So I came home yesterday to find that the lights had gone out in my apartment. My flatmate was rushing off to the airport, so I told her that I'd take care of it.
Unfortunately I had the very important and pressing matter of a catwalk and designer sample sales at London Fashion Weekend to attend, which turned into dinner, which turned into a slight crazy office party (more on that later), which turned into me going home in a cab at 3 am with a stolen bottle of rum in my bag.
Woke up this morning and flicked on the lights, but of course nothing happened.
But no problem because I am a single and independent woman. I'm flipping 28 now! I can figure this out. So I investigate the closet where the fuse box is, thinking I can handle this, you just have to make sure the little switch things are in the same direction right?
It doesn't take a genius to figure that out.
Unfortunately it does take someone taller than 5'1 to not only reach the fuse box, but actually be able to see it to discern whether the switches are in the same direction.
So this strong independent female woman has put out a distress call to her tall Viking friend who, once he finishes his breaky, is going to come over with a flashlight and hopefully fix this for me...
Saturday 27 February 2010
Tuesday 23 February 2010
last night of being 27 and I'm hunched over a toilet...
Is it ironic that my very last night being 27, I'm not out on my bowling date having fun, but rather am stuck at home throwing up very noisily for about 5 hours straight now?
And no, the nastiness isn't a result of binge drinking. Rather, I suspect it's a nasty piece of sushi consumed at lunch today.
So this is it... 1 hour and 40 minutes until I hit the big 28. Not entirely sure what time I was born, so let's just keep it simple here.
Now if you'll excuse me, I hear the porcelain gods calling me again.
And no, the nastiness isn't a result of binge drinking. Rather, I suspect it's a nasty piece of sushi consumed at lunch today.
So this is it... 1 hour and 40 minutes until I hit the big 28. Not entirely sure what time I was born, so let's just keep it simple here.
Now if you'll excuse me, I hear the porcelain gods calling me again.
Monday 22 February 2010
18 km and now I'm a cripple
Woke up Sunday morning and it was a typical dreary day in London. My running buddy had to back out last minute, leaving me to run the long 18 km route all by my lonesome self.
At 2 km I encountered Buckingham Palace and the thongs of tourists who had gathered there to watch the changing of the guards. Note to self - do not attempt to jog through Buckingham Palace during the changing of guards because
a) if you happen to accidentally run into a picture as the tourist is taking a photo, they might actually chase after you shouting profanities, luckily it tends to be in another language
b) baby strollers are lethal and you can't 'accidentally' kick them because that just makes you a bad person
c) if you happen to stray off the sidewalk and run onto the street, a policeman on horseback will shout at you, and if you happen to ignore them because your ipod is too loud, they might get a little angry (oops.) Another note to self, pissing off a policeman on horseback, never a good idea...
At 5 km, I was in Hyde Park, ready to keel over....
10 km and I was back running down The Mall and trying to avoid all the horse crap on the street left by aforementioned police officers
14 km and I'm running along the Thames and it's flipping hailing on me.
At 15 km the hail has thankfully stopped and the sun is peeking through the clouds. Unfortunately an earlier rain shower had left lots of wonderful puddles for me to splash through, am now thoroughly soaked.
17 km and I'm close to the end and decide to pick up the pace
17.2 km, I decide that picking up the pace is a horrible idea
17.5 km I think to myself, seriously, if this were the half, I'd still have another 20 minutes of running - that blows
Wheezing and limping, i make it to my 18 km mark, then somehow made it to my flat where I pretty well spent the next few hours lying on my flatmate's futon watching episodes of 'The Good Wife'
I should probably stretch or something next time.
Oh, and standing for 3 hours waiting for and watching the men's hockey team get their asses kicked by the US probably didn't help
At 2 km I encountered Buckingham Palace and the thongs of tourists who had gathered there to watch the changing of the guards. Note to self - do not attempt to jog through Buckingham Palace during the changing of guards because
a) if you happen to accidentally run into a picture as the tourist is taking a photo, they might actually chase after you shouting profanities, luckily it tends to be in another language
b) baby strollers are lethal and you can't 'accidentally' kick them because that just makes you a bad person
c) if you happen to stray off the sidewalk and run onto the street, a policeman on horseback will shout at you, and if you happen to ignore them because your ipod is too loud, they might get a little angry (oops.) Another note to self, pissing off a policeman on horseback, never a good idea...
At 5 km, I was in Hyde Park, ready to keel over....
10 km and I was back running down The Mall and trying to avoid all the horse crap on the street left by aforementioned police officers
14 km and I'm running along the Thames and it's flipping hailing on me.
At 15 km the hail has thankfully stopped and the sun is peeking through the clouds. Unfortunately an earlier rain shower had left lots of wonderful puddles for me to splash through, am now thoroughly soaked.
17 km and I'm close to the end and decide to pick up the pace
17.2 km, I decide that picking up the pace is a horrible idea
17.5 km I think to myself, seriously, if this were the half, I'd still have another 20 minutes of running - that blows
Wheezing and limping, i make it to my 18 km mark, then somehow made it to my flat where I pretty well spent the next few hours lying on my flatmate's futon watching episodes of 'The Good Wife'
I should probably stretch or something next time.
Oh, and standing for 3 hours waiting for and watching the men's hockey team get their asses kicked by the US probably didn't help
Monday 15 February 2010
Oh chamonix...
night one.... it's about 1.30 in the morning, Jess and I have just arrived at our hotel after the most stressful trip to the airport ever (see my last post)
Apres ski
Ok, first of a few photos I took while in Chamonix.. I'm trying to figure out how to get some sort of Flickr photo stream onto this blog (for those of you who don't have Facebook)
...but it's almost 1 am and I can't be fussed to figure it out.
so for now, check out my Flickr page - http://www.flickr.com/photos/34952590@N04/
Gatwick Express can kiss my ass
My father always arrives at the airport a good 3 hours before the scheduled depature time; something that my family pokes fun at.
Thursday evening, standing on the platform at Victoria station, waiting for my train to arrive to take me to Gatwick Airport, I thought to myself 'hey, dad isn't totally insane for wanting to get to the airport stupidly early...'
This epiphany came about as I waited for the 18.15 train that never arrived, then scrambled into the 18.30 train that pulled up five minutes late, sat in the crowded train for another 10 minutes waiting nervously for it to actually depart.
Twenty minutes later, when the train was moving at a heart-wrenchly snail's pace, I realised that my father was brilliant for always getting to the airport early and I was a foolish child for thinking that an hour and a half was ample time.
Ten minutes after that I was frantically trying to find alternative flights to Geneva on my blackberry, still sitting on the slow moving train.
About five minutes after that I nearly started crying when the conductor came on and announced that we'd be making another stop before getting to Gatwick.
Finally got to the airport, me and J armed ourselves with our suitcases as battering rams as we literally sprinted up the stairs, out to the bus to take us to North terminal, begged the driver to leave immediately, ran to security.
Got through security, didn't bother putting my boots back on, just ran with coat and boots in one hand, suitcase in the other hand and passport in mouth.
Of course the gate was the furthest possible frigging one from security, and involved running up not one but two escalators. Finally got to the gate ready to throw up, only to find that the flight was delayed, but of course they hadn't gotten around to updating the board...
At that point I was ready to not only throw up from sheer exhaustion, but had somehow sustained a wrist injury from hauling my heavy suitcase around the terminal.
But we made it there...and the trip to Gatwick would only be a taste of things to come
Thursday evening, standing on the platform at Victoria station, waiting for my train to arrive to take me to Gatwick Airport, I thought to myself 'hey, dad isn't totally insane for wanting to get to the airport stupidly early...'
This epiphany came about as I waited for the 18.15 train that never arrived, then scrambled into the 18.30 train that pulled up five minutes late, sat in the crowded train for another 10 minutes waiting nervously for it to actually depart.
Twenty minutes later, when the train was moving at a heart-wrenchly snail's pace, I realised that my father was brilliant for always getting to the airport early and I was a foolish child for thinking that an hour and a half was ample time.
Ten minutes after that I was frantically trying to find alternative flights to Geneva on my blackberry, still sitting on the slow moving train.
About five minutes after that I nearly started crying when the conductor came on and announced that we'd be making another stop before getting to Gatwick.
Finally got to the airport, me and J armed ourselves with our suitcases as battering rams as we literally sprinted up the stairs, out to the bus to take us to North terminal, begged the driver to leave immediately, ran to security.
Got through security, didn't bother putting my boots back on, just ran with coat and boots in one hand, suitcase in the other hand and passport in mouth.
Of course the gate was the furthest possible frigging one from security, and involved running up not one but two escalators. Finally got to the gate ready to throw up, only to find that the flight was delayed, but of course they hadn't gotten around to updating the board...
At that point I was ready to not only throw up from sheer exhaustion, but had somehow sustained a wrist injury from hauling my heavy suitcase around the terminal.
But we made it there...and the trip to Gatwick would only be a taste of things to come
Wednesday 3 February 2010
britten was on crack
went to my first orchestra rehearsal tonight - go me! My parents would be proud that I'm carrying on the tradition of being a good chinese girl and playing violin, although I think they'd be less than thrilled to know that I went out for a pint afterwards.
Currently the orchestra is playing an interesting repertoire consisting of:
i) some old school Verdi
ii) melancholic, brooding Shostakovic
ii) a really, and I mean REALLY fucked up cello concerto by Britten, I mean at one point we actually hit the strings with our bow... it's like some random Philip Glass piece where you half expect a cat to start meowing and someone to break into a strange undulating interpretive dance right in the middle
I'll try to find a recording of this, am anxious to hear what the solo part actually sounds like (and if the cellist does have to bust a dance move at all..)
Currently the orchestra is playing an interesting repertoire consisting of:
i) some old school Verdi
ii) melancholic, brooding Shostakovic
ii) a really, and I mean REALLY fucked up cello concerto by Britten, I mean at one point we actually hit the strings with our bow... it's like some random Philip Glass piece where you half expect a cat to start meowing and someone to break into a strange undulating interpretive dance right in the middle
I'll try to find a recording of this, am anxious to hear what the solo part actually sounds like (and if the cellist does have to bust a dance move at all..)
Tuesday 2 February 2010
home sweet home...for now
it's been a chaotic few days.
...no scratch that, it's been a chaotic few weeks.
All of my lovely plans for packing in an organised fashion were thrown out the window after spending one too many nights indulging in one too many drinks and waking up in beds which were not my own (get your mind out of the gutter...I didn't mean THAT).
Instead, I've spent the past few days throwing clothing, chargers, books, hangers, bath items, bedding, kitchenware, purses, shoes and oh so much more rather haphazardly into suitcases and bags.
And now I'm here.. the new flat. Once I intend on staying in for at least a year.
I promise photos will come soon... just have to get it in a semi-reasonable state first...
...no scratch that, it's been a chaotic few weeks.
All of my lovely plans for packing in an organised fashion were thrown out the window after spending one too many nights indulging in one too many drinks and waking up in beds which were not my own (get your mind out of the gutter...I didn't mean THAT).
Instead, I've spent the past few days throwing clothing, chargers, books, hangers, bath items, bedding, kitchenware, purses, shoes and oh so much more rather haphazardly into suitcases and bags.
And now I'm here.. the new flat. Once I intend on staying in for at least a year.
I promise photos will come soon... just have to get it in a semi-reasonable state first...
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