Well, the time has come to try and figure out how the hell everything is going to fit into the suitcase, and how the hell one is going to get to Heefrow with 100kgs of luggage. In the meantime, here are a few random thoughts...
Favourite UK sayings
1. Am I bovered?
2. Cracking
3. Tidy
Always remember, what seems like a bargain in reality isn't because you still have to double it.
London transport system - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London shopping - 1
Sydney transport system - nil
London weather - ffffffuckkkkkk me
Sydney weather - oh yeah
Don't take people pummelling you on the tube personally - just bite your tongue, as hard as that may be (my tongue is now hanging by a thread).
You can only see so many galleries in one day. 3 is probably too much. Over the galleries.
When the sun is out, make the most of it, because you won't see it again for months.
Why can't Primark, Topshop and H&M open stores in Sydney??? Fuck Sportsgirl, Portmans and... all of the others.
Let the airline allocate your seat, because then you have someone (that isn't you) to blame for the shit flight.
Arriverdeci Old Dart. It's been fun. A little wet, pretty goddamn freezing, somewhat overcrowded, a tiny bit expensive, but an awesome experience. See you again in about 10 years time when I've managed to pay off the MasterCard.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Snow Globe vs Snow Cone
Lucky I flew into London when I did, otherwise I would've either been stuck in Dubai, or sliding off the runway at Heathrow. A few hours after landing it started snowing. Which was pretty exciting because I've never actually seen snow falling before. It was like waking up in a snow globe the following morning. Everything was covered in a soft white blanket, it looked like a postcard. And it snowed, fluffy flakes of frozen water floating down from the sky. Still it snowed... and snowed. To the point where it was the heaviest snow fall that London has had in about 20 years. What is it with me and extremes? Last time I was here, it was the hottest summer they'd had on record. I'm like freaking El Nino.
So after enjoying a day indoors - some would say trapped, I'd say enforced R&R courtesy of Mother Nature that allows me to sit on my arse for a day in a foreign city watching the entire series of Flight of the Conchords without feeling guilty, something very strange happened. This beautiful white fluffy snow turned, and it turned bad. Ice ice baby. Now, that in itself isn't that bad a thing, but when it is located on the footpath it becomes slightly interesting. It's like being in the middle of an episode of Funniest Home Videos. It's rather sneaky, this ice. It's Jeckle and Hyde ice. You think you have a handle on it, then you take your next step and it's almost arse over tit. What is great is the BBC in these situations. Apparently people falling A/T is national news. So they set up a camera on a busy crossing somewhere in London, and proceeded to spend the day filming poor innocent saps flying through the air and landing where the sun don't shine. It's so mean, but so funny - it's ok for me to laugh because I almost fell over a few times myself... almost.
So, what is it London? Delicate, peaceful and pretty snow globe, or hardened, evil, grit flavoured snow cone?
I guess it's snow cone, with a side of freezing my nuts off thanks. Jesus, it's cold. I mean, it isn't THAT much colder than say Melbourne in the winter, but when you've come from 38 degrees, it may as well be the freaking Arctic Circle. Actually, I think that's on the Picadilly Line. And already, I am over the layering. It's a daily ritual to spend a good hour layering yourself up with nearly everything you have in your wardrobe or suitcase. Only then am I ready to waddle out to reality and attempt a trip into Oxford Circus. Then it starts. Layers go on, layers come off. Layers go on, layers come off. It's like this pain in the arse dance that one must perform upon walking into a store. Outside it is 1 degrees, but inside it's about 30 degrees. It is doing my head in. I can only manage about 4 hours of being out and about because a) wearing so many clothes at the one time is making me so agitated that I literally want to grab someone on the street, take them by the collar and just scream in their face, and b) I'm so sick of going from being so cold that my flesh feels like a corpse to so hot that I'm sweating like a schlepp. If I don't end up getting really sick, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
At least today it's raining. That's something a bit different. Then some of this evil ice might finally melt away. I tell you, London is really turning it on for me. What will tomorrow bring? Hail perhaps? Sleet? Fog? Only time will tell.
So after enjoying a day indoors - some would say trapped, I'd say enforced R&R courtesy of Mother Nature that allows me to sit on my arse for a day in a foreign city watching the entire series of Flight of the Conchords without feeling guilty, something very strange happened. This beautiful white fluffy snow turned, and it turned bad. Ice ice baby. Now, that in itself isn't that bad a thing, but when it is located on the footpath it becomes slightly interesting. It's like being in the middle of an episode of Funniest Home Videos. It's rather sneaky, this ice. It's Jeckle and Hyde ice. You think you have a handle on it, then you take your next step and it's almost arse over tit. What is great is the BBC in these situations. Apparently people falling A/T is national news. So they set up a camera on a busy crossing somewhere in London, and proceeded to spend the day filming poor innocent saps flying through the air and landing where the sun don't shine. It's so mean, but so funny - it's ok for me to laugh because I almost fell over a few times myself... almost.
So, what is it London? Delicate, peaceful and pretty snow globe, or hardened, evil, grit flavoured snow cone?
I guess it's snow cone, with a side of freezing my nuts off thanks. Jesus, it's cold. I mean, it isn't THAT much colder than say Melbourne in the winter, but when you've come from 38 degrees, it may as well be the freaking Arctic Circle. Actually, I think that's on the Picadilly Line. And already, I am over the layering. It's a daily ritual to spend a good hour layering yourself up with nearly everything you have in your wardrobe or suitcase. Only then am I ready to waddle out to reality and attempt a trip into Oxford Circus. Then it starts. Layers go on, layers come off. Layers go on, layers come off. It's like this pain in the arse dance that one must perform upon walking into a store. Outside it is 1 degrees, but inside it's about 30 degrees. It is doing my head in. I can only manage about 4 hours of being out and about because a) wearing so many clothes at the one time is making me so agitated that I literally want to grab someone on the street, take them by the collar and just scream in their face, and b) I'm so sick of going from being so cold that my flesh feels like a corpse to so hot that I'm sweating like a schlepp. If I don't end up getting really sick, it'll be a goddamn miracle.
At least today it's raining. That's something a bit different. Then some of this evil ice might finally melt away. I tell you, London is really turning it on for me. What will tomorrow bring? Hail perhaps? Sleet? Fog? Only time will tell.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch... WTF???
After over 30 hours in transit, I've finally come to a conclusion... long haul air travel and me just don't mix. In fact, we are like oil and water, drinking and driving, Madonna and Guy Ritchie. I was so optimistic, but alas, it just isn't meant to be. Long haul air travel, indeed you are not my friend. I've also come to another conclusion... that combination padlocks and me also don't mix. I should've known what I was in for at the gate waiting for the flight in Sydney.
I bought a combination padlock for the carry on bag that I was taking on the plane that contained my money, phone and change of clothes for Heathrow. Of course, I managed to change the combination in the process of putting the lock on, thus rendering my bag impenetrable until I found someone with bolt cutters that could cut the f*cker off. Awesome. Remind me never to buy a freaking combination padlock EVER AGAIN. Of course no bastard between Sydney and Dubai had any clue as to how to help me. Needless to say the problem was very easily solved by a member of staff at Heathrow who managed to get the bag open in about 10 seconds flat. Did I feel like a dick? You bet. But it meant I got through immigration in about 3 minutes, so it was worth looking like a tool for.
So, after sitting at the gate in Sydney for over an hour, the plane was finally ready to board. The lady sitting next to me was lovely. If I wanted someone to invade my personal space like that I'd go to the Big Day Out. The mole managed to occupy every square inch of space. I had to do something. So I reclaimed the armrest in a quiet but forceful manner. I needed to let her know ok bitch, you can have my leg space, but you ain't taking my arm space too. Also, I've come to the conclusion that maybe online check-in isn't such a good idea. What I thought were voids turned out to be the toilets. So for a good 20 hours, I had the privilege of knowing when every mother f*cker on the flight was having a bowel or bladder explosion.
Dubai was nice, in a fleeting way. The plane was so late, I had just enough time to go through security, stare at the totally covered up ladies waiting in line with me, find someone to open my bag, realise there was no-one that had any clue whatsoever, then board my next flight to Heathrow. Which brings me to the A380.
The A380. To say that it left me underwhelmed is an understatement. That plane was basically the same old economy, but with more f*cking people jammed into a bigger space. I have never seen queues for toilets like I have on that plane. Again, never do online check in. Not only did I have to deal with people's bowel and bladder evacuations, but I also had to deal with the freaks lining up. Perfect. What I'd like to know is where the hell is all of this extra freaking space I was promised? I tell you where it is, in bloody business and first class.
So, I get on the plane, and walk down to aisle 66. I call this the aisle from hell. It should have been aisle 666. I had to sit next to this boy, who was the spawn of the devil, and his grandmother for 8 hours. But this boy was no ordinary boy. He was, hmmm, I would say he was an autistic chav with his equally chav grandma. Imagine the worst child on Supernanny - I was sitting next to it. He reminded me of a more skinny, annoying Haley Joel Osment. He talked like a cross between a total geezer and the dude in Some Mothers Do Ave Em. I couldn't help but be rude and ignore him. He ACTUALLY made my skin crawl. That's quite hard for a child to do usually. At one point him and his grandma were having a smackdown in their seats. I was THIS close to asking the air hostess to be moved to another seat. At one point he was watching Mamma Mia, and singing out loud to the songs. Not a pretty situation for anyone.
Finally arriving at Heathrow, skipping the queue because of my retarded padlock, my suitcase just happened to be one of the first off the carousel. Oh yeah. I'm loving Heathrow already. So after getting changed, I managed to work out the whole tube deal, got myself to Kings Cross for 4 pounds, and finally met Em. YAY for me. I am woman hear me roar - grrrrr.
I bought a combination padlock for the carry on bag that I was taking on the plane that contained my money, phone and change of clothes for Heathrow. Of course, I managed to change the combination in the process of putting the lock on, thus rendering my bag impenetrable until I found someone with bolt cutters that could cut the f*cker off. Awesome. Remind me never to buy a freaking combination padlock EVER AGAIN. Of course no bastard between Sydney and Dubai had any clue as to how to help me. Needless to say the problem was very easily solved by a member of staff at Heathrow who managed to get the bag open in about 10 seconds flat. Did I feel like a dick? You bet. But it meant I got through immigration in about 3 minutes, so it was worth looking like a tool for.
So, after sitting at the gate in Sydney for over an hour, the plane was finally ready to board. The lady sitting next to me was lovely. If I wanted someone to invade my personal space like that I'd go to the Big Day Out. The mole managed to occupy every square inch of space. I had to do something. So I reclaimed the armrest in a quiet but forceful manner. I needed to let her know ok bitch, you can have my leg space, but you ain't taking my arm space too. Also, I've come to the conclusion that maybe online check-in isn't such a good idea. What I thought were voids turned out to be the toilets. So for a good 20 hours, I had the privilege of knowing when every mother f*cker on the flight was having a bowel or bladder explosion.
Dubai was nice, in a fleeting way. The plane was so late, I had just enough time to go through security, stare at the totally covered up ladies waiting in line with me, find someone to open my bag, realise there was no-one that had any clue whatsoever, then board my next flight to Heathrow. Which brings me to the A380.
The A380. To say that it left me underwhelmed is an understatement. That plane was basically the same old economy, but with more f*cking people jammed into a bigger space. I have never seen queues for toilets like I have on that plane. Again, never do online check in. Not only did I have to deal with people's bowel and bladder evacuations, but I also had to deal with the freaks lining up. Perfect. What I'd like to know is where the hell is all of this extra freaking space I was promised? I tell you where it is, in bloody business and first class.
So, I get on the plane, and walk down to aisle 66. I call this the aisle from hell. It should have been aisle 666. I had to sit next to this boy, who was the spawn of the devil, and his grandmother for 8 hours. But this boy was no ordinary boy. He was, hmmm, I would say he was an autistic chav with his equally chav grandma. Imagine the worst child on Supernanny - I was sitting next to it. He reminded me of a more skinny, annoying Haley Joel Osment. He talked like a cross between a total geezer and the dude in Some Mothers Do Ave Em. I couldn't help but be rude and ignore him. He ACTUALLY made my skin crawl. That's quite hard for a child to do usually. At one point him and his grandma were having a smackdown in their seats. I was THIS close to asking the air hostess to be moved to another seat. At one point he was watching Mamma Mia, and singing out loud to the songs. Not a pretty situation for anyone.
Finally arriving at Heathrow, skipping the queue because of my retarded padlock, my suitcase just happened to be one of the first off the carousel. Oh yeah. I'm loving Heathrow already. So after getting changed, I managed to work out the whole tube deal, got myself to Kings Cross for 4 pounds, and finally met Em. YAY for me. I am woman hear me roar - grrrrr.
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