so much more sense. Particularly the communist aspect- which I think becomes apparent by the lack of customer service. Its not that the Hungarians aren’t nice, its merely the fact the service tax is inclusive so they don’t need to try, so they just don’t, it reminded me, including the décor of Cuba actually! After the walking tour we cracked on at some of the bars, and I decided to bypass Alcatraz the bar that seemed to be where it all went wrong a couple of nights ago and revisit the place where all the fun occurred - actually, when I walked in I had butterflies not having remembered much except that I had a ripping time, support a large purple bruise on my thigh and then spent most of the next day vomiting. All began to come back to me when I went to the bar to be served by my favourite Hungarian Eminem look-a-like-but hotter barman ‘Zoltan’ and he started laughing along with the rest of the bar staff saying I kept coming up to him and saying ‘Tie me up’ in Hungarian , I apologised and asked him where he was from and when he replied with Central Nigeria, I realised I’d spent quite significant portions of my night referring to him as my Hungarian boyfriend and pointing him out to everyone and saying so much haha thankfully he was just as gorgeous as I remembered. A little bit drawn still from my messy first night, this time it was Sarah’s turn to get rowdy. To be fair most of it was my fault cos I didn’t want anymore shots so having ordered them, she had to drink both! After a great night out we called it a night and I carried her part of the way home. She was hilarious pointing out every Kebab shop on the way.

The next day I woke up early with the James Bond mission to find Sarah a Kebab. On Jesus’s day of rest she suggested perhaps Tesco may not be open and I said ‘I didn’t know Tesco was catholic’ haha dumb moment Mones!!! I managed to complete the mission arriving triumphantly back to the hotel with an American Hot dog and bottles of bubbly- water this time though! Both of us retreated back to our beds and watched some more BBC before I decided to have a sauna and attempt to remove some of those pesky toxins out of my body. I then treated myself to a thai massage which was so painful I was cringing. I was mentally trying to figure out whether it was pleasure or pain, and then I realised as I watched real-time bruises appearing on my legs, that pain was the answer but when I asked her to do it more softly she seemed to punish me more exclaiming that I was soft and should’ve got an aroma massage instead.. I have never felt so violated in my life, I looked like I’d been paint balling and everyone was having shots at me. We treated ourselves to a lunch kebab and headed out to watch the Grand Prix. It was ridiculously funny walking in to an English bar and telling them all there is no point going for Hamilton because Ricciardo was going to win. To my amusement having started 7^th on the grid he soon hit the lead and dominated the Belgian grand prix, the bucks party adjacent were rowdy and as I left Sarah there to head on yet another walking tour- (this time the communist Budapest walking tour) I said ‘Sarah i’m going, let me know when you are coming’ and the obnoxious fat English guy goes to me ‘I will make you come tonight’ to his dismay he scored a slap fair across his cheek. Budapest may be able to beat me but those obnoxious boys will not! I met 2 lovely young Australian (my favourite) boys on the walking tour who dove for every spot of shade and seating along the way so I soon realised they were suffering the repercussions of their début night out in Budapest- a severe near life ending hangover. After the tour we went to the Jewish markets and I bought some earrings and Sarah came and met me and we had a delicious Thai dinner and some quieter drinks. Again like deja vu we ventured to our fav bar, except this time my head held high and Sarah’s drooping lowly, my Hungarian boyfriend was not working. I was actually quite sad. All good, it was Sunday night, Jesus’s day of rest so it was a quiet almost end to our adventure. The next day was my fav. We spent the day sun baking on the roof, the Vitamin D being exactly what we both needed. Our Easyjet flight home was slightly less dramatic. No pass outs just a healthy sleep the whole flight home. Thanks Budapest we gave you a nudge and came off worse off but geez we had fun. 

Le Tour De Phallus... Oops, I mean Paris!

What better way to celebrate 3 months of living abroad than heading to Paris? I love Paris. It's my fourth visit there!

Those of you who don’t like it when I stereotype –look away now. First, I would like to split France in to 2: 1) French Parisians 2) All other France. The latter (and this is very general) are gorgeous, polite, humorous, and somewhat understanding to your broken French in an endearing way. The French Parisians are a bizarre species, mostly set in their ways, not helpful with your language barriers and not funny at all, although they could be, except they tell jokes then apologise after, rendering it not funny. Or just when you think they are breaking in to a ‘normal person’, they correct themselves and become all proper and boring again. I say this because I have travelled through various parts of France, experienced the warmth of the French, the great wine and amazing food. The duck, cooked to perfection, the service with a smile and the willingness to help. In Paris, it’s nothing like that. So if you can block them out, you are doing yourself a huge service.

It’s so amazing to have the ability to leave work at 4:30pm on a Friday and be in Paris for dinner. If you picture V-line, the train ride is nothing like that. It’s quick, direct and there are no bullshit junkies on the train. When you board its English, followed by French and as soon as youre in the tunnel, the voiceover flips and speaks French first. I checked in to my hostel and was greeted by my Brazilian roommate Christina, who knew at least 4 languages. She was my favourite instantly cos I could practice my German and Italian. Then I meandered to the far side of the room and peered out the window- the sparkling Eifel tower was looking right at me. I said ‘come on, let’s go’ so that’s exactly what we did. I must say although it was my fourth trip to the Eifel tower, it was the first at night, we got to the Eifel tower and it was still as mesmerising as the first time I saw it. I initially thought it wasn’t that special I must say. But I think I just made that up to try and be cool, ‘cos I was 15 and that’s what you do! You know that feeling you get when you really care about someone, and they feel the same way or you are just in that happy place and then literally fireworks start going off and it’s like they are meant for you? - that’s how you feel looking at the Eifel tower at night. I decided to take the advice of my good friend Bianca (or Byunca so as not  to confuse her with sister Bianca)- “treat yourself”. So I did. Gluten filled crepes; with Nutella and cream. The cream was stacked so high it was ironic that when I leant over to pick up my napkin as it began to fly away as I simultaneously had the thought ‘I will definitely spill this on me, I will need that napkin’ that the cream sunk fair on my crouch just as I grasped the napkin. Fair to say I looked as though I’d just climaxed at the Eifel tower- on the outside of my pants. Thankfully Christina also doubles as a legend and had a supply of napkins with her. I put the soda water I’d just purchased to good use and together with the warm weather, only 10 minutes later it was as though nothing had happened. We decided to walk and we walked up to the Arc de Triumphe and Champs Elycee before calling it a night at that point and heading back to the hostel exhausted.

I spent the following day taking in the sights, and tried out a restaurant a friend recommended. They only have one thing on the menu- Steak, chips and waldof salad, but its pretty amazing and just when you think you’re done, you get another serving! Incidentally it was also the only place in Paris I experienced great service for the weekend. I did a spot of shopping and picked up the bargain of the century- a £30 suit from Mango and walked the whole day seeing some sights I hadn’t been to before including the Luxembourg gardens. After a quick nap at the hostel I was surprised with a message from my oldest dearest friend Sarah telling me she had left London and caught the Eurostar to Paris to hang out with me. Bang!!! It was perfect timing for me as my mate from Croatia, Marija who is honest like me, but 10 times prettier, was also in Paris as her boyfriend is French so she had literally just moved to Paris that day. We were all together at Opera by 8pm, together with two frenchies; Sarah’s husband and his best friend Jean ‘something French’… i’m going with Jean ‘Francois’. We ordered some champers and nibbles, (which I scoffed most of!) and had a ridiculously fun night. Marija didn’t know anyone else but fit in like a trooper and we all hit it off over a bottle of Champers... followed by another bottle… and another.  Until the tipping point, when we got told off at dinner for being too loud by some boring old Parisian. The man’s poor wife was mortified. At the end of drinks and dinner Sarah’s husband got up and apologised to them in French by saying ‘I’m sorry they are from England’ as a joke. So I got up and said ‘I’m sorry he is French and boring’. The mortified lady, was now more mortified than before and her husband had a look on his face like he’d been poked by the stick he had shoved fair up his arse.

I don’t know what it is about the French, but they do themselves no favours on the humility world scale as they even correct your French when you try or can speak French or answer you back in English! It is so intimidating and rude. For instance, Sarah’s French is quite good- good enough to put on her CV, however she said that even her mother in law will tell her off or correct her in front of everyone, which she finds intimidating and makes her not want to speak it. It’s also bizarre because I feel like they have their own joke running on how to mock you. Which under usual circumstances wouldn’t bother me, but they do it in such an arrogant, non-humorous way and they when you give them back a piece of their own cake, they don’t know how to respond, so just stop talking to you. Some random guy called me a Yank in front of all his mates, I arked up and said no I’m not American. And he continued… ‘Where are you from then?’ so I said ‘Nigeria’, Central Nigeria. He couldn’t tell if I was telling the truth or not, so turned his back, started speaking French again and started mocking me. I was just glad to have shut him up!  

Central Nigeria

Parisians think they are right and stubborn in their ways, but are often wrong and do things the wrong way, i.e. why wouldn’t you have Sunday trading? Particularly when you have the world’s biggest cycling race in town!! Sarah’s husband was trying to tell me that French people are the way they are because of the revolution when they killed their monarchy or something. I think that is an excuse, because as I rightly pointed out- Marija had been through war and she wasn’t going around being rude to people. Basically the Parisian French aren’t good at much, they rely from the reputation of food and wine from the other regions, and the only beauty I can see is within their buildings and architecture… there is one exception to this; the Police. They probably have the sexiest police force in the world. They have this cute little beret and carry phallus batons. I will go as far as saying that I think there should maybe be another revolution, with the sexy Southerners (e.g. my mate Leo Terrando), that understands our humour (including laughing and not being mortified when I practice the only two phrases I know in French which translate to: “will you go to bed with me” and “tie me up”), in the French police uniform Vs the rude know it all Parisians!!  I must tell you that the next day when watching Le Tour on The Champs Elycess I spent 50% of my time looking at the batons instead of the bikes then making eye contact with the sexy police with the old ‘how you doing? (Joey off friends thing) in the back of my mind dreaming about our future together (Lee Renton: ‘Too far?’), shake my head, back to reality. Speaking of Le Tour, it was great to be back there for the finale and watch Nibale cruise to his maiden win. The excitement was lifting, the cyclists were excruciatingly fast and the ambience electrifying. (Nearly as orgasmic as the Eifel Tower experience.)  

The final morning was my favourite. I got up at 6;30am for my 7:15am train, and unbeknown to me I’d totally forgotten I’d booked business class. Best result ever. They even give you breakfast, which I was so happy to not have (croissants= gluten= not on a work day). It wasn’t long before all I could hear was English, followed by French. The way it should be. Maybe that’s why I hate the Olympics?

Well played Paris. And if you could export your Policeman as well as your wine, I’d be quite content.

  

Blog another day.

Oh my god at the pub and the bloody guy from the only way is Chelsea has just walked in. Alex is his name and I have no idea how I know cos I have only watched the show once at Kellie & Kev's, when I stayed at theirs and lived on trash TV. He is with some stick thin chicks though! Good thing I just ordered a glutinous Parma. Actually having just googled the above to make sure; i've now realised that the show is actually called ‘Made in Chelsea’ haha shows really how much I know!!! Ohhh shit he is looking right in my eyes. Short man, swimmingly blue eyes, awful jacket, but seriously, it’s 27 degrees, why the hell is he wearing a beanie? Do you think this now means that my Carlos Leon celebrity spot is now void?? I still feel like having Madonna’s child is more celebrity than some guy with high hair that is actually short. I am rewarding myself with some glutinous home tucker for doing a trial ride in to work today. It was quite exciting and exhausting. I'm not sure if my heavy sweating was due to the fact that it was hot or that I was so freaking scared at some stages, particularly Hyde Park corner; what a stressful mess. I attacked the gaps (sorry mum) there is no time to hesitate and I was patient when required, in the end I was actually quite confident. Although I got lost at Sloane square I made it to the bike shop next to work- Cloud 9- where my bike shop boyfriends Adam and Chris ‘the boss accent’ work. Actually I made friends with a guy as I was walking in and when he heard I had got lost, he offered to take me back to Fulham which was half enroute but completely past his Holland Park destination. Tommy the Hungarian was great, although I don’t believe he is Hungarian. I probably told him. He was quite an interesting chap though and it was great having company although I think I slowed him down considerably.

Last night was fun, and treacherous all wound up in one. I used Adam at the bike store as a sounding board/ Oprah. Again, i’m sure i'm in the right, and all you loser dudes are in the wrong. We went for Thai to celebrate Caterina’s birthday for the 2^nd week. I have since learnt her actual birthday is next Sunday so will undoubtedly keep celebrating. We made the mistake of heading across the road to the Durrell. I was having a ball, until I saw current friend there who proceeded to ignore me, then I saw Old mate from last blog that is definitely in the wrong but probably thinks I am. Typical male, he comes up, pretends like nothing is wrong and all is hunky dory, infuriated me. First, I had to continue to get drunk. But they both were still there, and I felt completely unwelcome or over welcome and the alcohol was not working. I had to leave, so abruptly did so, but probably not soon enough. When I received a jovial text message from Mr in the wrong I proceeded to drop some truth bombs. I’m not stupid, i'm nearly 29, i've read two books about relationships now, haha thanks Kate. (Had to drop that in.)

I’ve had an epic few weeks which will undoubtedly extend to next week when I head to Paris for the finale to Le Tour. So pumped, how much cooler will the train to Paris be than the V-line to Traralgon! Pumped. Have been celebrating my new friend Caterina’s birthday for a good few weeks- hilarious, I actually thought it was 2 weeks ago so we have been drinking every night since! On Wednesday it was particularly hilarious. Ye ol' bestie Rents was staying at mine, he was supposed to meet me around 7:30pm at the Rylston, so when he arrived at 10pm, id well and truly given it a nudge. It all started at 6pm when I arrived and found all my mates in the beer garden. I then found out that Manny from the pub had got his first grad job as a lawyer, so we had a bottle of champers to celebrate. Had some nachos that were semi layered- it seems they are improving after their tenth lecture from me. Still hungry I went home and grabbed my lasagne, heated it up and brought it to my friends at the pub. Again, we celebrated with another bottle of champagne. By 10pm we were hungry again, Caterina a couple of champers bottles ahead of me, was starving so doubled up her order of nachos and calamari, I ordered Lee a steak and finally he arrived. Was great to see my good mate Rents in town. I got to catch up East side last weekend and we went to this cool bar which had an outdoor stage and was outside called Forest or something. Had a few ciders in the sun with the troops which were lovely before returning to Fulham for some more birthday antics, to be fair I thought last Saturday was her actual birthday! I saw him Sunday again, it was the world cup final and again I went east to see the gang. We watched it at a bar in Shoreditch called Long Rock away or something. Basically blatantly obvious by this stage of my Blog that name's are not my forte!! The soccer again was great and Lee used his force over me when I was trying to leave early-ish to get home and convinced me to stay with some baby Guinness shots and vodka chasers. The next thing I remember is finding 2 other Fulham friends to share a cab home with and Lee throwing chicken wings at our cab as we were trying to drive off. Geez that kid is the best. Miss his Guts.

It could be a good time to tell you about the fact that i've actually started to try and get fit again. I’ve broken my 4 month gym cherry and followed it up with a km swim at Virgin Active. Tomorrow is Sunday and I am going to do a spin class, maybe have another swim, and may even try my cycle to work again. I’m also having my first Saturday night at home. I’m tired. My life is busy.  

Le Blog

I’m going to try and write this as a concise blog however am concerned I have so many different topics to talk about it may be a bit piecey- apologies in advance homies.  

First of all I promised my amazingly handsome, immaculately dressed friend Oliver a blog all about him. I am finding this commitment very hard to fill at present as I haven’t been graced with his presence for so long. I will however dedicate a full paragraph to him, by saying this: he is probably the best mannered, most appropriately dressed handsome, gayest straight person I know. I think of him often and smile at the same time, or snort. Every time a song comes up I have heard him sing it puts me in that happy place. I am very lucky to have found such awesome friends / London family here and I’m very grateful to have such attractive ones in my life also.  

Next I’d like to dedicate some blog time to go emphasising why I’m still single. I caught up with an old friend last week; It didn’t end so well. I would go as far as saying he is probably shitty at me, and I am probably shittier at him. I half feel bad, but I am a stubborn human plus undoubtedly not in the wrong, and so hesitant to call or text as just before I left home I got given 2 books from my endearing/patronising friend Kate (who may I add, I miss enormously) one titled: He’s just not that in to you and the other The complete book of rules. Mostly I ignore the content. Which is probably why I end up with so many twits? I’m sure in my defence (and his), he isn’t a twit, I just suspect he is stubborn, as am I... but I am right you see. Anyway the next day I needed cheering up so met my oldest dearest friend Miss Sarah in Marylebone and we got amongst mardi gras. Although there were many hot lady boys, and I was a little fragile, now isn’t the time for me to turn sides, plus, if I’m with a lady boy, am I still straight? See it confuses me, so yeah, men only still even though they are all dicks. Except for on the way to Bok bar, it was as though nature intervened and I met my future husband... who I actually thought was dressed up as a train driver for Mardi Gras, but he was really just a hotel porter with a cute hat. After exchanging many flirty glances and brief conversation which made me all blushy and gross, I told Sarah to go and give him my number. However unbeknown to me until 2 hours later when he texted, she gave my number to the wrong guy!!! Instead I received a text from Ed, a caramel coloured smoker who I hope to never hear from again, once I blocked him on my phone, the creep whatsapped me – way to my heart dude!!

The working week is getting much easier the more settled in to work I become. I actually really love it now. My client, (who I hope never reads this) has eyes like a swimming pool. Sometimes he talks to me and I picture him in a cape saving the world. I’m sure he is Clark Kent, except with ocean blue eyes. If he had a cult, I would probably follow him that’s how good they are. And I was never an eye person- until I lived with the wife (who I miss more than potato tots and Zooper Doopers put together). Unlike me, Laura had two criteria- blue eyes and a job. It just so happened that I generally only date dudes with blue eyes, that she would notice way before I would! She would love him, so in meetings my train of thought is something like ‘blue eyes, superman, Laura’ in that order. Not entirely the worst result, as long as I don’t daydream out loud and call him Clark.

Anyway I need to bring up Friday as it was the fullest, strangest, all emotive day so far. First of all it was the hottest day of the year, 27 degrees!! But human hot hell not only was I for once grateful to be on the air conditioned district line, I discovered in my lunch break that not only does London not have tots, they don’t have Zooper Doopers either! What kind of third world country do I live in?? Most people spend their day whinging about the heat... I (once I had got the upset’dness about the absence of Zooper Doopers in my life out of my system and compensated with the largest gelati of my life/ lunch) was thriving. That was until after post work drinks, two train lines were cancelled (mine surprisingly was not one of those and I only had to wait another 5er), why? because there is a human stuck under the train at Aldgate East and another at Liverpool street, not only was I almost emotionally sad. I then had to put my ear plugs in because it was repeated every 20 seconds for the next 10 minutes of my journey home. You see, they do this so it makes people realise its the Underground's fault that the train is cancelled. I really just felt bad for the poor family who have lost their loved one cos they had a really shit Friday and deep seeded mental issue. My life= isn’t that bad, whenever in doubt refer dot point above. Then as I was walking home from West Brom, I realised a man was following me. What do I do? …..Take refuge in the pub, the Rylston. What does he do? Follows me in… proceeds to pretend like he isn’t following me while I’m talking to the bar staff about it, and then he walks out, then I (Sherlock Holmes) followed a couple of hundred meters behind him and he went in the complete other direction. Freak really was following me= yay to pub refuge centres. Thankfully my day was buoyed by the successful test ride of the Italian. I am still trying to decide whether to call him Coppi, The Pirate, Nibali or Balotelli; I suspect the latter, although not in the same sport dynasty, sounds best, plus he is such a boss- anyone that wants some good reading should do some research on Balotelli- weird unit, but in a captivating way. 

So the weekend shenanigans were ridiculous, they were so good they were on another level of good. I must say, I’m yet to have that moment of despair since finding a home to live in (and a job which I’m starting to get better at). I have so many good friends here now and when I finally pick up the Italian that will top it off. I just wish my wife was here. I miss just having her around, saving me from rain and eating my leftovers, but every time I see a glorious dog, like the beautiful Italian Greyhound I met today, I realise she is kind of haunting me alive so that makes me happy. Back to the weekend… I woke up at a ridic hour to catch a bus with Jo (the 2^nd skinniest human I know and about 10 of her mates) to the Henley Regatta.. So glad I went. What a cracking day. Bianca would’ve loved it, hot college boys, rowing boats… come to think of it Ian Thorpe probably would’ve too. Surprisingly we went straight to the bar, and left the bar at 4pm to catch the train back to London to meet Tosh the fattest headed man alive, his hot gf Bianca (who we’ll pronounce the woggy way sister Bianca doesn’t like to distinguish the two- so Byunka.), the second skinniest human alive Jo, the skinniest human alive Train, and the other wheel ‘love a pun’ Nev who loves a pun. What a crew. Thankfully the regatta drunkidness carried on throughout the train ride and the boys had come from Lords where Brett Lee had smashed Warneys hand – hadn’t he Train..you should tell us the story again!! That night I met up with my old Lagos flame, Harry. Who is the opposite to my criteria- blonde, not taller than me (but not shorter) and he is covered in tattoos, but he is a bit like another friend I have Mick Boyland who just makes me laugh all the time (when I;m not telling him off); and laughing is good for you. Was so good to see him and thankfully he also doubles as a bar tender which coincidently is the reason Bianca and I met him in the first place. Harry is famous in York. Hell he was famous in Lagos, known worldwide for the Dirty Harry cocktail, which is just delicious, as was the 5 other cocktails I tried and 8 or so other shots we consumed. Both of us, not knowing when to stop!! The best part was watching him ride home and almost running people over in the process or crash in to a shop front. The hangover resulting the next morning was not so great. The security guard when I was checking out suggested I put my sunglasses on to cover my red eyes. The morning was exciting, trying to teach myself how to walk again and using Nev as a lean to whilst waiting for Le Tour. I spent the break before the riders passed talking to Rolf Harris’ around me and teaching my friends some Welsch and a little bit of French I’ve picked up in my travels. Some handy phrases like ‘attache moi’. We set up on a bend which was perfect viewing, and got to see all the riders in about 30 seconds. We then did our own Le Tour, taking family photos along the way. Thankfully we all had wide lens cameras to compensate for Tosh’s head. Which actually is starting to look proportionate with the more weight he is carrying? Quote of the weekend was definitely Mr Elder’s- at the conclusion of the tennis “did you hear that? When Rod Laver won wimbledon he got a £15 voucher and a milkshake.” Me: “Tosh, he said HANDSHAKE!” It was wonderful not winning best quote for once, though I also felt like I’d underachieved at the same time.

The train home was much quieter. Train was getting pretty friendly with his SriLankan neighbour and I made Jo cry through laughter, but can’t remember the joke to tell it back, or I would tell you. Great crew. Great life. 5 spuds Margaret. 

High & Low Lights!

I am getting particularly bad of late at this blog business. As you most likely can tell, the more I settle in, the more I feel like a resident and less like a blogging tourist. Therefore rather than bore you with all my happenings I've put together a chronological order highlights/ low-lights list .

1)      Working Class yobo

You will all be pleased to know that after some slight teething problems, I've managed to grow some confidence in my own ability and at the same time commence enjoying my working life. The difference I’ve noticed between working for a contractor to client is generally just the amount of time something takes. From what I can tell so far; its based solely on the Client being less willing to offend the architect. I am PM on 2 projects, one is a considerable refurb and the other is considerably bigger refurb which almost is a new build, with the addition of a new façade and two extra levels. My direct boss is the best; he rings me to check that I’m OK or emails me apologising that he isn't around to help. I represented at the first client meeting and after sitting quiet for some lengthy discussions with the architects about some fluffy material make up, and the clock hitting 5pm , I felt it necessary to introduce some charge in to the meeting, particularly as it was kick-off for Holland Vs Socceroos. Somehow it spurred me on to do a punchy synopsis of events, and promptly close the meeting not only looking, but sounding like a boss. At one time during my synopsis,  the tangent started veering and discussion commenced to murmur level, the client basically interrupted and said ‘Sorry Simone, carry on.’ Under the stress of it hitting quarter past 5 and missing a good 15 minutes of the game I anticipated I’d check my phone and we would be losing by 6 goals. I was so flustered i couldn't quickly find a pub, so I boarded the district for home.  

2)       World cup frenzy/ Making new friends

I made it to West Ken at half time. When I discovered at the pub next to the station (three kings) that it was 1-1, I looked in, and the pub was full of Dutch supporters. I wasn't interested in joining them so commenced my run to the local, the Rylston. Somewhere during my jog- (wearing boss work clothes and heels) My bag got caught on a door handle. It proceeded to swing me in to the glass door at a random shop front. Someone saw, but I didn't have time to take light of the moment. I was on a mission. I arrived at the pub, sweaty, gross and in time for the second half. I was also happy to find the pub full of Aussies. My favourites. I joined some at the table in front of the big screen and shook through the last half, feeling every moment as if I was there with them. It wasn't long before we scored a goal and we were rejoicing like we had won the world cup. Then amazing- the table next to us offered us their nachos cos they were full. But then disaster… I don’t know why they are so ignorant when It comes to nachos in this country. First it began with Ms TeOka and I in our drunken state explaining to the Mexican man at the Rugby7s that he was doing it all wrong and we would teach him how to make nachos some weeks back, and ever since the same bad thing has happened… people here don’t layer Nachos!!! Not only do they not layer nachos, they have the ratio completely wrong, way too many chips with no sauce or cheese, and nowhere near enough salsa or guac. So after some disappointing nachos and the next disappointment of the Dutch leveling, we were starting to lose vision of the dream. It wasn't long before we had lost… and we did not care in the slightest. We were all celebrating and drinking like we had won the world cup. After all we had played amazing. Plus, goal of the series in game 2 from Sir Tim Cahill.  I got a text from Antony (My housemate) asking to feed the dogs who I affectionately now refer to as ‘the ferals.’ Staffys are stupid dogs, not as stupid as Dalmatians, but quite ‘duh’; ours are timid in nature, and quite affectionate, but have a real vicious feral side, the male particularly, he reminds me of a controlling boyfriend that belts his wife (poor Winnie) I suspect it’s the breed however. Anyhow... tangent! I  said bye to the table- a few Aussies from Perth, some Victorian vixens and some battler from South Australia that introduced himself as Wayniac (to be fair- I get the idea he was a social outcast that had invited himself to the soccer. Call of the day was when I asked him if anyone called him ‘Wayne Kerr’ haha.)  and said ‘I’m off home to cook carbonara and feed the dogs’ to which they insisted I come back for the 8pm game and bring them some carbonara. Those of you that know me well, know that I do enjoy a good shock value, and will do most things for entertainment purposes. So after feeding the dogs, I made a massive pot of carbonara and a large salad and put it in a take-away container before promptly walking back to the pub. When I walked in it was a standing ovation and high fives all round. The food was outstanding. I am a great cook / massive catch, and I re-iterate, still single! I got more applause at 10pm when I was hungry again and ventured in to the pubs kitchen to have a word to their chef 'Irish' (who i instantly hated) about layering nachos. The next batch although improved, still needed some work. But I was happy to call it a night, having made some new friends, and finally, a Sunday brunch friend in the lovely Gia. The next day at work felt like a Monday, slightly hungover, although could get used to this Tuesday night drinking to break up the week, it felt like a 3 day week and was the weekend again before i knew it!

3)      Royal Ascot races

Firstly I woke up to a few missed calls and was very joyous to read my messages for the day informing me that Bianca had finally purchased a house. Celebration time!! After in excess of two years of toil and looking at hundreds of dumps, bidding at a number of auctions, finally, success!!! Very proud to say that when I return, in two years or whenever it may be, (at this rate, I may never return) but when I do, I will be living in North Fitzroy co inner north eastern inhabitants- get excited! Hopefully I’ll time it perfectly and arrive back just after any necessary renovations have taken place.

Anyhow an early start meant we met at the Champion in  Notting Hill at 10am. We chartered a bus to take a group of 24 of us to Ascot.  Thankfully Bianca (amazing Bianca we will refer to her as herein) had given in to my demands and leant us her membership to get in to the Royal Enclosure. It meant that I got to be Bianca for the day, and as a result I behaved, which makes for boring reading (I’d woken up with a sore throat so wasn’t quite feeling it). Basically we got dressed up, got drunk, saw the queen, watched a little bit of the horse races and finished up at a ripping after party in the Bird Cage at Royal Ascot. I chatted up the hottest guy in the room, of course he was an Aussie, but when it became clear that he was a  drunken liability and logistically it wasn’t going to work as I had to leave at 8:30pm for the 9:30 bus, I walked off on him. By 8:30pm we conjured up the crew and made a scattered dash for the 9:30pm bus which no one remembered where it was parked. so after cutting a lap around ascot, and then over the track itself, we all made the bus home… except my mate Tosh- the man with the largest scone in history was nowhere to be seen at departure time. His phone had also gone dead. The bus home was great except I had no voice,  so was remarkably and forcedly silent, and spent the journey home listening to everyone else tearing up some cracking Johnny Farnham tracks and any other song that someone remotely knew some words to. Upon our arrival back to Notting Hill Champion Hotel, with no ability to speak,  I called it a night. Apparently Tosh ended up back at the pub later on having boarded the wrong bus home. I’m honestly surprised they could accommodate his massive head haha.  

4)      Bloody Sunday.

I woke up Sunday feeling decidedly worse, illness wise, not hung-over however which made for a welcome change. I made it to brunch with my new friends, and tried out another of Fulham’s finest ‘Local Hero’, which serves GF bread, one of the other rarities in this country. Almost as rare as bins. I came home from brunch with the intention to have a quick turnaround and walk to the bike shop and trial bikes before Sunday arv drinks. But when I got home I was so tired, and felt like crap still so had a lie down. I woke up from a slight slumber and went downstairs to the kitchen to a proud Sammy (one of the ferals) ushing me outside. OH MY GAWD. The feral Sam, had mauled the neighbours cat to death and it was lying lifeless in the courtyard. Unable to cope I ran out of the kitchen locking the door behind me, and went to Gia’s house in disgust. I concurrently messaged my housemate Tony explaining I was not coping and it needed to be dealt with asap. He asked if I could go home and lock the back door and throw something over the cat until he got home later than night… I abruptly declined and instead joined the ladies at the pub after I’d had a bike test ride. Strangely the dead feline in my yard didn't make me lose my appetite. As soon as Antony had cleared the reminisce of the creature, I made dinner. Apparently the neighbour was shocked but coped fine with the loss of his pet. I, still not coping, have commenced looking for another place to live. Without stupid staffy’s… and no Dalmatians either.  

Fulham Frantic

I have been rather slack of late. Apologies. This blog has been written in 2 parts, pre and post employment with a post script.

Part 1)

As I sit here in the pub, eating my cheesy chips, sipping my rosé and watching the cats dominate the blues, it only seems an appropriate time to start writing a catch up blog to rub in how awesome life is at the moment. (Just as the blues hit the lead haha).

I tried to do a month without alcohol. I managed a day (Wednesday which became known as my 2^nd alcohol free day in 2 months or so!), then whilst I was out having Brunch at my new fav café with the ex boss’s yearling, young Jay, I got my final job offer through, and promptly accepted it. What followed was a trip to the Fulham Mitre for a Glutonous chicken parma which they made with no ham plus pineapple, and a gravy boat- amazeballs!!! Then off to the Durrell, many vodka sodas and shots later, the celebration was on. Lucky I got walked home by a kind hearted lad, or I would’ve had no idea where I lived. I lasted a day! Haha.

Friday I thought, ok, I’ll start again… But then the cats game started at 10:30am,  and I missed the Heat/ Spurs game last night and cos I was slightly hungover it was only fair that I go to the pub and try and get the game on TV. I made it here by lunch, walked in to an English pub, downtown Fulham Broadway, asked the bar man to put it on ESPN and didn’t realise it meant that it would be on all 20 screens, every geezer that walks in is looking at me like, ‘what is this crap?’ Plus… its getting exciting, so I’m getting silently vocal (i.e, fist pumps)!!!!

Yes! What a finish. So glad we won. Especially because Andy Winn is a massive Carlton flog and I will make sure he reads this (miss you treasure, and Matilda too!). Wow, I really didn’t think we would win! Bang. Lucky I just got a text to catch up with Mr Big and Mrs S later (whom you met in a previous episode). Couple of cheeky celebration ciders in Kensington, that’s the only ammunition I need. Ciao 

Part 2)

So the second part of this is me filling everyone in about work. But first I should highlight the ridiculous hangover I woke up with on Saturday. Ridiculous- probably the worst of my life so far. Plus I vomited for hours. I think God was punishing me for having such a ridiculously good Friday. Mr Big & Mrs S have way too much cash and spent way too much of it on copious amounts of Rosé for me, and in the process Mrs S introduced me to her 50 odd year old friend, that has 14 year old children who they thought would be a great match for me... Sorry folks, age does weary them, and the years do condemn. So after accepting a lift home from old mate who wants to get in to my pants’ driver, and pocketing the 10£ change I felt quite accomplished… apart from that awful text message and phone call regret I got when I checked my phone the next morning- like the time I got ridiculously spastic and left 27 messages on Mick Boyland’s phone singing Lionel Richies ‘Hello, is it me you’re looking for?’. Anyhow I made it to the Polo to catch up with my other London family- Tosh, Train, Jo + about 15 other Aussies, by 3pm. Just after I’d taught myself how to eat again and keep water down and basically as soon as I arrived I had my new family offering me jugs of Pimms. My hangover was still bad late in to the arvo and with the sun beaming down, my criteria (some of you know what I’m talking about) soon dwindled to 6’1 and a hat. Unfortunately/ fortunately for me none of my compatriots was wearing a hat and when I started feeling dry reechy from the sugary pimms- I thankfully had learnt my lesson from the previous nights actions and left early; short walk home was boosted by my own amazingness, through the hungover/ semi drunken stupor I had the foresight to buy a slab of meat which was most delicious cooked rare with a side of crinkle cut cheesy chips when I got home. (Probably should wife me lads.)

Anyhow the job, so Sunday, again I behaved. I didn’t drink – yes, starting to lose count of my alcohol free days! I still met my fav’s Train and Jo in Notting Hill post tanning session at Holland park and post shop at She Bu Westfield where I celebrated getting a job again by dropping 200 odd quid on work clothes. There are still so many clothes I have on visual lay-by until I get paid! Well that’s after I pay my awesome, tall giraffe of a brother in law back!!

First day was awful. It started with no sleep on Sunday night (anxiety levels= extreme), then I got on the wrong tube and ended up having to change 3 times, then I had the most awful coffee, and it was so disgusting I threw half of it out. Then when I got to work it was all a bit daunting. It’s a PM role for a Client Consultancy firm. So not only have I moved across the world, I’ve also changed careers. I felt completely out of my depth and the delay on the tube home only made me feel worse. So I got home after my first 10 hour working day and made a delicious Puttanesca, and was in bed early by 10:30pm.

Second day was great; the massive sleep helped! Then when I got to work, I had a great coffee and was in work early. I had a productive meeting, realised the work I had done wasn’t completely wrong and felt much better by the end of the day- even a train delay didn’t annoy me too much and I even got some rare exercise in! Ran a block or so and my feet hurt so went home and had 4 slices of prosciutto for dinner (cbf cooking).  The worst thing about day 2 was to much of the office’s delight (literally there’s like 5 Aussies in 500 employees)- I drew Australia in the World Cup Sweep …I want my 2£ back!!!

With the great day I decided to end it on a great note, and went back to my favourite coffee shop to see my new Italian boyfriends, my tall blue eyed, brown haired names sake  Simone & Roberto the not so tall, more traditional looking Italian. They are great. Simone made my night. He made me an iced mocha with real gelato and he had olives and more prosciutto which basically would be my ideal diet. Life is good. Stumpy thumb up to life right now.

Post Script.

You may realise there is no reference to Paul the nice English boy I went to Brighton with. Basically, nice guys can also be boring. So I let that one dissipate. Plus if I’m honest- the fact he said Three instead of Free really frustrated me, and he always bloody agreed with me and did as he was told. Who wants that really, don’t want to date a puppet. Cheers to whoever prematurely mentioned I had a ‘friend’ to Nonna and Grandma too. In Nonna’s words ‘I very much appreciated’ this.    

Loser Gets a Life

Woot Woot party time for my month long anniversary in London town, and what better way to celebrate than spending no time there?

Thursday I had a melt down. My first significant one. The day only seemed to get better when I exited the house and went for a long walk and the lady at the local café offered me a job. I declined then had to go home and cook the bearded English man Paul lunch as promised. I made him steak and made myself tin spaghetti and cheese toasties, again this improved my well being, and he then kindly dropped me off at Turnham green to meet the delightful Mrs Henry (oops) I mean Miss Gompelman with whom I have had the pleasure of catching up with only two weeks prior. I had a stunning night out with my ripping friends, the delightful hot Kellie, her significant other Kev, my favourite bubbly non boyfriend boyfriend Oliver and his equally delectable and perhaps marginally better half the young smoking hot Jessica and their two friends who I don’t know the names of. The waitress was more uncoordinated than me and spilt the whole tray of beer over Kev, who then managed to salvage some from his shoe to drink, much to the delight of fellow diners. It also meant as he is big time sports star and twitter fanatic, that the tweeting for us to now pay only half of our dinner, and have desserts free as he was now swimming in beer, meant that we not only got that; we also managed upsize of all our ribs and two bottles of complimentary champagne to share. Winning!! The topic of dinner conversation improved considerably when I pointed out that I have retarded thumbs. Kellie says that I probably shouldn’t tell people about my gluten rash, my retarded thumbs and refrain from snorting and I may have more chance with men.  Dinner with my dearest’s/ London family was exactly what I needed. It was instant relief.

Friday was productive I had interviews & stacks of them, I also had to do this HS&E exam in the morning, which after my first job offer, I minded less that I failed. Apparently you should study for it, and as study is something foreign to me, it was only obvious that after everyone said for me to study that I didn’t, booked and then failed. Ha, fluke I can no more it appears!!

Anyway Paul said that his work mate had booked a night away with his gf in Brighton and couldn’t go anymore and wondered if I’d go, I didn’t really buy the story, but I’m all about making the most of an experience, particularly when he is treating me quite nicely- as opposed to some of you other losers that may be reading this so after a hectic day of interviews and job offers coming out of my ears, I felt like my head was imploding and said that I would go. Brighton, the beach, is nothing of the sort. It is quite shit actually. And as you all know how polite and nice I am, I’m sure he also is aware that he probably shouldn’t have taken an Aussie to one of the shittest beaches on earth. I promptly took the opportunity to go back to the room and book a holiday with the equally unemployed Jess to make up for the lack of sunny beach action I was getting. Mallorca here we come.

Upon my return from Brighton, and met up with my friend with the largest head and littlest teeth alive, Tosh, and his London posse who were all awesome and lovely, to watch the soccer double header in Shoreditch. Within the posse were some guys I met at the tour de France in 2012 when I was here last. Yes, London crew expanded!

Sunday meant only one thing. Majorca. Jess and I had a pleasant journey from Gatwick and arrived in Magaluf, which is like Ibiza, but crapper. Some people including old mate Paul call it Shagaluf, when you get here you can see why. We spent the first day trying to have a quiet night in, but conceded early when we commenced strawberry daiquiri beach drinking from arrival, basically. Our hotel is debaucherous, but we are too cool for these kids, so went out and found our own fun. We met some circus performers and are off on Wednesday to see their show which also includes all the sangria you want and a full meal- sounds amazing. I wonder if they actually perform or we just get so drunk that we think that they do? We lasted until 3am. Rookies.

Sun, meant that the beach was called for and we spent all day at the local. It was there that we met the Italians, and Jess mind you is super impressed that I could converse with them. Francesco is hot as, he is Calabrian, doesn’t speak a word of English and could do with some work on his front tooth and then he’d almost be perfect. He and his friends Giovanni, Tito all play Division 3 in the Italian soccer league. Anyhow they told us that Palma was good. Well they told me and I translated everything to Jess. That night we caught the local bus to Palma, and were so glad to have done so. Shopping, shopping, shopping and real inexpensive Spanish food which I was delighted to introduce Jess to (Magaluf is catered to the Brits, so the food is shite). Tuesday was equally as successful, we asked a local where the best beach was to go, he then told Jessica she was the most beautiful princess he had ever met (whilst I was sitting there saying huh excuse me, and he goes oh’ you’re alright too but she is perfect.) and told us we were looking for Illettas. We asked numerous people for directions, none knew, apparently people rarely venture out of Shagaluf and said the beach is beautiful here why leave? Wow, so glad we went; this place was liquid ecstasy. It was like Lagos, Portugal but not quite as beautiful, with considerably warmer aqua blue water.

The remaining nights out were like a cloudy brain space. We met many ripped, smoking hot boys, i sat there and listened to every guy tell Miss J how she was perfect while she explained she had a boyfriend and then they would simultaneously move their attention to me- wankers! We danced many a nights and mornings away and drank copious amounts of caramel vodka shots, daiquiris, mojitos and vodka lime sodas. We spent our days by the beach getting 10 euro massages from chinese women and planning what to eat. P.S. Miss J and her food consumption is up there with my Mrs Miss Salvatore.    

However now sitting at the airport McDonalds, writing this as a broken corpse of my former self, severely hung-over complete with a large hollow feeling having spent 4 nights partying in Majorca- (plus a large Maccas meal with extra cheeseburger), makes me excited to be heading home to my new life and maybe even start working. Although really I just wish I could retire already.