Dowdy down time

It was a Saturday night. I left Somerfield (contender for the cheapest, most unflatteringly lit and depressing supermarket in the area) clad in my ancient down jacket, jeans, and my flatmate's uggboots - which are two sizes too big, messy hair shoved under a beanie and an incongruous slick of red lipstick - the last an obvious last-ditch attempt to keep my self esteem out of the gutter. I looked like Kate Moss after about 3 nights out in a row, except that my hair is now an ugly shade of brown after my hairdresser ruined her previously impeccable performance record. In my defence, I was only wearing uggs in the way they are meant to be worn, as any Australian will tell you - on a dash to the supermarket to buy alcohol, and preferably a supermarket as fluroscent and budget conscious as Somerfield.

So obviously, my only purchase from Somerfield was a bottle of Australian wine. Admittedly it is quite nice wine, but of course had been reduced by £3 which takes any dignity out of that. I had at least managed to resist buying Cosmopolitan and a microwave dinner for one.

It was cold, raining and I had turned down two birthday party invitations as I was utterly exhausted, and didn't have the energy to be the only single person in the room showing up and making an effort to find something in common with people seven years younger than me, or alternatively wander around alone a particularly dodgy bit of London teetering in my impractical Miu Miu 5-inch high heels wearing a flapper's dress, wig and plastic cigarette holder.

Feeling quite miserable, but glad of at least little Simon Le Bon's company (although right now he's much more interested in rummaging through the recycling looking for chicken scraps) I headed for home. To think that three years ago I was in Japan, two years ago in Sweden, and now... here. In the rain. Suddenly, in front of me on the bus stop, was a glowing ad for a high-end fashion brand I've been working with. It featured Nicole Kidman (not that I have a soft spot for her by any means).

Yeah, I thought. I'm working with amazing fashion brands and meeting creative, wonderful people. I'm an Australian on the other side of the planet like Nicole, just doing my best. I bet even she has made the depressed ugg boot run in her time (later discovered that to be true - see pic). Immediately I felt much better.

Pyjama-o-rama: The Impossible Quest

And back to the minutiae of life in London. There are some things in London that defy all logic. Supermarkets closing at 5 on Sundays for instance. Or the way the electric sign at East Putney station always says it's a city-bound train when in fact it's going to Edgware Road. Or the fact that pet shops don't actually sell pets (...with the exception of Harrods, which charges a minimum of 1000 pounds).

But today I stumbled upon one of the strangest anomalies yet - pyjamas. If there was one thing I thought England - nay, the whole of Britain - would excel in, it was man-style pyjamas, with button-down nightshirts and generous trousers in checks or stripes, the type an old Scottish guy would wear while smoking a pipe and slugging a single-malt, possibly with matching slippers and hopefully while seated in a worn leather arm chair. But with a bit of a modern twist: the kind of manly pyjamas with a feminine cut that, say, twenty-something women could wear while quaffing mulled wine and not freeze to death with the substandard heating in their ex-Council flat. Where were Australian-style pyjamas endorsed by ex-tennis players and media-mogul's model wives that were so stylish you could probably nip down to the shops in them (something I believe my sister has done on several occasions, although in the area of Sydney where she lives I doubt anyone would actually notice).

However, good pyjamas are hard to find. Unless you are looking for pyjamas in baby blue (or possibly soft pink) with penguins, teddy bears, baby giraffes or various other infantile animals, and then you're in luck. Even the high-street stores renowed for selling slinky lingerie (not particularly expensive, admittedly) sell sets of fluffy pink and baby blue pyjamas embossed with what I believe were baby cows.

I don't really understand this preoccupation with baby animals on sleepwear for grown women. I mean I have nothing against baby animals per se, but a perfectly respectable set of tartan pyjama pants instantly regresses to something an eight year old should wear when teamed with an oversized red jumper with a beaming teddy bear on the front. Except that said red jumper is size 14-16.

Admittedly, ten quid will get you a super cheap set of glittery zebra printed pants which are not short enough to be 3/4 length but not long enough to reach your ankles (probably because they were made by small children in Bangladesh). The only other options seem to be crisp, French-style embossed cotton numbers costing a fortune or slinky silk sets which aren't really the thing for watching X-Factor, or little camisole and shorts-sets which would be fine if the only man in the house wasn't feline.

I tried Gap, but never managed to get back there (I have banned myself from Oxford Street unless it's a culinary emergency). In the end, I have had to settle for a pair of very nice pants from good old Marks & Spencer, but compromised with a tank top instead of a big manly shirt. Neither have any baby animals on them. I find life in London an ongoing struggle, but at least I have conquered the pyjama battle.

My life with Simon Le Bon

It's been ages. So, before I get back to the regular entries, to sum up where we're at, I will quote my friend Demis's latest Facebook message:

"
F*ck yeah! gay paree.... you're living every girls Sex And The City dream life, complete with the problematic yet ultimately quite lusty European boyfriend situation... :)"

Basically - I have a new job, at a company I have dreamed of working at for ages (ten years, to be precise). The job is turning out well, and as you may have gathered, we work with pretty amazing people. The aforementioned 'European boyfriend' is not so much a boyfriend as someone lovely I have met who unfortunately lives two hours flight away, which is highly impractical. So before I get enquiries as to the wedding date, let's just leave that one right there.

It's kind of job vs Sweden right now, yet again - the eternal struggle. So there's that, and there's my new kitten Simon Le Bon. Simon (that's him in the picture, and he's also attempting to help me type this right now) , despite his glam rock name and impending glittery gold collar, is hilarious and...mute. Making a mockery of his name really.

Mr Le Bon (the feline version) was named after his Duran Duran namesake when the latter was spotted smoking outside my office. We did intend to name the cat Jake Gyllenhaal so we could tell our colleagues we had to get home to 'feed Jake Gyllenhaal', but since Mr G failed to materialise outside my office, Mr Le Bon beat him to it.

I am going to update this on a regular basis again, London has been imparting some kind of chronic fatigue and it has been a whole 5 months since I posted. But for now, off to feed Simon (from Duran Duran). Just kidding. The cat.
x

A bit of a soapbox

After spending the last few weeks concerned more about cheese than anything else (thanks to my current job, not any new obsession with fondue nights) Justice has been on my mind a lot this week. Firstly I read the disturbing news that a friend of mine has been arrested in Japan in blatantly undemocratic circumtances. Reading the story I felt the sense of injustice swell up that I remember my high school drama teacher mentioning on my report card (probably as a result of my organising protests on the front stairs and thereby getting disqualified from giving any kind of speech at graduation...but that's another story).

To read the full story and support Junichi Sato, a brave and dedicated campaigner for environmental issues and public democratic process in Japan, go here and sign the petition.

Here in London I'm a member of a journalism club called The Frontline Club, and as usual whenever I go there I come away with some kind of insight (or an amusing run-in with a BBC journalist). This afternoon I went to a film screening there, This Is Our Country Too, about the plight of Aboriginal people in Australia. As much as it is a horrific situation, I found it very hard as a white Australian to come to terms with it, and I think Erin did too. I am all for Aboriginal rights, I think the interventionist policies of the Howard government are despicable and don't address the problems in any meaningful way. On the other hand, I don't see any easy answers, and I think that's probably what most white Australians feel - a sense of frustration, and a fear borne of ignorance that most Aboriginal people just want us to leave, when those of us who were born and bred in Oz feel it is 'our country too' as well - as unjustified as that may be after only 200 years compared to over 40,000.

I recommend the film highly, it made me think. But it was a guy in the audience who gave me the most hope, and said that there are positive changes being made under the new government. I hope so. He recommended the work of the Yothu Yindi foundation in promoting reconciliaiton and opportunities for Aboriginal youth so if anyone is feeling particularly rich right now I think it's a worthy cause to donate to.

The only other news is a horrific dental bill approaching 700 pounds - it amazes me how something so painful and unpleasant can cost so much. Now if that's not injustice I don't know what is!

Harassment on the 328

Yesterday I decided to be one of the 'ladies who brunch' and set off to meet my friend Sally and a friend of hers for pancakes (I still haven't quite kicked my New York habits - although weirdly, a solid diet of pancakes, burritos and pizza seems to have caused me to lose weight - take that Dr Atkins).

I guess in one way I deserved what happened next. Not at all because I was wearing a rather skimpy summer dress (perfectly demure though, I do wear it to work as well). But because as I boarded the bus I observed a sign saying 'Alcohol banned on public transport from June 1st'. Fat lot of good that'll do, I thought to myself. Surely banning teenagers from stabbing innocent travellers would be a more effective, I scoffed to myself. Stupid new mayor. I had tempted the gods of irony, and they were about to wreak their revenge.

I got on the bus and sat next to the window, with my self protection weapon (new ipod to replace one stolen in a rather unfortunate pub incident) firmly wedged in my ears.

As I stared out the window, a large man reeking of beer pressed up against me. At first I thought he was a bit overweight and shifted into the glass - any closer to the glass and I would have had to merge into it, Terminator-style. As I turned up my appropriately feminist Swedish rock, it slowly dawned on me that the guy was leaning into me on purpose. As his podgy flesh threatened to spill onto my lap, I also noticed he was saying something that even my beloved Swedes couldn't completely drown out. 'Hey sexy lady,' he said. To my horror I felt a hand on my knee - from yet another drunken man across from me. 'Hey baby, what's your problem?' he said. The ipod's magic circle of protection had obviously weakened with the onslaught. I turned and looked the guy in the eye as fiercely as I could, and considered telling him that my problem was I didn't find exceedingly drunk, overweight, 40 year old men particularly attractive at 11.30am on a Sunday morning. Or in fact any morning. Make that ever.

Heart beating fast, I turned back to the window. 'Let's just take her,' I heard one say to the other. That was it. With oblivious Londoners staring unhelpfully at me, probably in fear of being stabbed, I pushed my way through the two men and down into the middle section of the bus, praying they wouldn't follow me. Happily they didn't. They were so drunk they'd probably forgotten the thread of their conversation two minutes later. But I realised my hands were shaking, and I had to fight back tears and I realised that Londoners really don't care about anyone else. 'I bet that wouldn't have happened in New York,' I thought bitterly. And then I added to myself 'And that new alcohol ban will be brilliiant!' To be honest though, these guys rolled out of the pub into the bus. Ok irony gods, lesson learnt.

Today in sympathy my friend in Oz emailed me his own harassment story - much more endurable I think. He says: 'I got yelled at on the train this morning because i was reading a Richard Dawkins book (curiousity.. never read any of his stuff). an old lady objected to my disgusting ways and didn't like seeing atheism flaunted "in front of innocent school children" in such a vile manner...hahahah'

The day they ban Richard Dawkins on public transport, is truly the day I give up hope for this country. But I think I'd rather take on little old ladies any day.

Advice from Ferris Bueller

Yesterday, apart from viewing the amazing MoMA (pushing in between annoying French tourists snapping photos of themselves in front of Andy Warhols... I will never understand) I bumped into Matthew 'Ferris Bueller' Broderick coming out of the subway. I did a comical double-take and stared at him for a second thinking he was a friend (weirdly, he seemed to do the same) and then was mortally embarrassed when I realised who he was and kept walking. But it was like some kind of sign - he made me think of that line in Ferris Bueller: 'Life goes by pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.' And you know, after all my soul searching and panicking lately (what am I saying, lately. Always!), I thought - hell Ferris, you're right. So I decided to stop panicking and start living (while endeavouring to keep my bank balance a little healthier than it's current impoverished state).

In this vein, I managed to go and hear Morgan Spurlock speak (for free, at the Apple store, how incredibly enlightened!) about his new film. It was pretty inspiring - especially since he got rejected from film school six times. Although I have to say that as a documentary maker who is supposed to question things, I'm not sure his new film really does, but will refrain from polemic until I've seen it. I reflected with Kat over a beer in a delightfully dodgy little Soho bar that maybe I'm a frustrated filmmaker. 'You've known that since uni!' she said. Hmm.

Then Kat and I had some pasta at a place with possibly the scariest waiter in Little Italy last night (I was too scared to tell him how horrible the wine was, in case I vanished Soprano-style later). Sorry New Yorkers, I have to say the best Italian so far has been right here in Hoboken, a few streets over from Frank Sinatra's house. In fact, Frank Sinatra even graces the laundromat here, as I discovered on Sunday. I washed my stinky jeans with 'Come Fly With Me' written encouragingly over my head. Classy.

Today I met up with a colleague's friend over lunch, which was great. He seems to think it's entirely possible for a frustrated filmmaker Australian to move to New York eventually. Then I trekked over to Brooklyn to check out Williamsburg and do some celebrity spotting (if I can't marry Jake Gyllenhaal, I was hoping to at least see Maggie), but the lack of public toilets drove me back to a Starbucks (tip for New York tourists: Starbucks is your public toilet - and not much else, although Mark swears by their coffee. But remember, Mark thinks Blanche from the Golden Girls is sexy, so you can draw your own conclusions). I comforted myself by swinging by the Ghostbusters firestation. Sadly, the Ghostbusters sign is no longer there, but there is a very artistic interpretation of the FDNY logo on the pavement outside (see pic).

Now I'm waiting for Kat and thanks to the kindness of the lovely JonJon, will be going to see old friend Neil Finn and co tonight. Will refrain from talking about the weather this time. Tomorrow, I'm sacrificing meeting my idol David Lynch (for the bargain price of $100) to go to Texas to see my lovely cousins complete with ranch and cowboys, so hopefully more adventures from there...

Clear the area, Mario's approaching

Kat Braz, my friend I'm staying with in NYC, reminded me yesterday of 'Dell-o-dramas' , a phenomenon which has been occuring to me since university. Thursday certainly started them off, since poor Lols had to spend a whole day in New York Presbytarian Hospital ('don't worry, it's like ER only better!' her doctor said enthusiastically). Unfortunately after 17 hours, two issues of People magazine, two blood tests, a quarantine room, an X-Ray and a CAT scan, the conclusion was: she had the flu. The final kicker was, after losing my last day with my sister, I am now suffering from the same thing - luckily not half as badly. I'm typing this from my bed in Kat Braz's Hoboken apartment.

This has also meant I couldn't go to Salem, home of my friend Rose (and of course, set of Days of Our Lives). Yesterday, Kat tried to cheer me up by suggesting that we go to a movie as part of the Tribeca Film Festival. We went to see a brilliant Australian film called 'Bitter & Twisted'. (Kat and I were audibly excited to see Gary Sweet was one of the cast, much to the confusion of New Yorkers).

And then, the Dell-o-dramas began.

A friend of a friend who was with us asked if we'd like to go with her to a Nintendo event in town. Her friend was reporting on it for a certain well-known magazine so we'd get to meet Jason Priestley, every 20-something's childhood crush. Kat and I thought this was about the most bizarre proposal we were going to get for the day, so, probably high on Tylenol at this point and feeling unnaturally healthy, off I went.

The event was at the Rockefeller Center to promote Mario Kart. Being somewhat of a Mario Kart fan, I would like to point out to Nintendo that there was a distinct lack of Toad themed merchandise available. But the Jason Priestley thing was inspired - Priestley owns a racecar team, hence his presence. Also present, for lesser known reasons, was the very attractive Chace Crawford from new show Gossip Girl. Watching him talk to Jason Priestley was like watching some kind of showbiz baton being passed.

The combination of Jason Priestley and a giant Super Mario was inherently surreal. Add to this FBI-suited men saying very seriously into their walkie-talkies 'Clear the area, Mario's approaching' or 'Send Mario back, we need him for some b-roll' launching another waddling and seemingly blind Mario into the press area, had us in stitches.

After this Kat and our new-found friends (not including Jason, unfortunately, who had soundly beaten one of us who shall remain nameless at Mario Kart) went for a Mexican around the corner. (Londoners, the prices would have made you weep. $2.50 for an empanada). The discussion turned to celebrities and the surreal life of the magazine writer who had to sometimes stalk the rich and famous for a living. My favourite was her conclusion on Keira Knightley's weight: 'If you had to eat Keira Knightley you'd have to suck the marrow from her bones,' she said. Quite.

The surrealness was rounded off on our way back to Hoboken when a large Japanese gentleman on the train took a shine to us and proceeded to tell us all about the Doctor Who fan group in NYC. For a minute I was tempted to go and hunt them down today - purely for scientific research of course - but I think I'll just have a Lemsip and go back to bed.

Escape to New York

Apart from never having felt so exhausted since I lived on the Rainbow Warrior back in 'Nam (ok, back in Korea), it is just so good to be here. At first I had a momentary fear that I'd constantly be the third wheel, that I was too tired to deal with being a tourist, and that I was far too weak-willed to resist the plethora of shoes that NYC has to offer. But as soon as I experienced the most entertaining airport bus journey of my life and noticed the Mexican restaurant that adorns every corner, I remembered that this is my kinda town. (Needless to say, we have already sampled a Mexican restaurant after visiting no less than four in research. I love this city!)





My sister Lola and her boyfriend Mark and I spent yesterday just wandering (largely into shoe shops) and Mark was very excited to discover that not only is The Golden Girls on constant repeat but there was also a selection of Golden Girls merchandise in the local gay shop. (Mark bought two tshirts. There, I've said it. I'm sorry Mark but anyone who thinks Blanche is sexy deserves to be outed).



Unfortunately, this internet connection (from the hotel lobby of Hotel Pennsylvania - Mark and Lola think I'm nuts for singing 'Pennsylvania 65000' all the time but apparently this hotel is the one in the song and has had the same phone number since 1917...the mind boggles) is very unreliable so I can't upload any pictures or write anything proper. Tomorrow I'm going to have to bite the bullet and go to Starbucks.

Don't take medicine from rockstars

Yesterday I shocked Erin by declaring that I hated Facebook, and was considering deleting my account. I could say the same for my phone and trusty Mac though - but as I've said before, it's not so much the technology that is evil, but the fact it should never be used late at night, during illness, PMS, a full moon or after alcohol consumption.

I am still cringing from Friday night, when a friend who is staying with us came home from being out on the town with a certain famous musician who happens to live across the pond. Said musician had given friend prescription medication from the US, and knowing that Erin and I were ill, he kindly offered some to us along with a glass of therapeutic wine or two. Now, it's rare that I even take aspirin let alone anything else, and I'm certainly not the kind to need any sort of substances other than a stiff drink when going out to dance (which again, I very rarely do unless I'm with Irina on a gay boat in Sweden, in which case all we need is some bad music, glitter confetti and someone dressed like a cowboy).

But I had had a horrible week, I was very ill but had worked overtime for a week despite the fact my nose matched my lipstick, my cold wasn't going away even after applying the tried-and-true whiskey therapy, and I had been so depressed that I'd been on the phone to Irina several times during the week and she was now sending me check-up text messages every morning. So I thought, hey, it's prescription, how bad can it be? I also knew that many Australians take this particular combination to survive long haul flights, and it was only something to help me sleep.

But the moral of this story is: never take medicinal advice from rockstars. I am not quite sure what happened, but upon waking up I discovered to my horror that I had left several Facebook messages for various people including a colleague and I am still too embarrassed to even see what they say (my only consolation being I'm sure they make no sense whatsoever). I spent yesterday wracked with guilt and watching back to back episodes of Peep Show to convince me that life could be worse. Erin and I also discovered we had spent 15 minutes on the phone to Ben (which I do actually remember, although wasn't quite sure what exactly we said). People like Jonathan and Angela will probably forgive me, but colleagues are another matter. Three hours went by faster than is possible within the current laws of the space time continuum and I discovered several draft emails which thank God I never sent, but which contained the kind of spelling and grammar that would have made the BBC condemn me to solitary confinement.

So kids: don't take medicine from rockstars, don't mix wine and medicine unless said wine is provided by Qantas and the only alternative is certain madness, and for the love of all that is decent don't ever, ever use Facebook if you are not sure you won't regret it. I can only offer my apologies to anyone I contacted on Friday night and implore you to ignore it. Luckily I don't have to go to work for the next two weeks and will hopefully return from New York to an oblivious workplace. Gulp.

Sick!

There's not many times you can match your lipstick to your nose and name your day comprehensively under the same category as a Young Ones episode, but today I managed. And the lipstick was very red. But I dragged myself to the office, and while I apologise for the long absence, I am going to commit to this blog again - and start off with dragging my trusty Mac back to New York City and Hoboken - the home of Frank Sinatra, according to my friend's fridge magnet which is my only authority on the matter.

So, while I spend the weekend recovering from this horrendous cold and watching countless re-runs of Futurama, I will be researching a list of top notch Mexican restaurants, charging up the old Canon 30D and preparing to leave London behind at least for a while. So stay tuned for NYC adventures, and feel free to post any recommendations (Ludvig this applies to you!)

x

The Hardest Decision. Ever.

I hate money. I am going to have to give up my dream job because of money, or lack thereof. Take a risk, some people say. Well unfortunately, as it turns out, I have been taking risks for the last 7 years, and that's why I can't take this one. Regular readers of my blog will see the cruel irony, which is that this dream job is one I've joked about for months and months: working on none other than Doctor Who. If I had a tardis in actual fact, I'd be able to check out the consequences of this decision. However I only have the empty box in BBC reception and a manically, mockingly grinning photo of David Tennant adorning my desk.

I had prepared myself for moving to Cardiff, I'd sorted all those decisions in my head. But I hadn't counted on a mammoth paycut. I don't know why - I think I was distracted by the giant Dalek easter eggs adorning the Marks & Spencers at Cardiff train station.

So unless some vision comes to me in the night, perhaps Billie Piper or scarier, Russell T Davies, I will have to let this opportunity pass me by, and hope for fate to intervene at a later more convenient and financially viable date. Cruel cruel fate.

The Birthday Party

Well, despite the lamentations of Valentine's Day and society's general reminder that to be single is to be some kind of aberration, my birthday was surprisingly well-supported. (This was possibly helped by the fact I celebrated it twice.)

Aptly, Nick Cave even made an appearance on the second night of celebrations, at my absolute favourite restaurant in London. I couldn't work up the nerve to thank him for the time he was so kind to me when, as a slightly gothic 16 year old I approached him on the streets of my hometown. 'Excuse me!' I said, and he turned around with characteristic purposefulness. 'Um...are you Nick Cave?' I twittered. 'Yep.' he said. I proceeded to lecture him about Wim Wenders films (cringe) until he actually wrote my name in the book he was reading and gave me free tickets to his concert. I still wonder if he ever opens that book and wonders why on earth my name is in it.

Since he was also present at the Hitlergate debacle, I decided to leave Mr Cave and his enchilada in peace - but I was cowardly enough to snap a paparazzi shot with my phone.

Why I Hate Valentine's Day

I'm sure I'm not alone in hating Valentine's Day, but there are probably very few people who regard it as the annual bane of their existence. The irony is, I should look forward to it the way I did a a small child, guaranteed to receive presents, flowers and adulation - because Valentine's Day is also my birthday.

This used to be quite a boon - in primary school or even early high school, I could always walk with my chin held high to the bus stop, weighed down with flowers and chocolates. No-one ever had an excuse to forget my birthday, or worse, skip it because they had a romantic event to attend, and at this stage I didn't mind cards festooned with Mickey Mouse and a plethora of red glittery hearts. Valentine's was simply synonymous with my special day and I was quite happy to have my presents wrapped in love-heart print paper or pink roses.

But now, the irony of my birthdate has grown to staggering proportions, considering that most men I have had any kind of romantic involvement with seem inexplicably terrified of me - I am convinced I am cursed.

If I dare to attempt to enter a restaurant despite the guaranteed presence of sickening couples, I will most likely be unable to get a table. Not to mention that every smug loved-up girl in town steals a little bit of that birthday sparkle, enhancing special single feeling and making me feel extra-not-very-special at the same time. If I try to go to a bar - in particular, a champagne bar - I will no doubt find that for the evening they have suddenly decided to introduce a burlesque show, or a couples-only policy, or a cover charge ("only 10 pounds for girls!").

To make it all worse, Cupid not only ruins my birthday every year, but bestows his scorn on me for the remainder of it as well. I am the most terminally single person I have ever encountered - including Patty & Selma on The Simpsons. So not only does my birthday remind me very conveniently of what I haven't got (even more so than every single other bloody day of the year), it also makes the date quite a laughable event for most people who know me.

In the unlikely event I do happen to be in a relationship, I will most likely receive a cop-out half-Valentines half-birthday present, probably in heart-printed wrapping paper. A certain ex also decided it was a good opportunity to make me pay for half of my birthday dinner, using the logic that since it was also Valentine's Day, I should be contributing to the festivities. Needless to say, that particular evening ended with a loud argument in the street about his treatment of women.

On the up side, I can provide a welcome refuge for fellow singletons or sane people who reject the Hallmark-induced madness of St Valentine (by the way, I in no way degrade the efforts of the man who was apparently a priest and therefore most likely innocent - most theories blame Geoffrey Chaucer for this whole debacle. Far be it from me to suggest that perhaps it is why he was murdered. But there you have it.)

Other advantages include the easy availability of chocolate, various freebies and an increased likelihood of flowers.

And my dearly beloved loyal friends who, like me, reject Valentine's Day, can join me for a champagne ... perhaps cosily huddled in a grotty pub that the couples have kindly left for us. I have also discovered a surprising number of friends, ever since childhood, who share my pain of being a Valentine's baby. Often we can join forces against the saccharine madness.

This year I will most likely be doing that, and I'm determined to find a bar in London that hasn't succumbed....



Image by MacPhersoon at Deviantart.com

Why Britons are miserable

Welcome to 2008! If I had've written this blog a week ago (which I wouldn't have, being snowed under) I would have been delighted - a new job, which is going really well and even plays MC Hammer remixes in the afternoon, a potential new romance, lots of visits from Amsterdam and Sweden, and a renewed take on London. Well, the new job is still going well, and I have exciting trips to New York and Stockholm planned - if not paid for, more about that in a moment - but the romance has seemingly evaporated and an old English demon has reared it's ugly head: bureaucracy. People think everyone in London is miserable because of the weather and greyness and constant knife-crime. Nope, the answer is: bureaucracy.

We currently have four bureaucratic battles on the go, which has left me with no doubt that inefficiency and thickly-layered bureaucracy is a very typical English trait, finally beating the record previously held by the Dutch.

Excruciatingly frustrating situation number one concerns our gas bill. Upon receiving a ridiculously high bill, we asked the gas company to do a meter reading. They said they would send us a key. Meanwhile, I had paid a third of the bill - which they took off our old flatmate's account, rendering it -60, and sent another bill for the full amount to us. We received an envelope informing us it contained the key to our meter. It was empty.

Second is our on-again off-again internet connection and subsequent long conversations with various Indians who like to randomly subtract amounts from Erin's bank account, without ever actually providing us with the service we are paying for. Third is the ongoing saga with bailiffs who write threatening letters on a bi-weekly basis informing us that our house is to be broken into and our possessions sold to pay our supposedly outstanding council tax. This despite the fact that we have written, faxed, phoned and emailed informing said bailiffs that in fact the council owes us tax.

And lastly - the reason I have not paid to go to New York: HSBC, my former bank, has closed my account. Ok, I did ask them to, but after a lengthy conversation with more call centres, I was told that it would not be closed until next week. Supposedly safe in the knowledge I could access my funds until I called them again, I went to Tesco's to buy some dinner that very evening, and discovered they had closed my account in a highly uncharacteristic burst of efficiency. Of course, this means they get to keep my money and make a few more bucks on it for an undisclosed amount of time. Unable to find out after several expensive phone calls ('HSBC doesn't call customers back,' I was told) exactly when or how I will get my money back, I am now at home glad that Ben is going to cook a roast so that I can eat.

Seriously, the combination of bureaucracy and Jeremy Clarkson has severely tainted my view of Britain as a cosy land of hobnob (biscuits) and Dr Who. The friendly tax forms of Sweden beckon...