| 100 in 1000 |
- Spend a week up a mountain learning to ski
- Visit Karoline's place in Moravia
Hold a conversation in Czech (only)- Drink 500ml of each of the following beers:
PilsnerStaroprammen- Budvar
- Velke Popovice
- U Fleku
GambrinusKrusovice
Respond to at least one GOARN request (WHO and MSF are
also acceptable)Travel across the AtlanticReturn to South America- Read a book to, or with, an impressionably aged child
- Participate in one NanoWriMo Challenge and come within at least 10,000 words of the goal length
Have my nose pierced- Have my next tattoo drawn
Purchase the perfect jeans (x 2 pairs)- Attend a spin class 3 times a week for 8 consecutive weeks
- Bake Viv's cheesecake
Make David's casserole Make David's Chicken Cashew-nut StirfryInvite 4 people who don't know one another too well to dinner- Ride from Vienna to Venice on a motorbike (pillion acceptable, those less desirable)
- Attend a book group for at least two books
- Go on a choir weekend (learn and perform difficult piece in two/three days)
- Visit Madame Tussaud's (in London)
- Take an architecture appreciation course
Join an all-girl group and sing a soloPublish in a scientific journal (top two authors)Cook a duck or other 'waterfowl'. Locate the Al-Timimi's from Doha Veterinary PractiseHave a pedicureMaintain a Brazilian (ouch) for three months.Find a trustworthy Czech hairdresser- Treat my inner-6-year-old twice a week (at least)
- Do the liver-cleansing diet properly (12 weeks)
- Don't eat out for one month
Find a flat and flatmate- Purchase one Joseph sweater
- Purchase one of the following pairs of
designer shoes (they MUST also be COMFORTABLE, and be able to be worn with 4
different outfits and 2 types of occasion): Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahniks,
Christian Louboutin (Ebay or 2nd hand are acceptable)
- Send 5 books to the booksphere and track them.
- Go hanggliding
- Read 10 'classic' books (from 1001 Books to Read before you Die)
Moll FlandersEverything is illuminatedMadam BovaryZen & the Art of Motorcycle MaintainanceCatch-22OdysseusOn the Road
- Run (non-stop!) for 5kms outside (preferably in a street race thingy)
- Send Christmas Cards on time
Make a collage/mural out of street lights on my wallBuy a bed, build it, and sleep soundly in itGo to AfricaHost an 'event' (classified as and when)Organise a 30th Birthday PartyWear a costume- Sing on stage
- Buy a painting that evokes memories of Prague (cannot involve queues!)
Learn a god-damned card game that stays in my memory (other than fish/snap)See sunrise. Be sober. Have woken for it. Excludes months Nov-Mar- Take a walk and flip coins at each intersection
Win something- Draft a will
- Take a roadtrip
Go to Italy already- Sea Kayak around Abel Tasman Park (NZ)
Get plantsTake a train to another Eastern European Destination (accession countries are acceptable) alone preferably.- Get UK to give me a provisional motorcyclists license and simultaneously get a 'card' license.
- Go SCUBA diving again - at least two dives lasting 30mins each.
Go to a dentist. *sigh*- Do a Czech Wine Trail. And live to tell the tale
- Make an 'outbreak emergency kit'.
- Go to bed prior to 11pm every night (inc weekends) for four consecutive weeks.
- Marvel over lack of tiredness
- Dine at a Gordon Ramsey restaurant (or Nobu)- preferably for free.
Bet on the nags- Do something for charity (applying and getting a 'red card' will count)
- Walk along the Champs Elysee
- Do 100 sit ups in a row
- Do 50 pressups (arms in tight)
- Make branston pickle (or nearest substitute)
- Cook something 'new' and 'adventurous' at least once a month
Find a mentorBe a mentorLearn what mentoring is all aboutMeet an online person in real lifeResist the flirt. Once. Just one night. It's okay if people don't immediately succumb to my natural charm. Really it is.Spend time at a spa (spa towns in the CR don't count)- Send a care package to someone
Get a Tata Bojs CD- Take a French/German/Dutch course and SPEAK THE DAMNED LANGUAGE WHEN I HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES ME SOUND
LIKE AN IDIOT!
- Order new contact lenses.
Make a list of things I take with me when I pack for different occasions- Eat lobster. Prepared by someone else.
Back up the blogPut everything onto an external hard drive- Find a DDR mat and console and 'dance, I say dance!'�
- Go to the beach and lie on the warm sand. For an hour. (with sunscreen on, natch)
- Take and complete a course in either: Tango, Salsa or Flamenco
- Join the Municipal Library of Prague
- Move to another country
Go to a live concert of a band I actually like- Pay off debts (student loan excl.)
Send thank you cards for every gift I receive (other than the gift of happiness, blah blah blah).- Get an agent (literary or theatre)
- Go to a sports bar without cringing, by personal choice
- Ride a rollercoaster
- Hold a snake
Spend a day wandering around a museum (not art gallery!) |
|
| Imp patient! |
| Wednesday, 6 January 2010 |
So, while to all outside appearances, I am well, the golf ball sized tonsils, chesty cough and inability to maintain consciousness or thermoregulate belie the great makeup application that keeps me from scaring small children.
I had a bit of a 'different' New Years Eve. I spent the 31st December at work, till about 14:00. Then went for a drink until 18:00, which meant that by the time I got home to collect my bag, I was too 'tired and emotional' to remember to pack my toothbrush or phone charger.
Straight to Gatwick - the emptiest I've ever seen it (all the sensible people were partying in situ!) - where my flight was delayed due to bad weather in Dublin. Got to the hostel in the snow at 23:30, had a cup of tea in front of the fire and called it 2010.
The next morning, after the worst night sleep (despite my earplugs, the regular snore on Every. Single. Inhalation. emitted by the old woman two bunks over meant that I never really slept properly - and the fact I was scared my phone would die before waking me in the morning ensured that I 'slept' fitfully) ever, I got up and pulled clothes on over my pyjamas - TOTALLY intending to travel on the bus in this combination to my friend Nicci - who was already in a B&B in Mullingar - where we could get ready for the wedding together.
Ha! My plans were foiled. I walked/slid/skidded to the bus station at 07:30 to find there were no buses in their bays, no garages where they were hiding, just No Buses. No one was around to tell us what this meant, and there was no information on the boards (I have noticed this habit in the Emerald Isle...). I stood around for a few hours until someone (very hungover) in a yellow jacket told us that due to ice on the roads, the buses couldn't get to the station. "The weather's improving, so we should know more by 11:00." I returned to the hostel, wondering how I was going to get to the ceremony (at 13:00 in Mullingar) if the earliest bus was at 11:00. I begged them to let me use the shower, and went back to the icebox they called a dorm room.
After spending as long a time as possible in the (relative) warmth of the dribble of water that was offered to shower under, I got ready for the wedding, then pulled on my jeans and as many other clothes as possible. I headed back to the bus station...it was almost 11:00. No buses still. However, the cafe had opened and had already run out of milk and hot chocolate powder, due to the unrelenting stream of stranded travellers attempting to maintain a core body temperature necessary to sustain life.
The man in the yellow jacket - looking slightly less grim now - told me that they'd know what the deal was with the buses by 13:00. I asked from where it would be good to hitchhike and made myself a little sign - but they wouldn't even tell me, saying, "you don't want to hitchhike..." - er, no, actually, I really bloody do!!! I informed them that having missed the ceremony (well, there was no way I'd get there now) - was it possible to make it to Trim (also 1hr30mins away) by 15:30? "we don't know when the buses will run, but their cancelled on most routes now." *sigh*
Eventually, at 13:30, a man approached me, "are you the girl trying to get to the wedding in Trim?". Replying in the affirmative, he said I could get the bus to Navan, and then get a taxi to Trim. Which I thus did - losing my earmuffs en route - possibly having shot them out of my pocket on the warm bus when the bus started sliding backwards down a hill, just outside of Dublin.
Finally, I made it to the reception venue - at 15:55 - about 5mins before the bridal party did. *phew* Just enough time to pop into the bathroom in the lobby, change boots/remove jeans, extraneous clothing and the used newspapers that I was using to line my body for warmth - and celebrate with Nicci, Helena's beautiful, amazing day!
Like any good Irish wedding - it went on till 06:30am...so I slept a few hours till checkout at 11:30.
Got a lift (ha! Sensible, no?) back to Dublin, and Nicci and I had BK for late lunch. She left that afternoon *sob* and I went pretty much straight to bed with some out of date gossip mags and a bag of Maltesers. The following day was another frigid shower, followed by another interminable wait at my favourite bus station for the bus from the Irish Ferry port (which never did arrive, in the end) before deciding (30mins after the expected arrival time had passed) to share taxis with other stranded passengers. A ferry, two trains and a tube journey home - by the time I arrived, my throat had two things in it the size of golfballs (they used to be tonsils, I believe) - probably not helped by the lady who sat next to me coughing the entire journey. I kept moving my water bottle out of the vicinity of sputum spray - but I don't think it worked. Damnit.
Now, I've 18 days left at work, and I really have a fair amount to get through, so being sick is not really in the schedule. Thus you find me, sitting up in bed, REFUSING to go anywhere near the window, let alone outside, because the temperature in London is approximately -gazillion degrees. For some reason, I'm colder here than I ever was in Prague, despite it being -double gazillion there. What's with that.
Bring on the spring.Labels: Travelling |
posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, January 06, 2010   |
|
|
|
| And so I'm back, from anti-space... |
| Tuesday, 11 March 2008 |
It feels as though it was a fleeting visit, but I remember at the time, feeling like I was doing nearly all the things I wanted to. I had a list. I ticked things off.
Number one on that list was getting a tan. Yes – get all up in arms, those of you who’ve lost someone to melanoma, or had bits cut out of themselves to guard against. Then shut the hell up. I’m one too: I’ve had moles removed, and now have weird skin puckers in odd places.
But when one lives in the northerner parts of Europe (i.e. not Cote d’Azur, the Balearics or anywhere south of Marseilles), one simply doesn’t have much opportunity to get rid of the ‘bone damp’. I no longer fluroesce at a disco. In fact, I’m darker than The Fella – who’s half black – so I reckon I did well.
Besides, I only burnt once, and once I’d finished peeling the resulting sheets of skin off my shoulders and décolletage and discarding them for feline consumption (sorry 9!), the resultant skin was too pretty for self-flagellating.
The holiday was sensational. And since I’ve been reprimanded for blog entries of an abominable length, highlights will be imparted to you in drips and drabs.
Piqued? I do hope so.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, March 11, 2008 |
|
|
|
| Sharing the Happy |
| Wednesday, 13 February 2008 |
In less than a week, I shall be touching down in the land of the long white cloud, where hopefully it will be blindingly warm (surely anywhere is in comparison to here), dazzlingly bright and extremely awesome. I'm going for a wedding, after which I'm taking off to visit Mamma & Pappa in the Western Isles.
I'm too, too, too excited, which remains undiminished despite the fact that the first thing on the list to do is to shop for a new swimsuit (three years is really too long, but really, who has the self-esteem to shop more frequently than that for something resembling slightly more adhesive underwear?).
Such a shopping trip is needed immediately, because no sooner do I arrive than we head slightly north to the wine country, whereupon we'll be lazing around the garden, possibly extending an arm to trail idly in the pool, or every now and then, casually topping up champagne flutes in the sun, sufficiently exposed to those terrible UV rays in a vain endeavour to be less the 'pale and interesting' English contingent and more the 'hey, it's Nomes!!' of yore.
I'm doing the makeup and hair for the bride. I'm thrilled that Em asked me last Christmas - and never deviated from holding me to that promise and have promised myself to take portfolio style shots. I'm looking forward to a good cry in the church, clutching friends hands in a miasma of exuded delight for Paul & Em.
Of course, once the wedding is over, I'm hoping to do a lot of catching up on girly gossip. I miss my mates so terribly: my life does feel quite empty without them. The coffee. The cake. The cosmojitos. Gads...I honestly can't remember the last time I felt this incited. And that's without the idea of seeing my kits.
Then, no sooner have I arrived and hopefully dispelled the drowsy remnants of jetlag than I'm back aboard another budgie, this time across the ditch to les viexes (!!!). They, too, have offered me the option of remaining partially submerged for the entire duration of my stay there - not least amidst the incessant downpour they're currently experiencing. With any luck (oh pleeeeeeeeeez), I shall pick up where I left off in NZ, floating with bubbles. I'm looking forward to seeing Mum's fridge, so filled with liquids there's no space for food - unless you look really hard to find secret stashes of all my favourites: boursin and dairy milk (not in the same mouthful...usually).
A peaceful time to be had, trying to see a bit of the area in which my parents are flourishing and happy, including taking in the (undoubtedly) resplendant verdant boughs of my mothers garden. I'm not sure what I can offer them, in terms of having a daughter around (hopefully not to regress immediately to my 17yr old self) but I can't wait to BE around them again: listening to them bicker and squabble - secure in each other's love for their future. That comfort of seeing them through my (supposedly) adult eyes, and hoping to have them see me likewise. Maybe. But not toooo much - let's be honest.
All in all, I shall be glad to be temporarily rid of the big smoke in the small town. It does sometimes feel as though England (in it's entirety) is a small town, the way people behave, the service provided, the cloisteringly over-protective nature of fear-mongeringly induced insurance premiums. While I love work, and am thoroughly revelling in the opportunity to use my (immeasurable - least of which is modesty) skills, the idea of three glorious weeks of 'not caring' seems gluttonously idyllic right now.
So. If I'm waxing drivel over the next few weeks, ignore me (or at least, forgive me). It'll be because I'm lolling in the warmth and adoration of friends and family long-missed, and THAT, if nothing else, can't fail to put a smile on this girls dial.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, February 13, 2008 |
|
|
|
| Vienna – further East than Prague. Yeah, right! pt III |
| Friday, 7 September 2007 |
 The Museum of Applied/Contemporary Art was my next stop (conveniently across the road). I looked through it. I got a guided tour by the bored guy in the Oriental carpets section (my upbringing finally paid off, I can pick a Persian rug from 40 paces!) and looked at the Klimts for a glimpse (ha ha) of the ‘masterpiece’. Even “the Lovers”. Impressive, but, I’m just not a fan. Checked out furniture, and textiles and learnt more about blue and white crockery than I ever thought I would. Sat on the comfy couches downstairs and stretched out a bit. Next thing I know, ANOTHER guy in a uniform is waking me up (?!?) and informing me that the museum is closed: could I please leave.
Vienna is obviously my place for being woken by men in uniform. Good to know.
Back to the hostel (via one piece of heart-stoppingly delicious almond cake) to meet my roommates (all male, all less than 22, and all in awe of the fact that I’m a) 30 and b) travelling alone! Ahhh…it’s good!) and play drinking games with them.
Hours later, and I’m up two card tricks (note to self: practice) and one AWESOME drinking game (highly successful), the rules of which I scribbled on a piece of (wet) paper so as not to forget (and promptly soaked everything else in my bag – tasty). To bed, woman: before you regret it in the morning.
But no! Wide eyed and bushy tailed – who was first in line for the tickets for the dancing horses? Then who got to drink a coffee while watching boys in tight trousers, knee high boots, military coats warm up their mounts? Don’t mind if I do.
Standing for 90mins watching horses do weird things isn’t most people’s idea of fun, but it was a little girl fantasy come true for me. But I was unaware of the amount of foaming-at-the-mouth they’d do – that bit wasn’t so pleasant. It only occurred to me what a work-out it must be for the rider when they all took their hats off at the end and were very red in the face. Thus ensued a renewed desire to get into 3d eventing (the list of ‘things to do’ when I get to the UK is getting wieldy!).
A long walk to the prince’s palace of Belvedere put me in exactly the right spot at the right time.
“Hello, my name is Nikolas, I am from Greece, where are you from?”
“Er, hi!” (still channelling Mr Grant)
“I have a lovely restaurant here.”
“Er, yes you do. I’m from New Zealand.”
“in that case, you must have a glass of wine on the house, come this way.”
What followed was a crash course in Greek gastronomy and hospitality (I got given a bottle of WINE for heaven’s sake) with the additional promises to e-mail when I got home, after ‘regretfully’ declining the invitation to stay one more day in Vienna as ‘my guest’.
All I could hear was my mother saying “Tanstaafl, Nomes, Tanstaafl*”. But I escaped the white-trade ring with ease. Mwahahaha. Little did they know my capacity for the red grape juice, and my ability to overcome the conscious-yet-unaware effects of rohypnol**.
A side effect of living in the unhealthy Golden City that finally came in handy.
More photos of a garden and some statues later, accompanied by a small Japanese girl (aren’t they all?) in the grounds of Belvedere and that was it.
The trip home was uneventful (only because I barely managed to restrain myself from stabbing the person across the train aisle from me with the torn edge of the bottle of water he was so noisily drinking from) but eye-opening again. From the train, one doesn’t SEE a border crossing as such. But it was damned obvious when we made it. All of a sudden, things went from ‘well looked after’ and in ‘good condition’ to ‘dilapidated’ and ‘it’ll come down any minute now’. The cars went from ‘hybrid’ to ‘smokers’ and the people went from ‘happy, healthy farming types’ to ‘miserable, ill looking, loiterers’. I’m sure these are generalisations – but that’s all you see at 120kph. It’s such a shame. Prague IS a beautiful city, it just needs a damned good hose down (including the statesmen). Czech Republic COULD be a beautiful country (if, again, they picked up their rubbish, tidied things up a bit, and used more plaster in their plaster than sand). I wish I could say I was glad to get back, but all I could think was: 30 more sleeps.
*There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch
** Of course there wasn’t any in the wine. And of course I haven’t used it or had it used upon me in Prague.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, September 07, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Vienna – further East than Prague. Yeah, right! pt II |
| Thursday, 6 September 2007 |
 Getting up so early had clearly addled my brain, and I thought I’d do the same thing the following day, to see the Vienna Boys Choir – those little squeakers. I was marginally disappointed, when I read: having rested (and I guess some of them, matured their way out of the choir) over the July/August summer months – they only start up again mid-Sept. Marginally gutted.
The whole Michaelerplatz area does make you think: “ooh, royal apartments” though. The buildings look kinda like apartment buildings, but it’s all terribly palatial (click on the flickr badge to see photos of the statues that adorn everything). It’s a much more impressive area than our castle in Prague – even if our one is the “largest operating castle in Europe”. Whatever that actually means (I think there must be people running around in scrubs, performing complex surgeries…but I MAY have misconstrued things).
Wandered the streets for hours – took in the Gothic Cathedral in Stephansplatz. Meh. This is where hanging in Prague totally ruins you. As you’ve probably noticed – Prague has become my yardstick for measuring all else. And frankly, St Vitus has WAY more grandeur than St Stephens. It might be the symmetry, or it might be it’s geographical placement within the castle grounds. Whichever. I was a bit “seen one gothic cathedral, seen ‘em all” by this time (hunger struck). Three candles – odd to change the number after all these years.
Found myself a supermarket (ice cream is good for lunch, no?) and a bottle of bubbles and headed off to State Park – the park with the largest number of monuments and sculptures in Vienna. Loads of them are composers whose names did not make into my fragmented musical knowledge. Others (Schubert and Strauss) had such statues that people were (neatly) lining up on one side to have their photos taken in front of them. Tidier than the Warsaw Rising melee from two weeks ago, but just a little weird.
Anyway, this park has wide open green spaces surrounded by lush trees and flowering shrubs – very Garden Force. Due to the “no dogs” signs and the obeying nature of the Austrians, I was in no danger of tripping over or lying in dog poo (hoorah!). I found a green spot, laid out and drank while reading my book, warming my tummy in the sun, texting everyone I knew about how good life was. Happy and warm, I even slept a bit, returning to the sensation of being a normal person on the grass – just as though it were my backyard. Until a dark shadow passed over me. A dark shadow dressed in uniform (this is not going the way of a ‘good dream’!), who said,
“something something something verboeten!”
Austrian sounds angry.
“Er, I’m sorry, um, I’m English.” I stammered – in a VERY good imitation of Hugh Grant.
“English. Verboeten.” (what? the entire language?)
Hmm…I wondered if he knew that verboeten isn’t ACTUALLY an English word.
“Oh, here? Verboeten? Me?” I pointed wildly at the ground, at me, and at the sun.
“Yes. Sorry.”
ARGH!!! Europe! Where you can’t even lie on the grass!
Well, not THIS patch of grass at any rate. THAT patch (about 5m away) was fine. Apparently, I was messing up “Strauss Lawn”. Quite.Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Thursday, September 06, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Vienna – further East than Prague. Yeah, right! pt I |
| Monday, 3 September 2007 |
 There’s a pall of illness that sits over Prague, a kind of Chernobyl patina – where people have bendy/bandy legs, their skin is pockmarked and bones are all too visible beneath said skin. Its malnutrition (it’s called a vegetable), mixed with hard living (beer is NOT a breakfast food) and bad choices (your skin does NOT look better after 20 sessions in a ‘solarium’).
Every now and then, I get tired of it. I need to immerse myself in a populace that recognises the value of open windows in a house. So this weekend, I took myself off to Vienna.
(yeah, the hot chocolates were also a massive drawcard)
I started VERY early on Saturday morning. Read: there was no point in going to sleep – as I just spent the little sleep I had waking every 30mins to see if it was ‘time yet’. But I did end up with a compartment to myself. After fashioning a Macgyver style cover for the annoying lamp (that stayed on for the ticket/passport inspectors) I stretched out on one side and slept fitfully to Wien.
The hostel was in a seedy part of town (oh look, I’m back where I started). A 40year old and myself raised the average age to 23. After throwing my backpack into the left luggage room with a small wish and prayer that it’d be there upon my return) I started at Café Central. Apparently famous for people (i.e. Trotsky) talking there and playing chess. No chess boards in evidence on my visit – just overpriced konditori. They DID, however, make a nice club sandwich (almost as good as the Falcon Club) so I’ll forgive them a lot.
Onwards to the centre, and all I could think were “where are all the people?”. I guess Vienna suffers similarly to Prague, crowds of tourists swell and surge through only very few streets. Taking the back streets meant I had the clean white city to myself. The pavements were flag- (rather than cobble-) stoned and clean. The buildings were pristine, even the sides and backs of them (as opposed to merely boasting a freshly plastered façade) and the people I did see didn’t have bandy legs.
Then, it happened - just as it does here. You turn a street corner, and are swept away by the crowd of meanderers. I followed, emitting a ‘baaahh’ every now and again when the ovine urge became too great. But at least we were heading somewhere: Michaelerplatz. Dominated somewhat by a gateway to the Hofburg, and home of the Spanish Riding school amongst other things. The marble statues round the front are all violence and killing - the artist seemingly going through a bit of a Reservoir Dogs period. But even on the church opposite the archaeological dig (but, why!?) there’s an angel with a spear – ready to jab it into a poor soul under his feet.
Painters and vegetarians. Hmmm....Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Monday, September 03, 2007 |
|
|
|
| You know you travel too frequently... |
| Monday, 27 August 2007 |
 ...when the thoughts that pop into your head when an Easyjet "you've 3 days before flying, did you know you can checkin online?" message arrives are,
"What? But where am I going? When did I book this ticket? Who am I going with? Is this my flight to the UK already? I thought I still had to sort that out...."
And not, "Oh. I should forward this to the person who's ticket I booked."
P.S. I DID have a video of us dancing to Moloko in the kitchen (disco ball!) last night, singing into a bottle of maple syrup, but, dash it all, it was too dark, and my video editing software too limited to post! What a pity! Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Monday, August 27, 2007 |
|
|
|
| OooootRAYgeous things seen of late |
| Thursday, 21 June 2007 |
 The police here are a little odd. Quite often, of an evening, I stop in at the all-night-potraviny down the road (and up the hill) from where I live. This can be for a variety of reasons. Sometimes we have run out of tea. Other times I have a message urging me to pick up ice cream and milk on the way home (last night). Yet other times, I'm sufficiently organised to think about lunch and pick that up the night before (the most rare situation).
So it's always kind of off-putting when you see policemen, presumably on duty else why the hell would they wear that uniform?) doing their shopping too. I mean..."Officer? You eat!?!". One step away from Dunkin' Donuts.
Even worse still is when one of those officers has dressed in the dark that morning, and is wearing SWAT style gear (truncheons, bandoliers, epaulettes, black jumpsuit - it's a mess darling - TUCKED INTO boots) and purchases a Magnum. Not a .357 or a .44. A double chocolate Magnum. And he, all 6'4" suede-headed no necked bundle of muscles of steel, then procedes to eat said ice cream on the way out of the shop and down the street where he meets his buddies.
It just doesn't seem right. Who would YOU call if there was a riot at your house? I'm thinkin' Ghostbusters.
If you're a civilian (and 9, you're out of this category, I'm afraid), you're actually allowed to declare someone dead in the Netherlands (handy for insurance fraud). The one stipulation to your making the declaration, however, is that the head must be 1.5m from the body.
1.5m.
Because a mere separation of, say 0.5m means the person is still completely viable.
a) who carries a measuring tape with them?
b) who, knowing they're taller than 1.5m, would lie down betwixt head and body to see if the rule is met?
c) who would continue with CPR on a body of a headless person if the head was (only) separated by 0.5m - given to not do so may be considered gross negligence leading to death.
Answers in the comments box...
Note: photo is of policeman with a mohawk. WHAT!? AND! Other things I've seen: policeman with hole cut out of the top of his hat, so it's not so hot in summer! WTP???Labels: Observations on Life, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Thursday, June 21, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Have you ever wondered? |
| Sunday, 17 June 2007 |
 What happens to fruit when they're sent overseas*? Well, they ripen. Sometimes, the grower/pickers/exporters/buyers don't really want them to ripen so quickly. Which is why, they keep them in an atmosphere that has a high quantity of CO2, something to do with ethylene blah blah blah science fakt jo.
Right, so, science duly delivered (am good science communicator, no? Saying so in my interview next Monday anyway. *raspberry*): how do you think I felt when I went to a Czech spa for a weekend, and had a CO2 bath 'treatment'.
Where, they asked you to lie down in a large plastic bag, did up the 'neck' of the bag around yours - using bulldog clips that were a cross between those on jumper cables and those on government dossiers, and shoved a CO2 hose into the bag from (what appeared to be) a fire extinguisher.
You think I'm joking.
The bag filled up with CO2, which meant I was effectively lying in a 'cold' bubble for the 30min 'treatment', delaying the ripening process.
Nomes: export quality.
*note: this apple was the most exciting thing to happen to me all of last week. Seriously. See how it's a Braeburn? That's my favourite variety. See how it's green AND red? That's my favourite combination. See (hear) how it's crisp crunchiness meant that pieces broke off into my mouth when my teeth gnawed at it, thereby checking my Olympic Record of 'taking a complete side of an apple into my mouth in one go'? - okay, maybe you'll have trouble with that last part...but just imagine? Then imagine the foodgasm response. I. Was. In. Heaven. I thought all my Christmases had come at once. *longing sigh*Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Sunday, June 17, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Netherlands! Brussels! Drama! TMI! |
| Wednesday, 13 June 2007 |
 I am in Die Nederlands (Das? Den? De? Could research, but no...much easier to prevaricate on your time).
There's all sorts of interesting stuff going on. People going for interviews for the same job (er, that'd be me and Lisa then) and one of us feeling slightly less confident (er, me) than the other deserves to (you know, on account of having had work in the last two years, etc.), other people getting offered dozens of jobs and having issues deciding which one to take (Den Haag/Gambia/Cambodia...does anyone have a three sided coin? D, nix on the coin edge comment), while others are stressing over finishing their two year experience with enough tickboxes met to be eligible for the diploma (er, that'd be me again actually). I don't think I will.
Which is why, when I'm feted (I MAY be exaggerating to make myself feel better: it's more going to be like - bumping into someone who's said they'll be here tomorrow and we could have an informal chat about a job in Rixensart (10 points to the first person who guesses for which company this could be) but you know, a girls' gotta glamorise. Then burst bubbles. *pop*) tomorrow evening at 'the great debate' (these Dutch - they've organised everything! Our formal dinner is preceded by canoeing down a canal. WTP!?!? WHAT SHOES DO I WEAR?!!) I'm going to have to be on top form.
Not bleeding, cramping and wolfing down painkillers (day 2).
Not stressing over other people's relationships.
Not worrying about friends considering abandoning me to Praguelife alone (again *sob*).
Not despairing over working in my native tongue, in a system that requires/demands/accepts/utilizes me.
Not scared we're going to lose the America's Cup Challenge.*
But. Hell. What would life be like if it weren't like this? One of my friends here said, laughingly "Nomes, I knew that with you it'd be drama.". Laughingly. As she stroked my hair in that "oh you!" kind of way. FFS!
Do I seek drama? Not intentionally. Really. I know no one believes that. But it's TRUUUUUE.
Do I revel in drama? Possibly. Ravel perhaps. With boleros and capes and shit. I do dig that.
Do I back the hell away from drama? Hell no. I get it drunk, I carouse with it, I sing on trams with it, and then I get fucked by it.
Is "drama" a pseudonym? NO.
*okay, I'm not THAT focussed on the great race. Not when we don't get our feet wet again for another few days and we're practising getting our speed up. But, y'know. I have to pretend it's not all about me. Once in a while. Apparently. Labels: America's Cup, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, June 13, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Another one bites the dust |
| Wednesday, 21 March 2007 |
The total tally for the time in Serbia:
3 toothbrushes, one electric, one battery-powered, one manual (eventually)
1 hairdryer (it said it was a travel dryer, clearly not up to MY exacting standards)
1 Acer laptop (RIP)
Everything on the laptop that was important (except a few lights photos from Belgrade) was backed up on a separate hard drive. Either that or it was here for my DLR's to enjoy.
So, it worries me not at all. Weird huh?
And what's it like being back? Let's not discuss that just yet, 'k?Labels: Observations on Life, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, March 21, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Busmans holiday |
| Friday, 9 March 2007 |
 Note to self: next time I go on a mission, despite the interesting reading material available to me, take some escapism!! Don't get me wrong, it's a great book, and I'm enjoying it, BUT the last thing I REALLY want to read at night before lights out is MORE epidemiology conducted in difficult circumstances.
The pros are that it's not SOOO compelling that I stay up until 4am reading it each night.Labels: Observations on Life, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, March 09, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Notes on here |
| Wednesday, 7 March 2007 |
 It’s impossible to really appreciate the true art of wood panelling, until you’ve been in a meeting in a room with wood panelling ceilings, walls and floor boards, at a wooden table, sitting on wooden chairs. For a moment, I wondered whether I was supposed to start eating my way out like a termite, or perhaps swaying in the breeze like a displaced leaf.
During the course of the last week and a half (10 days, people) I have lost not one, not two, but THREE (!!!) toothbrushes.
One fell onto the airside tarmac somewhere on my multiple-legged journey here. Another was left behind when I left one hotel, and the other was pinched by a mate. Grrr…
How a girl is supposed to save the world with furry teeth is beyond me.
Serbia has a fetish for peanut butter. In amongst all the meat and cheese I’ve been eating (liver cleanse, schmiver cleanse *sob*), I’ve had to sample the local goodies. They have biscuits called ‘plasma’ (NINE!!!) (they taset much like malt biscuits) and a pretzel stick is not a pretzel stick without a thin tube of PB running through it. I also tried the local foil-wrapped baked/fried potato offering and ate half of the packet with a scowl of “what the hell is this flavour…” before it dawned upon me.
Ahhh…crisps on toast for breakfast, how I do love thee.
Oh, and while I’ve come to the conclusion that kids should run the UN (why not? Give me one GOOD reason…), I’ve also learnt something about myself. Kids with snotty noses of ANY race/creed/colour/age FREAK ME THE HELL OUT. Today, I stood in a doorway of a dwelling with a small child running around my knees totally and utterly wide-eyed with the fear that she’d wipe her upper lip and then grab my leg with the same hand. Ewwwwww.Labels: Observations on Life, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, March 07, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Airport Centipedes |
| Sunday, 25 February 2007 |
Leg 1: Taxi from Veyrier du Lac to Geneva airport Leg 2: Queue for days to check my red and black, newly fixed, backpack into the underbelly of the plane. Leg 3: Discover that the ONLY watch I’m going to be happy wearing costs 650E, and was (thankfully) ‘out of stock at the airport’. Leg 4: Wait, interminally (ha ha, airport joke) for my plane to arrive from somewhere. Leg 5: take off to Munich, VERY late – due to arrive at gate H21. Plan strategy with air stewardess for dashing from H21 to H22 in minimal time…where the flight to Belgrade was waiting… Leg 6: taxi towards H21 in Munich. Wave to the people taxiing FROM H22 in Munich. Leg 7: head towards service centre. Leg 8: head towards service centre on the OTHER side of the airport after finding the first one closed. Leg 9: speak to agent at desk 4. Leg 10: speak to agent at desk 10. Discuss the options of arriving in Belgrade at midnight….or ‘maybe before that, if we rush’, and with the instructions “you’ll have to check in at the next airport”. Hmmm…. Leg 11: mentally whisper ‘farewell’ to my bag, my toiletries, my toothbrush. Leg 12: leg it to Gate G48. Leg 13: remove all electronic componentry from backpack. Dump in blue bin. Drink a litre of water (didn’t expect to have to go through security again after having been within the ‘airside’ zone of airports since 10:30am – silly me). Walk through gate. Leg 14: develop need to pee. Beep loudly. Leg 15: be swooshed by the magic wand of beep. Remove belt. Remove shoes (that didn’t beep at Prague or Geneva airport). Curse the Germans (quietly, and excluding Andreas). Leg 16: retrieve shoes. Relace. Repack. Redress. Regain modicum of dignity. Head to gate. Leg 17: arrive second to last, and yet wait on bus under the armpit of smelly man. SMS taxi driver who’s collecting me from the airport with flight changes. Send sms in Czech AND English to be smart. Leg 18: bus across town (MOTORWAY!?) to tiniest plane on planet (Dad could fly this sucker. Hell, I could probably fly the damned thing – with a remote control!). Leg 19: sit with knees under chin en route to Zurich (yes, very close to Geneva, glad you noticed). Leg 20: arrive in Zurich, ask ground staff in halting French (why? I don’t know, I thought I’d like to add a communication aspect to my multifactorial problem) whether they thought I’d have to go collect my bag BEFORE checking in (i.e. go ‘public side’) Leg 21: roll up at the Zurich transfer desk (airside) with unaccountable tears slowly trickling down face. Leg 22: under strict instructions to “pull it together, Nomes!” ask the kind lady whether I needed to leave the airport to check-in, and whether my bag was in the same hemisphere as me. Leg 23: be checked in on the “last seat on the plane” and make way to gate. Leg 24: take train. Leg 25: go up longest escalator in world, having previously checked gate number to ensure was on correct side… Leg 26: turn around, go back, due to correct side being closed as plane already boarding. Leg 27: approach security check (!?!?!?!?!). Ask whether they knew if my gate had closed or not. Be informed (in a very brusque manner, possibly matching my own) that ‘we don’t know’. Strip. Empty bag. Drink yet another 500mls of water (still no toilet stop…starting to walk cross-legged). Leg 28: reclothe. Repack. Re-wish all airport security staff would curl up in a hole and die. Especially the one who told me I couldn’t put my shoes on on the counter, which was where they were sitting moments previously having been X-rayed. Just explain to me the logic, and I’ll be happier. Don’t HAVE any logic, and I get annoyed. Leg 29: bolt to gate E46. Leg 30: skid to halt in front of desk and ask whether they can track my belongings. Find out that my belongings are ‘on their way’. 5mins later (queue), be informed that they ‘probably won’t make it’ and I’ll ‘have to file a report in Belgrade. Leg 31: Enter plane. Sit next to crazy old lady who reads from a Russian prayer book and does the sign of the cross backwards (freaky) as she takes her first flight. Leg 32: hold her hand for takeoff. Labels: Rant, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Sunday, February 25, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Prelude to a Fashion Week |
| Tuesday, 20 February 2007 |
 Now, you and I both know that to compare Italy to the Czech Republic is doing gross injustice to both parties. Nevertheless, I’m going to do it (oh yes, fearless travel writer that I am).
It’s the greetings. In the CR, if you neglect to say anything during your exchange with someone in the service industry, it is perfectly normal. Nay, I would go as far as to say that if you can snarl at some point during the exchange, you can consider yourself integrated. Compare this with Italy, then, when even the person who sweeps the floor of the small café that you step into says “Arrivaderci” upon your impending departure, and you are SCUM personified if you do not kiss each person with emphatic sorrow as you bid them “Ciao”, promising (through hand gestures alone) to return, just as soon as you are able…
Not that they’re hard to kiss, mind. These people are SOOO good looking, it’s enough to make one want the ground to open up and swallow them. The men, however, are short. We’re talking 149cm here folks. Proof you can’t have your couture and wear it too…
Speaking of which: note for fashionistas (or fashionisn’ters): metallic sneakers are IN, in a big way. Not to mention, Miu miu (who had, “I’m too drunk to fuck!” screeching out of their Bang & Olufsen system) are bringing back the eyepatch. You saw it on MY blog first*.
I saw a woman stop in the middle of the street, grab a sketching pad out of her bag, a thick pen and start drawing an outfit. A DESIGNER, dlr’s, in REAL LIFE! She wasn’t overtanned enough to be Donatella, so I didn’t bother asking her for a quick sketch/autograph. Not to mention that this request would have brought about the ubiquitous up and down (I was soooo grateful for the small amount of “ciaoooooooo bellaaaaaa…”’s that I received, I didn’t want to push my luck by ASKING for appraisal) from a designer…and I was wearing my usual crap…!
Feeling immensely ugly (and grossly overweight), I took myself for a (free!!!) MAC makeover in order to feel sufficiently presentable to share thefootpaths/pavements/sidewalks (for all my DLR’s nationalities) with the skinny (short!) Asians and Russians (where did all the Amazon women go to? Gisele must have relations?!).
I fervently hoped that some short, rich, well-heeled Italian senor would take a shine to me and Pretty Woman me up Via Montenapoleone. Needless to say, I am still short one Valentino gown, a Gucci suit, a pair of YSL Gwailer 100mm T-strap sandals and a Dior saddle bag to go in my LV Ebony Pegase 70! ::sigh::
The shops are, without a doubt, the most gorgeous shops I’ve ever set be-sneakered and un-worthy foot in. The male security guards (finally, tall(er) men!) are extensively groomed: eyebrows are neat and orderly, concealer may have been used, possibly foundation and most likely powder. I wouldn’t be surprised if these boys knew what microdermabrasion was either…they’re skin is poreless. It seems un petit de trop (even to me) when you consider they’re guarding 750E baby slings….Generally speaking though, this is the only city I’ve seen where males are catered to as well as the females, in terms of shopping for clothes, that is.
I strolled into one shop, past the table of plastacine (for children) and large scale Scalectrix model of Monaco (for men) into what was the space of a warehouse filled with clothes, interspersed with well placed lily-festooned white painted wrought iron tables littered with architecture and design coffee-table books. While I sat to rest my feet and absorb the sumptuousness of it all, I wondered how I could instantly shed the necessary 30kgs to fit into anything. Luckily (for the paramedics) I came up with no alternative option than to lop off a leg (and no multitool available – damnit!), so I’ve still got SOME money left in my bank account (and my original blood quantity).
The shops are flat. The floors are completely smooth. There are seldom gradations in the heights, certainly no steps (without warning beacons and sirens) and wheelchair access is non existent (how many wheelchair-riding fashion disasters do YOU know?). I believe this is because your attention is so distracted by “oooh…pretty things…must touch….must…oh my god…is that the price…*faint*?” that it’s too dangerous to have level changes inside. That’s if you can FIND the inside. Some shops are SOOO exclusive that the doors are hidden. Perhaps they weren’t entirely ‘hidden’, but since I couldn’t pick which one to push from the four linked identical glass panels, I didn’t risk being branded someone “who doesn’t usually come down this way” by attempting ingress.
D&G did have doors (well, a doorman who opened one of the glass panels, at any rate) and it seemed rude not to enter while he was “bueno sera”ing me. They have THE sexiest clothes around: a white viscous (pun intentional) cowl neck long sleeved jumper nearly undid me, as did a marabou and PVC jacket (don’t ask, it worked, trust me!). Yet the atmosphere was the best in this shop too. It was part movie set, part club chill out room, part warehouse chic.
Shoes? (I know you’ve all been waiting). Gucci. Metal. Pointy. High. COMFORTABLE (!!!) Gorgeous. 800E. And I wish I'd taken pictures, but those male security guards were watching me like a hawk. Or was that the eyebrow shaping?
If I’d had the cash in my account, I would have come into some SERIOUS self-negotiating waters. As it was, haute couture will remain, for sugar-daddyless Nomes – out of my range: I can look, I can touch, I can even try on (shoes, gloves, glasses and bags only), but I can’t take home.
P.S. I didn't even buy a fake, because I couldn't find one that looked real enough - to me - to warrant spending the 20E they were asking. *sigh* The price of good taste for longlife bags!
*Except, damnit, Manolo got there first! But YOU saw it HERE first, right??!
Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Tuesday, February 20, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Dining – it’s an Italian thing |
| Monday, 19 February 2007 |
 My hotel is, well, let’s put it this way: if rooms could be rented by the halfhour, I wouldn’t be surprised. The word “Hotel” is inscribed in Helvetica Upper Case going down the side of the building. If only one of the red neon bars were flickering, it’d be straight out of a trailer trash movie.
It’s my first night, and I’ve come to a local restaurant, a few blocks from the hotel. According to the noses, it’s a family run joint, and the sons scurry while myopic dad pregos and grazies, occasionally showing a group to a table. Papa has sat me down at a table with silent 40 year old women. They acknowledge my presence without smiling. I feel as though I should excuse my intrusion saying, “I don’t speak Italian, so go for it, feel free to gossip about your husbands’ lacklustre performance in bed, and debate whether he has a mistress…”
But I don’t.
Papa swishes over to talk to the 5 and 7 year old cute girls at the table across the room. They have been brought out by their grandparents who are sipping a digestif and punctuating their conversation with praise for the artistic merits of their crayola-crazy grandprogeny. Bear in mind that it’s 9:45pm, and you can add Italy to the “list of countries Nomes could be quite happy in”. Not to mention the motorcycles outside…this country is 2-wheel crazy.
People chow down their delicious and inexpensive food with their mouths open (ewww!), and unashamedly stare at people at the neighbouring tables (as would you if the conversation were as interesting as the hand gestures seem to imply!). People in this restaurant are clearly eating and arguing with their own families. I wonder whether anyone who lives in the city has a dining room table, or if that’s reserved for the farmhouse in Tuscany (doesn’t everyone have one?).
Near to me, a family with three sons (18, 24, 28) struggle to order sufficient food for the boys to feel (temporarily) sated. As well as their ages, the lads range in engagement, from sullen to soliloquising. All three are beautiful to look at, but their immediate response to Mammas momentary comment reminds me that they’re attached to the apron strings still. Hand gestures abound, and are easy to interpret. Papa says “What the hell is your problem?” to the youngest, who responds with a sullen and disagreeable (not to mention, downright dishonest) “nothing, I’m fine.” Complete with the teenage sneer.
When the shrimp cocktail arrives, I’m torn from my people watching, absorbed entirely by the decision, “to eat the radicchio lettuce, or to leave it as the garnish it appears to be intended for?”. I clear my plate. I ordered a ravioli del nero chef. I think that means ravioli made by a black chef, which seems a little racist, but all of a sudden am struck by doubt: I hope squid are not involved….
Two couples enter the restaurant and the women immediately take the diagnonally opposing seats at a table of four, to leave space for their husbands (who hang their wives coats) next to them. Everyone touches everyone else as they speak, so it’s quite hard to distinguish lines of ownership.
Two gentlemen are sharing a gigantic plate of meat (complete with a knife sticking straight up out of it) and their side salads are WHEELED to them on a separate, side table. Seeing the dessert trolley, I immediately make the decision (irrespective of hunger levels) to have dessert, merely for the novelty of having something wheeled to MY table too.
Squid, it turns out, were involved. Note to self: if I intend to keep returning to Italy on gastronomic missions, buy a bloody dictionary/phrase/menu book!!
Ahhhh, so the women are ENGLISH. It now makes sense. They have trouble dividing the bill into three, so pay with a 200E note. I’ve never seen one before, so I try not to stare. The waiter asks for 2E more, and then gives them a 50E change. They look at one another as if to say, “well, that was unexpected…” and don’t leave a tip.
My dessert (I pushed all the squid out of the ravioli, I’m gonna have to find somewhere else to eat tomorrow night!) was a chocolate tart with chocolate shavings and chocolate sauce, topped with strawberries and ice cream.
I drooled when I typed that, in remembrance.
People here (the Italian ones) have sminkles on their faces. Sminkles, darling lovely readers, are the wrinkles one gets from smiling frequently. A few of the women have reduced this with toxic injections and face-smooshers (smooshing is what you do with a cat, when you pull it’s ears back and make its face look like htat of an alien. They love it – guaranteed, and you’ll find hours of entertainment in their features!), but alas, their faces have a plastic, not porcelain sheen. It’s horribly unattractive, and reminds me that even though I’m soon 30, it’s GOOD to have lines.
At least then, I’ll also have an expression. And my expression right now is, “oh my god, I’m full!”Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Monday, February 19, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Drifting |
| Wednesday, 7 February 2007 |
 There I was, lying down, talking to a friend. My consciousness started to slip, and I was drifting in that special place between dream world and real world, where you are you, but anything could (and does) happen.
I was with a work colleague (I think, because) we had packs and medical supplies with us. For some reason, we needed to contact someone who could do something (you know how these things are), but there is no one looking anywhere near official enough for our liking. We move over towards the bank, on the other side of the street. It is hot, dusty, sweaty, and the folk there are predominantly dark skinned – though not African dark – and wearing trousers with sandals that they don’t pick up properly as they walk, so the bank with it’s tiled floored hall of tellers is filled with the *shuff shuff* of about 50 patient locals.
Me and whoever is with me, decide that the tellers probably won’t speak English or French (er, neither do I, perhaps my colleague spoke French), so we headed to the Bureau de Change section. That was behind mahogany and glass panels, air conditioned. We entered the small door, and waited for a teller to show up on their side of the glass partition. I said,
“You know, we don’t even really need the bureau de change”*
And the person I had been speaking to while I lay in bed, said in very puzzled voice, “What??”
Oooops. Two worlds collided.
*it seems I state the blatantly obvious even in the dream world.Labels: Navel Gazing, Observations on Life, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, February 07, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Not OK. |
| Friday, 2 February 2007 |
 So, last year I went on a road trip. Only, it wasn’t really a road trip, bits of it were, it was more like a ‘backpacking adventure’, but that just sounds wanky, and there haven’t been films with that name… …so road trip it was. It was with my best mate 9, and her sis Nis. We convened in London prior to the ‘big adventure’ and departed after having good quality chocolate and tea at Nis’s huge flat (a theme may have been born). Our first stop was Barcelona, I assume we flew there (but remember NOTHING of the flight, so cannot be certain. I was still in my days of getting on a plane, falling asleep before takeoff and awakeing only barely in time to wipe the drool from my shoulder, my tray table and the person next to me in order to pick up our bags). After rambling in Barthelona, Madrid beckoned. We departed on a train, in the morning, having first stopped at the most amazing market to collect “train scroggin” enough (and of sufficiently bounteous delight) to give our carriage mates envy. Chocolate coated fruits/nuts, jamon, quesa, pan so fresh and tasty you could smell it in the next carriage… …after we’d finished our feast (approximately 20mins after boarding the train), we were soon in Madrid. And while there’s no place I like more (except, perhaps, Buenos Aires), there are some funny things in Madrid. The signs on the metro, for instance.
Now, we three girls had been travelling for a few days. Hyperglycaemia had set in due to the amount of sweets we’d ingested. We were in SPAIN for heaven’s sake. Some of us could exclaim “I’m in EUROPE” in a voice that begged the response “yes dear, now have some more tea”. So we were all a bit giggly. Also a bit alarmed at how much we were learning about one another that we hadn’t already learnt (despite being blood relations or spitting sisters…not that we ever did that because I have an aversion to saliva…but you know what I mean). All the secrets were coming out, they had to, since we’d be sharing beds in some arrangement or another in the near future. So when we saw the sign on the metro, it entertained us to think that the sign did not mean “keep your filthy paws off our silky doors” and instead, read it as “okay – not”. Which quickly became the excalmation “NOT-okay!!!!” when I asked whose turn it was with the vibrator that night. Labels: Memories, Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Friday, February 02, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Streets of London |
| Thursday, 25 January 2007 |
 Okay, okay, stop with the clamouring already.
Admittedly, one e-mail does not a clamour make, however, the admonition above is a method of making myself look popular. Did it work?
I went to London some time ago. It was nothing more than a shopping trip. While there, I managed to overload my poor bag (let alone my back) with more than 25kgs worth of goodies (mostly of a food nature, though I will admit to having been left in a Boots-coma for about 2hours on Saturday morning. I’m not sure what happened, but it felt good.
Saturday afternoon was spent desultorily wandering around the dregs of the January sales. I could speak to people!!! It was a novel experience. I picked up the nearest thing to me and tapped some helpful person (dressed in black, with a name badge) on the shoulder just so I could ask for “this” in size 14. No, 16. And how about a beige? Oh, no, make that a black.
It was marvellous in ways I can’t even begin to effervesce.
(there was another word, but lord knows my vocab chip is blinking again)
I did decide, however, that I have to stay in Prague for longer (!) to learn my “lesson”. The queues still upset me to the point where I only spent £20 on clothes. Yes. Pathetic isn’t it? Gone are the days when I would happily chuck one bad paycheck after another. Oh no…hang on…it just about IS my paycheck.
We save the world, yet get no recognition for it. You bastards.
After a trip home and a quick smart change (quick, into smart – follow people, follow!) I was off out again to meet M. M gave me a mission. Since I’ve already reached double O status (work on an avian influenza mission got that one sorted PDQ) the terms were easy, straightforward, and topple many an evil dictator.
If, that is, an evil dictator was, for instance, sitting in the uppermost reaches of the Vaudeville theatre, and leaned too far out of his chair to look at the performers climbed up the scaffolding on the stage, and accidentally toppled.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and instead Stomp was brilliant. The guy’s were droolworthy (thanks to M, who managed to find us seats that didn’t require oxygen) with their arms/shoulders (good LORD, I pine for the human anatomy) and the rhythms so, rhythmic (think these through Nomes, what have I told you?). I haven’t been involved in so much audience participation since I was last a pantomime. I think I was 6. Our Saturday night crowd refused to let the poor (exhausted and sweaty) players off the stage, we clamoured, we stomped our feet, we clapped our red-raw hands (percussion instrument of choice, for us in the gloom).
After the show was the after-party…(according to a song, which I now have earwormed into my head) which was spent at a bar/club in Convent Garden somewhere (names, places, all sketchy). After throwing M into the clutches of an 18 year old Keira Knightley look alike (“go over there!” - 10s delay - “oh my god…that was quick…what ARE the texture of her tonsils then, M?!” – I swear to god I’ve never seen anyone work so fast with such success. Even ME!!!) I then congratulated half of the party on their stunning costumes (1930’s) had my picture taken with Charlie Chaplin (birthday boy) including the typical “kiss on the cheek from a gorgeous stranger” photo (er, the gorgeous stranger being me – sheesh!) pose, did the whole “I liked that song, but not the one before that” signed communication thing with the DJ and then continued to freak out at the fact I was in a room filled with straight people.
Until two of the girls from the 1930’s party started snogging – then I felt much more at home.
Ralph Macchio (as he would be now, not as he was then) grabbed me for a spin on the floor. We spun. Then I ran off (read: scampered) to get free lollipops from the lovely lady in the girls loo and vodka from the lovely ladies at the bar.
I downed a few vodkas along to an inner chorus line of “feel the fear and do it anyway!” and “look Nomes, you’re in a city in which you don’t live, noone will know….” And “good lord, what happened to maneater Nomes?” and “I hope that when I blog this, my parents pretend not to read this one as well!”.
Hi. My name’ Naomi, and I’m terrified of guys.
I danced. We snogged. I got tonsillitis. ‘Nuff said.
M hauled me away from the Albanian (I travel to London and end up with an Albanian!?) when the lights came up (wise move, WISE move!) and we ran for the N175927. Well, a night bus anyway.
About a hundred hours later (and many thoughts along the lines of “hold it in, dear god, please hold it in” telepathically delivered to the swaying who had full stomachs of liquor) I got to the flat. And slept in – deliciously.
Yes, you CAN sleep deliciously. I did. So much so that the car alarm that went off across the road failed to alert me to the fact that my brothers bike was being stolen.
Hi. My name’s Naomi, and I’m oblivious. (Dad, you are FORBIDDEN to comment)
Following a long sojourn around a supermarket larger than a city (Sainsbury’s, how do we love thee? Let me count the ways!) I took myself via tram, ferry, hovercraft, tube, bus and bike to the airport to go back to Prague.
I thought I’d managed to avoid the check-in-blues. Ha ha ha ha! My mistake. I must’ve been in some sort of time warp or trans-european jetlag. They hit the next day. On the bus.
We LOVE tears on the bus. Welcome home.
Thanks to here. You people need to buy me a camera!Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Thursday, January 25, 2007 |
|
|
|
| Racedogs |
| Wednesday, 24 January 2007 |
 In a country where everyone smokes, its no wonder that the women stay whippet thin. The face shapes are much more interesting and varied from the flat-faced, wide cheekboned gorgeousness of the Czech features, here people have points *pointy features dance*. But explain me this (a lovely little Czechlish phrase for you): in a country where a meal is not complete without meat stuffed with meat, followed by unpasteurised cheese…HOW!?!? I shall bottle their metabolic rate and sell it for millions. We got ‘evaluated’ today. Our lectures that is. I feel as though I’ve been gold-starred because they liked lecture where I, specifically, talked about them. I should remember this for future encounters with people. You mean, NOT talk about me? But I’m the centre of the universe… On the flipside – I can’t contact the adorable Marko (with whom I attended Doha College back in the day) because I have no idea where the hell I am. Literally. My suggestions for where to meet would be either the flat I’m living in or the office I work in. Unfortunately, not being able to read/pronounce Cyrillic, I can only explain that the two are not very far apart – but you have to get to each in a very roundabout way – and are close to a big white building. Helpful no? My social life dwindles… In a country where everyone smokes, its no wonder that the women stay whippet thin. The face shapes are much more interesting and varied from the flat-faced, wide cheekboned gorgeousness of the Czech features, here people have points *pointy features dance*. But explain me this (a lovely little Czechlish phrase for you): in a country where a meal is not complete without meat stuffed with meat, followed by unpasteurised cheese…HOW!?!? I shall bottle their metabolic rate and sell it for millions. We got ‘evaluated’ today. Our lectures that is. I feel as though I’ve been gold-starred because they liked lecture where I, specifically, talked about them. I should remember this for future encounters with people. You mean, NOT talk about me? But I’m the centre of the universe… On the flipside – I can’t contact the adorable Marko (with whom I attended Doha College back in the day) because I have no idea where the hell I am. Literally. My suggestions for where to meet would be either the flat I’m living in or the office I work in. Unfortunately, not being able to read/pronounce Cyrillic, I can only explain that "the two are not very far apart – but you have to get to each in a very roundabout way – and are close to a big white building." Helpful no? My social life dwindles… P.S. Am stealing pictures on account of not having camera: this one's from here
Labels: Travelling |
| posted by Nomes @ Wednesday, January 24, 2007 |
|
|
|
|
|
