TRAVEL & OTHER TRANSIENT THINGS
Saturday, 14 November 2009
-
Cairo & Aswan, Egypt: 25 - 28 Oct, 2009
It is an early plane that takes me into Cairo, Egypt, Land of the Pharaohs. As we circle the landing strip, the view out my window is all dusty browns, as far as the eye can see. Cairo is a dirty, polluted city, and my sinuses seize up as soon as we get in. Known as Umm al-Dounia, or Mother of the World, there are 23 million Cairenes who live, work, play and dream in this tightly packed, traffic choked city of old crumbling Renaissance buildings, dirty dusty 1930s apartment blocks and elegant Moorish facades. Five times a day the call of the azan rings out from the many slender spires of mosques that dot Cairo's winding streets. The city is a chaotic contradiction of old and new, ancient and modern.

Cairo by night; The Great and Second PyramidsThe first night we take a bus tour of Cairo and Ahmed, our tour guide, brings us to a local fateer place. Egypt in many ways remind me of an older Malaysia. The shop is dirty, lit by neon bulbs, the chairs cracking plastic, the tables a cheap linoleum. There is little sign of the artificial sanitation of the Western world. The fateer, an unleavened kind of bread filled with a choice of mushroom, cheese, meat or vegetables, is delicious.
Our first real day in Cairo is spent exploring the noisy halls of the Egyptian Museum. It is a marketplace, filled to bursting with tour groups and their shouting guides (walkie talkies should be mandatory!), Egyptology students sitting in corners sketching one or two of the many ancient Egyptian treasures. The artefacts are beautiful, rich, varied. The museum is a hum of humanity, a waterfall of noise, heat and humidity. No photos are allowed in the Museum, but suffice to say that Tut's treasures are really all that they are hyped up to be. Tutankahamun was a relatively unimportant pharaoh, a boy king who ruled for just nine years. What would the treasure trove of great pharaohs like Seti I and Ramses II have been like? The imagination staggers, fails, to envisage it.
Tut's death mask is undoubtedly the highlight of the entire collection, all 14 kilograms of it, resplendent in lapis lazuli and pure gold. There are also the four gold gilded wooden sarcophagi, nestled one in the other like giant babushka dolls. It was in the innermost sarcophagus that Tutankhamen's solid gold coffin was found, and inside, the boy king himself. there are other treasures in the Egyptian Museum - scarab beetles carved from all sorts of material, burial beds, canopic jars with the heads of the gods carved as stoppers. Awesome statuary line the lower halls of the Museum, Pharaohs in red granite, black granite and sphinxes in limestone, engraved with royal cartouches.We head to the Giza Plateau for the Pyramids and the Sphinx. The Great Pyramid, owned by Cheops, is so big and breathtaking that up close, its sheer mass and height render it almost one-dimensional. Yan and I clamber up a few steps up on the great stones. Bereft of their limestone covering save the cap that survives on the Second Pyramid, the Giza Pyramids would been wondrous in their day, glittering a brilliant white in the desert heat. We clamber into the musty depths of the Second Pyramid, pay our respects to the Sphinx, carved out of one giant piece of limestone and depicting Khafren, owner of the Second Pyramid. Napolean knocked off his nose when he came a-conquering, to prove to the locals that the Sphinx was not, as believed, a god.
The Pyramids render me speechless. Their size confounds the imagination - to think that mere humanity erected such a monument to the gods and to their king, still standing after 5,000 years, is a humbling reminder of the greatness that belief and willpower can attain. Contrary to popular opinion, the pyramids were not erected by slaves; they were built by the fellaheen, the farmers of Ancient Egypt. During the Inundation, when the Nile flooded its banks, they flocked to the West Bank of the Nile and were paid by the pharaoh in food for their labour. Pharaohs started their pyramids early, as soon as they ascended the throne. More than just a tomb, their pyramids were to give them shelter for the rest of their eternal life, and it was imperative that they completed it before their death in this world.
Chilling in a cafe in Aswan; shops in the bazaarBound for Aswan that night, we cosy down in our 5 star, Egyptian style, sleeper train. We have: flat beds big enough (for us) to stretch out in, our own sink, lockable doors and access to (relatively) clean toilets. The train lurches, jerks and jolts through the night. I wake up early enough to see sunrise and watch as platforms whiz by. We pass fields of sugarcane, donkeys carrying produce and people, the slender spires of minarets,; we pass turbaned, wizened old men and running, laughing children. Aswan is the southernmost town of Egypt and extremely Nubian in character. The town is laidback, with a wide, modernised bazaar. The heat, in the afternoon, is unbearable and the dust chokes us. We seek refuge in a cafe and order Cokes for the sugar rush and to cool us both down.
View from a bus; Horus at the feet of Ramses IIOur next wake up call is at 2am for Abu Simbel the next morning. Travelling in military convoy, we watch a desert sunrise and the long, dark grey ribbon of tarmac unravel through an ochre desert. The two temples at Abu Simbel is a wonder of architecture, both ancient and modern. Carved out from a mountain side on the orders of Ramses II, this is a temple to the sun and on two days each year, the rising sun reaches far into the holy of holies to touch the gold gilt and painted statues of 3 out of 4 seated gods - Ra-Horakhty, Amun Ra, and Ramses himself. The fourth statue, Ptah, sits always in darkness as the god is associated with the underworld. The entire temple (as well as Nefertari's temple next door) was relocated upwards away from Lake Nasser when the High Dam was built, cost a cool USD$40m and relied on an international cast of thousands of engineers and archaeologists.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
-
T Minus Three
As the days inch slowly closer I'm starting to feel the buzz. I'm researching the best options to get to LHR on a weekend when the Piccadilly is down, setting aside bits and bobs I know I will need to bring with me, strategising a plan of action - where, when - to meet Yan, making lists of things to do before I leave the house, clearing memory cards and charging batteries, reading up on been-there-done-that traveller's tips, checking the itinerary, making copies of insurance, visa and passport, confirming flights, stocking up on provisions.
These gypsy feet are well rested and ready to go.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
-
Paris, France: 3 October, 2009
Over cupcakes at Hummingbird at Notting Hill, Debs and I hatched a dastardly plan. We would, we decided, skip over the Channel for a cheeky lunch in the City of Light. Perhaps go shopping. Perhaps eat pastries. Be back by dinner time, with no one the wiser. The world was ours, or Paris, at least, was.
With tickets bought we met at St Pancras at an unholy time in the morning and within hours were walking south from the Gare du Nord towards the Marais. Prior discussion had resulted in a plan of attack that included exploring the shops of this quarter, then having lunch at a local brasserie. The day was cloudy as we set off towards the Seine, but it cleared up soon after. Paris was just waking up as we threaded our way to our destination. Our journey was long and arduous - only because of the constant pit stops we were making to patisseries and boulangeries on the way for croissants, pain aux chocolats and pain aux raisins - it's a hard life breakfasting in Paris!
Cafe culture; autumn leaves & postcards; The Eiffel Tower; shops in the MaraisWe made for the Place des Vosges first, an oasis of trees and empty space. Finally at the Marais, we stopped for some people watching and tourist guessing at a cafe on rue de Turenne (the street of the tureen, perhaps?). There were warm braziers at our backs and the theatre of a Parisien side street on display and we had first row seats. The Marais is the Jewish quarter of Paris and we saw a few very well dressed couples head off to the synagogue. It is a quaint, old area, filled with designer (and very expensive!) shops, traditional Jewish bakeries and here and there, bead shops, vintage clothing, bookshops and restaurants.
The facade of the Pompidou CentreThe prices and the decidedly lacklustre sterling at the moment were completely prohibitive, so aside from a few crumbs on our shirts neither Debs nor I had anything to show for our purchases in the Marais. We headed down towards the river, passing the Pompidou Centre on our way. I'd wanted to see this building on my first visit to Paris so it feels utterly divine and pre-ordained to literally stumble on it, all unawares, on this trip. As we head down we finally see the Ille St Louis and glimpse, in the far distance, the tiny silhouette of the Eiffel. Along the quai we walk past the petshops and flower shops, past the postcard sellers and the vendors with their mountains of kitsch Eiffel keychains.
At the Louvre; cafe au lait in Paris; the Seine and the Ille St Louis; Marais streetsAt the Louvre we pause for breath and photographs. The sky is a rich, happy blue and we search for the orange awning of Le Fumoir, where artists, writers and the glitterati gather to partake in nourishment. Grey and earth tones dominant inside, casual and chic at the same time. In the far back is a dining room lined with books where happy diners sit and chat. We plump for a sun filled spot by the window, only to be told the table is reserved for others more important than us. Unwilling to cause a scene in a foreign language (less of an ability to argue well) we resit ourselves in the main area.
The insides of Le Fumoir; looking down the Champs towards the Arc du TriompheThe prix fixe menu has salmon and salad and delicious sounding desserts. I order mushroom ravioli in beef consomme to start and the salmon as my main. The food is perfectly nuanced and after a hard day's tramp, much appreciated. Service is quick, quiet and calm and all around us are friends catching up, families lunching and business busily in the process of being conducted.
Feeling happy and expansive, Debs and I roll our way back down through the Louvre and scuff our shoes through the sunny Tuileries, then hang a right towards the Pantheon. At Laduree I point at the long, ridiculous line and ask "a emporter?" incredulously. The host says "yes, to take away" and Debs and I slink away to Fauchon instead where the line is shorter and the macarons just as good. It is difficult to say no to the beautiful concoctions of sugar and spice and all things nice and we end up with a few bags each of delicious nommable delights, then a quick hop back to the Seine and on the Metro to catch our train back to London.
Au revoir, Paris, I'll see you at Christmas.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
-
Summer shenanigans
I'm behind on posting. Summer is officially over and I still have half of the season's social events photos to post up! Eek. Where has the time gone? How can it be October already? Who killed Roger Rabbit? And so on and so forth. The leaves are turning a glorious golden tawny scarlet again and there is a definite nip in the air after the sun sets. I like this in between-ness of seasons. London does not wear summer very well, the city is ill-equipped to deal with the heat and humidity, but autumn, with her associated tweeds and crackling fires and softly falling leaves, autumn is a season that fits London to a T.
The Buttoned Down Disco night, run off a bobbing boat moored by the embankment, somewhere in South London. The theme was pirate punks and sailor girls. I met a Jack Sparrow on board who wished me an "aye aye" and a tip of his pirate hat.
Lloyd and I had dinner at Les Trois Garcons, a beautiful, eclectic French restaurant in EC London. I'd been to Lounge Lover, their bar, before and loved it so much I decided I wanted to try the restaurant, which did not disappoint. Rich, decadent food and a bordello-like interior, very much to my taste. The produce was flavourful and fresh, the macarons that accompanied our dessert the perfect finishing touch to the meal.
On a sunny, blue-sky day, we had a picnic in Regent's Park while the Sugar Kings, a Latin jazz band played salsa tunes. It was a perfect day. A giant assortment of noms, funny friends, golden sunshine and live music - this is the very epitome of summer perfection! I also brought Lloyd to the Grapes, my local behind the park, where Charles Dickens used to write, dark wood panels and crusty locals and a friendly bartender - the pub that has it all!
Dens, Kay and I checked out the Saatchi Gallery a few weekends back. There was a photography exhibition on the environment, which had some stunning entries. The space itself is perfect, blonde floors, amazing light, wide walls. The art wasn't as powerful as I thought it would be - missing are the Damien Hirst formaldehyde installations - but it was still an extremely pleasant afternoon to while away.
I took a walk along my end of Regent's Canal one sunny Saturday and this is what I saw: a houseboat moored, weeping willows, three locks, a man renting out punts, water lilies on a pond, too many ducks to count and jugglers practising their craft.
Birthday cake! Self explanatory. Followed by perfect live Brazillian bossa nova and jazz at Ronnie Scotts.
While Candy was in town we caught up over a pie and Pimms dinner (very English!) then checked out the Lord Mayor festival along the South Bank. There were cute little stalls set up, the smell of food in the air and later, when night set in, a fire festival in the grounds of the Tate Modern. I remember watching the fireworks with Jeff last year - this time we had a much better view of it from Blackfriars bridge. No tripod = shaky firework photos.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
-
Lille, France: 26 Sept, 2009
The train into Lille pulls away from St Pancras mid morning. Jo and I are heading into the French/Flemish town for a day - the city is France's fourth largest, once a hub of textile manufacturing and known as the "Manchester of France." In actual fact it was neither Lille's size nor history that drew us - the cheap Eurostar tickets did the trick!
The Gare de Lille Flandres, Lille's older, smaller train station.
With only a day to spend in Lille and no plans or expectations, no guidebook or map, Jo and I wandered around Gare de Lille Europe for the first fifteen minutes or so, trying to orient ourselves. The first stop was the giant shopping mall - Euroville, across a large public space from the station. There is a hypermarche, a hulking Carrefour filled with good things like cheeses and hams, and a flurry of high street European brands.
We head into the centre of Lille, stopping along the way at the Vielle Bourse, Lille's old trading exchange house. It's beautifully restored and there is a book fair in its grounds on the day we are there. The light in Lille is soft and beautiful, diffused and clear at the same time. We finally stop for lunch at a touristy restaurant along the Grand Place, a noisy, traffic filled square that is filled with a civic event in the afternoon that we visit.
Flemish/Dutch/French buildings in Lille
The Opera House and Chamber of Commerce
Paul the bakery is everywhere in Lille! Art Deco facade
Lille's architecture displays none of the 16th, 17th century grandiose flamboyance of Parisien buildings. Instead, mixed in with the ornate curves of beautiful roccoco are the unmistakably Flemish/Dutch influences of stepped and bell gables. The Flemish duchy was lost somewhere in the 19th century in the midst of the power struggles of the Dutch, French and even the Spanish, whose reign extended this far in its heyday. However the culture survives, and in homage to Lille's cultural ties we order Belgian beer and mussels for lunch while sitting al fresco at the Grand Place.
First glimpse into Vielle Bourse; books for sale
Inside the Vielle Bourse; the facade
The rue de la Monnaie; the outside of the Musee l'Hospice de Comtesse.
It is a clear, sunny autumn day and every vista we come across while wandering the cobblestones of Old Lille is drenched in that light. We head (by chance wandering) for the oldest street in Lille, a 13th century, twisty masterpiece called rue de la Monnaie. Here is the Musee l'Hospice de Comtesse, an old 16th century hospice founded by the Countess of Flanders, now a museum. Lille also has the Palais de Beaux Arts, second only in size to the Louvre, but our day is too short and the weather too fine to be wandering around dusty galleries looking at Old Masters, so we choose to explore the shops instead.
There is a divine, be-chandeliered patisserie which has queues forming for its Marvellous, a chocolate shavings coated concoction of whipped cream set on a crumbly, light meringue. The combination of textures is what makes this work. The shop's other best seller is the Incredible, similar to the first, but without chocolate shavings. By a shop window, a woman lingers. The awning say "Macarons" and I drag Jo over for a divine pink, rose flavoured and purple, passion fruit flavoured, mouthful of heaven. I stop at one (so difficult when it comes to macarons!) because I intend to visit Laduree this Saturday in Paris and indulge there instead.
Mussels for lunch; Pierre Hermand macaron shop; going for a stroll in the streets of Lille; decaying facade of a building; blue shutters - Lille is filled with quaint views like these; turkish delight in the glass jars at Meert
Later on we stumble on Meert, a 16th century tea house with divine interiors. Marble topped counters, old fashioned sweet jars, chocolates displayed in glass cases, wooden shelfs, painted ceiling panels, old fashion telephones, a besuited door attendant - Jo and I were literally reduced to kids in a candy store. The French certainly know how to turn everything into beauty and art and ritual.
The crowds milling outside of Meert - clearly a favourite with everyone; cheeky taste test
We arrive back in London tired out after two hours on a train filled with tired, misbehaving children from Euro Disneyland - there is nothing quite as effective as two hours on a train filled with children and bad parents for birth control. Quoth a young couple sitting near us as they got off the train, "promise me we're not having children for another at least twenty years!" Funny in retrospect but hellish in the moment.
Hopefully the train ride to and from Paris this Saturday will be more child-free. Au revoir!
The Aux Merveilleaux de Fred patisserie where we purchased a Marvellous
Wednesday, 09 September 2009
-
Keuka Lake and NYC, USA: 28 Aug - 6 Sept, 2009
It's close to midnight by the time we check into our hostel on the Upper West Side, where Jeff has booked a surprisingly clean and comfortable private room. The only catch? Shared bathrooms. If you never have to use the toilet, then the Central Park Hostel is the place for you, with rooms a steal at only $99 per night, taxes included. No matter. We're there for a grand total of ten hours before checking out the next morning.New York City greets us with a fresh downpour of rain and we run around looking for an umbrella, finally lucking out at a pharmacy where the owner says "Umbrellas? Sure we got umbrellas. Nice price too. Only two dollars. How many do you want? Ten? Twenty?" We find a secret park, peopled only by local dogwalkers. It's dark and mysterious and unkempt. I like it but no longer remember what it's called. So much of New York City is like that - a dream that slips away before you can fully grasp it.We head to Amy Ruth's, a soul food restaurant in Harlem where the owner gives me some grief about taking photos of the food. I try to convince him that it's just for my personal, non-commercial blog - he nods, unconvinced. The food is basic, simple, shot straight from the heart. Southern fried chicken on a beautiful crispy waffle, served with cornbread. Jeff and I decide on collard greens and mac and cheese for sides. The meal is delicious but very very rich and we don't succeed in finishing it all off.Later, we dodge tourists in Times Square, drawn by the bright lights. We look for keychains for my sisters. We buy glass cleaner solution for my lens. We buy a new polariser for my camera. We buy cinema tickets to Tarantino's newest movie, Inglorious Basterds. We are late for dinner in New Jersey and rush back uptown in a yellow cab. The Tom Tom cuts out sporadically as Jeff navigates our way out of Manhattan. We finally make it to Palisades Park, a whole half an hour or so late.I am meeting two of my oldest friends from high school and nothing has changed, not even a little bit. Not even a lot. Jeff's asked Sico and Anne Marie to come along, friends of his that I met over Christmas two years ago. The spread of food is ridiculous and the appetizers keep coming, much to Jeff's delight. We eat and laugh and talk. The best things don't change, especially between old friends.It's a long drive up to the cottage by the lake that night, and we clock in about 2am. A bouquet of roses on the bed greet us - a surprise gift from Jeff. Over the week they bloom softly on the dresser and scent the air with their fragrance. The cottage is tiny, homey, perfect. There is a wooden deck overlooking the water, a private shale stone beach, a dock for the boys' jet skis, an overgrown yard.The days drift by on Keuka Lake. The weather is perfect this one week and we host a barbeque one evening. In a giant supermarket in the nearest town I get lost down the many, flourescent lit aisles, bright, noisy colour on every surface of every shelf. We pick up supplies and head back. There are clams baking on the barbi, a rack of ribs roasting in the oven and sausages sizzling on the grill.We try and fix a jet ski which refuses to start. Joe docks his with us for the whole week and says we can use it. One morning I find myself knee deep in lake, bailing out water from Dan's brand new Yamaha jet ski with the boys - he forgot to plug the draining hole in the back and his ski had been slowly but surely sinking over the last few days. It starts, eventually. His is a massive, powerful three seater ski, and Jeff and I spend an afternoon drifting on Keuka Lake on it, the seats wide enough to recline on.Playing Monopoly on a drizzly day; the boys on their jet skis; dinner
at the Waterfront Restaurant; sailboat out on Keuka LakeWe have a wood fire on the beach at night. I nurse cups of hot chocolate and watch the marshmallow toasting. There is the ceremonial assemblage of smores, a sandwich of honeyed wheat biscuits, Hershey choc bars and crisp, just melting marshmallows. In return for this decadent knowledge I teach Dan and Sarah how to slam Tim Tams, which they take to with gusto, practising until they get the melting-point timing just right. The nights are beautiful and dark on the lake, far away from light or noise pollution. Far away in another world.Jeff takes me to an Italian restaurant in Hammondsport. The food here is amazing, with a creative and well-thought out antipasti menu. We visit the local art gallery, speak with the people he knows, which is, it seems, everyone. One evening we head to a waterfront restaurant for a double date with two older gentlemen who own a bed & breakfast in the area. There is a beautiful sunset, boats bobbing in the dock and the full moon rising gracefully over the lake.I spend the days sleeping in the sun, curled up in the warmth while the boys attempt dare devilry on their skis. Keuka Lake is wide, glass calm. They come back soaked to the skin, grinning like Cheshire cats. I go for cold swims in the hot afternoons, diving past the initial icy shock. The water is warmed from the sun on the surface, but I can feel cold current sweep past my toes when I kick back.One evening we clamber into a boat and head out into the centre of the lake. There is a soft, pastel sky. Sarah is trying out tubing - you hold on to a giant inflatable tube which is attached to the boat. Mike drives and dips and curves as Sarah hangs grimly on. We watch as she bumps over the wake, swerving out from left to right. Mike's boat is a retro beauty of teal and cream and warm wood. We sit back and watch the sunset from the water.We leave the cottage too soon, the days pass too fast. Back in NYC I have a surprise for Jeff - a room at the Hotel on Rivington on the Lower East Side, a boutique hotel with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. We are upgraded to a suite and spend the next two days attached to our room, admiring the view of New York's skyline. So much vibrancy in NYC; so much muchness.We eat Thai food. We visit the High Line. We buy keychains in Chinatown. We browse the street market at Princes Street, downtown. We discover that I have left my suitcase in Jeff's car, parked five hours away in Elmira Airport. We panic. I have the essentials - passport, organiser, change of clothes, etc - with me though, so I fly home without my suitcase. Jeff will post what I need and bring the rest over later in the year. It was a hilarious mistake to make and I was torn between laughing and crying when it clicked that he wasn't joking when he said "Sweetheart? Where's your suitcase?" in terrified tones.It appears that I've left my heart and my suitcase in New York.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
-
Of late
It feels like it has been busy, of late. I'm not sure exactly what my time is filled up with - propeller fuel, perhaps, or nitro - but the days have flown by and I don't know what I've put into them. I've started Spanish classes again. The group is larger than the one I had last year, but the teacher is very good and I am (fingers crossed!) improving both with speaking and understanding the language.August has been a whirlwind of friends visiting from overseas - Charli, Clara and Lloyd have come and gone amidst many a good meal. Courtesy of my unlimited movie pass, I've also been catching quite a few movies - the latest, two weeks ago, was Coco Avant Chanel. The next on my list are: Inglorious Basterds, The Time Travellers Wife and Broken Embraces. I've been focused on keeping my head down recently, a recent development neccesary in trying to reach some personal goals.This summer I've spent mostly here, in the UK, and it feels good to give these wandering feet a bit of a break. London can be glorious if the weather works out the way it has for the last three weekends. There has been fancy dinners, afternoon tea sessions, picnics in the park, listening to live jazz, hanging out with good friends, birthday celebrations and a lot of sitting in the sun not doing very much at all.There has been a lot of writing time, running time and Spanish time which has eaten into my days. It's been a quiet month for selling articles, but I'm hoping next month it'll pick up a little. There's also a list of possible new places to explore, new exhibitions to see. Rankin, at the Old Truman Brewery, Denise's discovery of the quaint and charming sounding Clockwork Museum, and the Mayor's Thames Festival is coming up. I am still hoping for tickets for A Streetcar Named Desire - playing till October, they are completely sold out and only on-the-day returns are now possible. So many things to see, so many places to go! If a man tires of London, he is tired of life.My travel plans are more spaced out at the moment, they are not quite as fevered as last year. I've exhausted many of the possible destinations and the ones I am still hankering after (Greek Islands, Turkey, Russia) require longer than weekend visits. Eastern Europe holds few attractions for me and although I would love to see the Loire Valley and perhaps the Italian lakes, neither places light up a burning, immediate desire to book flights. We'll have to bide our time and wait a little longer for Santorini, Istanbul and St Petersburg, I suppose.This Friday night I will be back in New York City, with the promise of checking out the High Line with Jeff, lunching at the Oyster Bar and stuffing our faces with chicken and waffles in Harlem. Lille is next, then Paris, then Egypt (I can't wait!!) then Iceland and Paris again, just for a day over the Christmas period. And after? There are no plans. At least, not of late, but stay tuned, I'll probably make some soon.P.xo
Friday, 21 August 2009
Friday, 14 August 2009
-
My friend Jezz
My friend Jezz is swimming the English Channel "just because." Apparently this is a good enough reason for him, but to convince the rest of us he's not just insane but also a good guy, he's thrown in some extra just causes - he's also doing it to raise money for the Royal National Lifeboat Institute here in the UK and the Australian Royal Volunteer Coastal Patrol. These organisations safeguard the love of my life - the beaches of Australia and the not-as-amazing-but-still-worthy-because-it's-the-only-thing-the-Brits-have-beaches in the UK, so these are causes that I have a personal vested interest in.Swimming the English Channel in a tag team of four is no mean feat and involves a training schedule that includes training in the waters of the Thames (enough said) and practice sessions on how to dodge seagoing tankers while front crawling your way to France. I jest about the last few bits, but if you're interested in how Jezz is gearing up for his big swim in two weeks, you can visit his website.If you would like to donate please visit Jezz's Just Giving page and give generously - every little bit counts. Plus Jezz has said that if he reaches his target he will don bright pink Speedos for his swim. All the closet sadists out there will enjoy this, I promise.
Saturday, 08 August 2009
-
Hanging out with Hamish
I received a bull in the post today. I have named him Hamish, after the highland cow I met in Scotland. Hamish is definitely not a highland cow, by any means - he belongs more in a Spanish bullring than anything else - but I like the irony of it.
Thank you for my surprise and for being utterly, completely random, carossimo. One of the many things I love about you. No one's ever sent me a bull by airmail before. You made my day.
- browse entries:
- older »































































