Wow.

Monday, May 16th, 2005 | Travel | No Comments

Australia.

3 Weeks.

2 States, 1 Territory, 3 Capital Cities, 1 Aggricultural Centre and a Coastal Resort.

More to follow…

Back from Deep Bulgaria

Friday, March 11th, 2005 | Travel | No Comments

I’m a bit of a fan of travelling. I’d travel to a different country each week, if I could. But last week it was Bulgaria’s turn to host the Squashed Frog family.

We travelled with Mr Frogs brother, and his girlfriend; Scott and Clare.

The four of us, with another 6 random non-skiiers, were recruited into the Neilson ‘Learn to Turn’ package whereby they strapped two bits of plank to our feet, handed us some very bendable sticks and dragged us to the top of a very steep mountain.

Ski or Die.

I carefully considered my options, as when one is faced with a horrifying Red Run during a blizzard and a peaceful graveyard in the sun, it isn’t a simple choice. However, as graveyards seldom have cold beer served 24hrs a day and the nightlife is pretty much dead, I decided to risk life and limb down the Red Run of Doooom.

It’s quite astounding what an Aussie girl will do for beer.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. After a week of lessons with our guide, Lilly, we were prepared for just about everything. However, with avalanch warnings, and blizzard closures, the decent was fairly harrowing.

And cold. Bloody cold. My nose had stopped running because my snot was frozen and I’d stopped swearing because it’s damn near impossible to say ‘fuck’ when your lips are blue.

But I made it down. I made it down quite quickly, and decided that I wanted to do it again. And again. And again, again! Again!!

It was only the 4-man lift that defeated me in the end. The Dodgy Fucking 4-Man lift of Doom.

This lift will not let you escape. It will gleefully throw you across the snow to the icy bit, which is icy because it’s solid with frozen blood from previous lift victims. And I was thrown onto the ice where I lay, sprawled and motionless, for long enough that Mr Frog had serious thoughts about how he would explain my death to my mother.

“She, um, died on a chairlift, Mama Frog. But she skiied down the Red Run like a fucking DEMON!”

But I wasn’t dead, obviously. I was just using my time to contemplate how to plot revenge against an evil, but inanimate object. Crowbars, explosives and axes are some of the methods I considered. These things are notoriously difficult to find in a tourist resort.

After that, I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about that particular Red Run, and chose to spend my remaining time in Borovets flying up and down all over the Gondola. And eating steaks, and drinking beer, and doing the “Learn to Turn” Slalom in a faster time than Mr Frog.

Yep. I beat him. Beat him good. Like I said I would.

(Ok, so while I was faster, he wasn’t allowed to use his sticks. But I was faster!)

Photos and proof of demonic Red Runs are at My Bulgarian Photo Album

Hi Mum!

Monday, August 9th, 2004 | Travel | 1 Comment

Hey Mum! You’ll never guess where I am!!!

Full Contiki round-up following shortly.

Back from OZ

Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 | Travel | No Comments

Well, I’m back…. from out of space.
I just walked in to find you here with all the posts all over the place,
I should have checked my fucking mail,
I should have left a forwarding address,
If I’d have known for just one minute there’d be one hell of a bloody mess…

Australia was awesome. As it always is.

More stories/gossip/memories as jetlag releases control of my brain!

Bus Stop.

Wednesday, November 5th, 2003 | Travel | No Comments

I walk past the bus stop twice a day. Once on my way to work. Once on my way home.

I’ve been doing that every day for almost six months. Every day something different happens at the Bus Stop. Here in London, the bus stop is like a small cosmos all on its own. For some people, their day starts by sitting at a bus stop or a train station waiting for their day to start. The huge monstrous red buses shudder to a halt and then groan into movement once again. The self-loading cargo now standing inside, holding onto the stabilising poles, surfing the movements of the huge bus. Double decker buses so big you think they’d be too heavy for the roads.

They are, in fact, too heavy for the roads. Some bus stops have two ruts on the roads in front of them. Two great tracks where the big red buses are constantly driving. They’re slowly wearing their way through the tarmac and into the dirt. The way the buses lurch and sway as they drive out of the ruts looks alarming until you realise that these are London buses designed to withstand all types of collisions and abuse. They simply rock back and forth, and then carry on as normal. The people inside move with the bus and stay on their feet.

On my way home from work the other night, I watched a handful of kids marking the bus stop with their name. With silver spray paint, they redecorated the plain bus stop in the theme of a war zone. The street light above them flickered. It looked like a scene from a movie.

The day after that the glass had been shattered, leaving small diamonds of broken glass all over the pavement. Nobody bothered to sweep it up. It just got kicked out of the way, under the bench or onto the road. Three days later, the glass had been replaced. There was already a small scratch where somebody had left their mark. Sitting there waiting for their transport, they’d probably grabbed their keys and scratched across the perfect surface.

This morning, there was a pool of dried blood under the bus stop bench. On the bench, the suited business people sat there looking bored. I walked past, trying not to think of the history behind the puddle of red. It was clear that nobody else really cared about it. The blood and broken glass was under the bench, out of sight, out of mind.

Next week, I’m buying a car. I’m going to be adding to the terrible traffic congestion on London roads. After next week, I won’t see that bus stop very often. I can’t really say I’ll be disappointed, either.

Tuesdayitis.

Tuesday, August 26th, 2003 | Travel | No Comments

I think that banks suck, despite them giving us the opportunity to have a “Bank Holiday, Long Weekend.” It’s is very difficult to get moving on a Saturday morning. Very difficult, indeed, when your nice warm cozy bed is filled with lovable Beloved. Looking all cuddly and sleepy. As a result, we got to the bank exactly 2 minutes before closing.
Teller: “You filthy rotten bastards.”

We attended a folky-fishing festival full of the who’s who of British Fishing. I didn’t spot anybody I recognised.
Rex Hunt failed to attend. Bastard.
There was lots of everything else to be seen though. Many tents full of many fishy-smelling individuals selling their wares. Beloved dragged me around all of the tents to inspect all of the fishing tackle. I kept reassuring him that his tackle was just fine thankyouverymuch but he didn’t get the joke. We left about 8 hours later, with three brand new reels and 2 keep-nets. I have a sneaking suspicion I may be given fishing lessons next weekend.

At the Carn-i-VAL for the Monday Holiday! Lots of big healthy women, shaking their big healthy bodies to reggae and throbbing bass. I donned a pair of rabbit ears and gave it a bit of a shake, but Beloved refused to shake his booty. He has a well established dance-phobia that I’m just going to have to do something about. Not even helium filled “Ernie” balloon would boost his confidence. I would have a more specific review of the biggest festival held in London, but put quite simply - there were too many people.

It seems now, however, that the weekend is over.
I’m back at work, staring at the same old monitor answering the same old phone calls.

“Computer2000, thisisJacquispeaking. Howmayihelpyou?”