Just a quickie...

...oh err vicar!!

You'll all be pleased to know I'm still alive. So many stories, so little time in this Florencian internet cafe.

It is amazing how little sleep a person can live on. And how much Red Bull. I think I am 90% taurine at the moment (is that what they call the caffeine they add? not sure, am delusional).

Have a massive appraisal this week. And am in charge of our Rome day tour. Friggen terrifying. But everyone (except my nemesis) is awesome.

And just a word to the wise. There is something more annoying than chuggers. Those blokes what sell genuine fake watches all over Italy. No means no.

So I'm Prancing Down the Road this Morn'

... yes, prancing. As I have done all week long. I have found my route to work and I prance along listening to the daggiest tunes in my iPod which make me kind of jiggy and thus I dance/prance down the road (for example, JT's Sexy/Back, Beyonce's Crazy in Love, Prince's Kiss and Artic Monkey's You Probably Couldn't See For the Lights (but you were staring right at me)).

Anywho, it is probably quite hilarious for my fellow walkers to watch, as I am unco at the best of times, let alone laden with my backpack and walking in bright pink cowboy boots through an unfamiliar town. As I said, prancing.

So every morning I have walked past this house with scaffolding on the outside. They're fixing it up or some such nonsense. Who cares. The Streets were blaring and I was enjoying a sunny spring morn.

When suddenly one of the builders bursts from the house and grabs me.

For those of you who haven't met me, I'm not a tiny cutesy girly girl. I can be quite scary. And have no fear in punching the living fuck out of any stranger who grabs me without warning.

So I had a fist ready, when I realised he was trying to tlak to me. Over The Streets. Not working. So I remove my earphones. "Wha?"

Imagine a builder in a broad Aussie accent: "I said, you're a Strayan, arencha?"

Original Mel: "Why yes, young gentleman, I am."

Builder: "I fuckin told 'em! I fuckin knew I wos right"

Original Mel: "Sorry, but how could you tell, kind sir?"

Builder: "I seen ya walk past ev'ry day this week. And I said to the boyz 'Oi, she's totally an Ozzie'. I was so fuckin right!"

Original Mel: "Yes, but how could you tell?"

Builder: "Uh, I spose you walk like an Aussie or soming. I could just tell."

So folks, for future reference, apparently Aussies prance. Just thought you oughta know.

It's Time to Go... Original Mel*

So we were sitting around chatting at training yesterday. And someone said it would be a good idea to video our speeches so we can watch ourselves and adapt our style to a more appropriate one. Our trainer came out with :

"Actually, this training trip was almost filmed for a reality tv series, but
it was canned at the last minute"

There was much discussion. Much "oh no, I missed my shot at fame". But not me.

"If that had happened I would have walked out on day one and demanded all my
expenses back. There is no way I would have signed up for that. Ever."

A few people were a bit surprised. Really? You don't want your shot at fame?

No, dear readers, I do not. How many Reality tv "stars" (and I use that term ever so loosely) have actually become famous for something good. Turkey slapping, bum dancing and Hotdogs Up Late aside, most of them are famous for being national disgraces. I may have quit being a lawyer now, but if I ever want to go back to it I want to be able to find employment without my clients remembering the time I got drunk and pashed some 'tard called Frisey.

I don't even really watch Reality tv. It irks me. Sure, I loved the train wreck that was Temptation Island. And Australian Princess was comedy gold. But usually for all the wrong reasons. There are some things my friends and family don't need ot know about me which reality tv would show everyone.

Plus I have a friend who works on Reality tv behind the scenes. I knowhow they cut it to make a person look like a villian / hero. I know their tricks. I would never leve myself susceptible for that kind of soul destroying damage.

So I said all of this. And added a few lines about Reality tv being the lowest of the low, and how contestants who willingly apply for it deserve all they get.

Hello, foot, would you like to meet my mouth?

One of my new colleagues turned to me and said "really?". Yes really. 'Tards the lot of them.

Turns out she was a contestant on one of these Reality TV shows. Applied willingly. Loved and hated it. Does not take kindly to people slagging her off for it.

And now I get to spend 6 weeks with her. Fucking tops. She hates me, and I called her a 'tard (and wouldn't back down). Oh well.

* it may not have been Big Brother, by the way. I am refusing to post her name or the show in case she regularly googles herself. So not doing it.

Just a quick stop

This work thing is really hard.

This week I have had to learn 38 new names of my co-trainees. As well as the names of the 4 people training me. And I've had to pretend to know stuff about Europe. And I think a guy I shagged a hundred years ago is joining training next week. I knew my checkered past would one day come back to haunt me.

We have also been told about seven bajillion times that the next 6 weeks of our lives will be the hardest we ever experienced. Officially FREAKING OUT. But so is everyone else.

So, you know, if I'm not around for the next 6 weeks it's because I am in a toilet block somewhere in Europe trying to memorise the opening and closing times for the Louvre. With a head torch as my only light.

But it's all still pretty cool. Honest.

T plus two days

So I've spent the past two days wandering round my little suburb trying to get my bearings.

It's impossible.

The one thing which has always killed me with the London 'burbs is the way that they seem to have been designed in a completely random order. Every single house on a street looks the same. And the same as about four other streets in the area. Conformity. However, the roads are a labyrinth of confusion. They aren't arranged in nice parallel squares, but rather a meandering miasma of confusion. What looks like a straight road suddenly curves back on itself. An apparent cul de sac is actually a main thoroughfare. A large intersection has one branch which leads you to off street parking and that's it.

I bought myself an A-Z but am trying not to use it because (1) it makes me look like a dorky tourist and (2) how am I ever going to work out where I am in relation to everyone else if I don't try and find my own way?

So this is what I was doing yesterday. Wandering the streets, fighting jet lag and enjoying the possibility of rain (hey, for drought ravaged Sydney siders with water restrictions, rain is an exciting thing). But I got lost. Hopelessly, completely, utterly lost. I kept thinking I was heading towards my house, only to end up somewhere else entirely, in front of an apartment block which looks like but is not mine. I know I am nestled between two High Roads, and located enar a tube station and a British Rail station, but I could find none of these. I was lost.

And yet I still refused to get out my A-Z. It became an issue of pride. However, I think possibly one of the neighbours thought it was an issue of me casing the suburb, because as I wandered aimlessly, a police car drove past me. Tiwce.

Eventually, the police car pulled over and two police officers young enough to be... well, to be my brother got out. The exchange went a little something like this:

Police Officer #1 : Afternoon, ma'am. Is there something we can help you with?
Original Mel : *Ma'am! I could be his sister! Who is he ma'am-ing?* Uh, yeah. I think I'm lost, mate (Why is it the second you reach Heathrow your Aussie accent gets about 10 times stronger and you start adding "mate" to the end of everything?)
Police Officer #2 : Is that an Australian accent? Where are you from?
Original Mel : Oh God, is it that obvious? I flew in from Sydney yesterday morning. And now I can't find my house.
Police Officer #1 : You should invest in a London A-Z, at least until you've been here long enough to find your way round.
Original Mel : I have one but I refuse to use it! I am determined to find my way on my own.

Anyway, eventually the lovely police officers decided I was not a burgular, just a crazy Aussie. They then tried to give me directions back to where I live. Which largely consisted of lines like "at the next intersection take the second right fork" and "when the road curves take the middle left branch". In other words, nonsensical instructions which I had no chance of following.

So they offered to walk me there. Given my love of men in uniforms, I of course did not refuse this fabulous chance to perve assess the quality of the Met officers.

You can all probably see where this is going. So let me cut to the chase. They lead me back to nan's, with me talking (and mauybe just flirting a little bit) the whole way. I am eternally grateful for their good looks assistance. One wanders down teh road to, I don't know, pretend to check the insurance of a car or some such nonsense, and the other asks for my phone number.

England, I love you. I love being back in a coutnry where my pick up line of "Hi, I'm Australian" rarely fails. Where just having an accent means men fall over themselves to talk to you about Bondi Beach, their cousin George in Perth, Neighbours and Steve Irwin.

T plus two days and I've had my first offer of a date. Fucking awesome.

I'm here!

So I wrote this great post at 5am (gotta love jet lag) but then this amazingly cheap internet cafe I found doesn't have a USB port on the computer so I can't post it. Shit.

Anyway, unlike LondonGirl claimed, it is NOT, I repeat NOT, sunny in London. It is cold and I am dying of hypothermia. Or possibly meningitis. Honestly you can't turn on the tv without seeing about a gazillion meningitis warnings. I do have a stiff neck and am tired, but somehow I think that may be more the jet lag than meningitis. But I am keeping an eye out for a rash just in case.

The flight was... long. And bumpy. Luckily I love me a bit of turbulence. I do not love small children running amok on a plane, however. There was this woman who paid no attention whatsoever to her two very small kids on the first leg of the journey. The real killer came when a Business Class passenger moved beyond the curtain, to bring the small girl back to her mother, as she had been running around in Business Class disturbing their $6,000 slumber (hey, this keyboard has a dollar sign but no pound sign - awesome!). The hosties gave her a lecture but mum still did not care. Amazing.

I start work next week, and am off on training around Europe the Monday after that. Which is good as I hear Europe is marginally warmer than London at the moment. People keep telling me that it was warm on Monday but I DO NOT believe them. It is cold, I tells you. I am only still typing as it warms my poor, frozen fingers.

After much drama yesterday I finally amanged to get a mobile. Staying awake through the jet lag was easier. In fact, singing God Save the Queen in Urdu would have been easier, as no one wanted to give me any information on the cost of texting people internationally or making calls whilst roaming around Europe. I dealt with a hilarious phone salesman who couldn't tell me about the cost of texting Australia from Europe, but instead told me I was probably better off "not going to Europe". Beautiful! Eventually a great Saffa (South African for the non-antipodeans) helped me out in another shop, so I got a phone from her. She was even able to give me practical advice on how to cut the cost of international calls and texts. TAKE NOTE, LONDON MOBILE PHONE SALESMEN!!

I am very excited at the amount of football (yes, I am in London therefore will call it football AND NOT soccer - ha HA!) I can watch on tv. It seems to be on all the time! I am also very excited about my return to Eastenders.

Rumour has it Michael Caine lives down the road from me, so I am planning on stalking him this week. Apparently some English soap star also lives in the same building, but I am going to work out who he is and whether he can get me on the set of Eastenders before I start stalking him too. Obsessed - only a little.

Anyway, nothing exciting has happened - yet. I give it three days before I do something dumb and blog about it. So I'll be back the second it happens. Or the second it warms up. Either/or.

POSTSCRIPT: This delightfully cheap internet cafe ALSO won't let me post a comment. Gah! So please all be aware I am reading and paying attention and just can't say hi. I love you all, honest.

And WJ, the reason I did not respond to your text was I STEPPED ON MY MOBILE AGES AGO AND BROKE IT! Pay attention boy! And, for your information, Groove Armada were shit (honest, there was one point I swear they left a tape playing and were all out the back snorting coke). As for your SMH doohickey, please refer to my post on this blog on Sunday. That is all.

Fuck Youse All

So I'm leaving this afternoon. Flying out to London baby with my 20 kilos of luggage and not enough shoes for my liking. But enough wet weather gear for the navy.

So, you know, try not to trash my blog while I'm away. I'll be back, just don't really know when. I start my training in a week so should really start learning about Europe and stuff. Oh, and conditioning my liver, obviously.

But just so you know, I never really liked you anyway. I'm glad I'm going. No, really. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on*.


Heart Original Mel
ex ex ex


* stop it now, I really mean it (any body want a peanut?)

Pop Quiz, Hot Shot!

Today I present you all with a bit of a pop quiz. The answers may never be forthcoming, but I'm sure you'll all have fun guessing anyway.

Original Mel's V-Festival Quiz

1. How did I get to the V-Festival?

(a) World's slowest taxi driver, who insisted Centennial Park was in Glebe
(b) Bus filled to the brim with very young girls squealing and wearing not a lot hot pants
(c) Walking down a ridiculously packed Oxford Street and threatening meandering shoppers with violence when they walked too slow
(d) A combination of the above

2. Who stood in queue with my friends and I to enter?

(a) A man who was quite clearly already under the influence, who kept confusing me with his wife and calling me Chantelle
(b) A young boy who didn't have a ticket and attempted to run through the crowd once we reached the gates
(c) A very drunk under 18 year old who was refused entry and then lied and said she was with us
(d) All of the above

3. What did I do upon entry to the Festival?

(a) Get accosted by sniffer dogs and searched by the police, who apologised when they realised I wasn't carrying and were very lovely about the whole situation
(b) I was knocked flying by the several thousand people who chose that exact moment to jump the fences and make a break for freedom
(c) Joined a depression era-esque queue for beer only to discover I was actually in a queue for an ATM
(d) B then A then C

4. Which band was the worst?

(a) Phoenix, who seemed unable to hold a note let alone a tune
(b) New York Dolls, and their fucking harmonica
(c) Beck, who has only one voice - that of a whiny teenager
(d) I don't know, I was still in the beer queue

5. What did I get at the V Festival

(a) Australian flag boxer shorts to take to England and be a flag waving bogan
(b) A marriage proposal
(c) A security guard's phone number
(d) All of the above

6. What was the most appalling drink choice available for consumption?

(a) Champagne and Red Bull
(b) Coopers Lager
(c) Smirnoff Double Black and Cola
(d) All of the above, which is why they are not widely available in most normal venues

7. Who did I run into?

(a) My arsehole ex-boyfriend, sans fiance
(b) My ex-boss from about 5 years ago, who is still as drug fucked as the day I quit by throwing a stapler at his tripping self
(c) Option 3, whilst I was hanging with my friend who originally liked him
(d) All of the above, unfortunately

8. Who was the best person I met?

(a) An ex-colleague, who was so trashed it didn't sink in that Non-Shag and I were there 'together' together
(b) My bestest boy, who was carrying my drugs for me and did not get searched
(c) The gentleman who walked out of the beer tent, decided he didn't like Jagermeister and Red Bull, so gave me two glasses of the stuff for free
(d) An ex-colleague from the law firm from hell, who told me all sorts of juicy gossip which has taken place since I left

9. Who was my number one favourite person in the crowd for The Pixies?

(a) Mr Trashbag, who was so horribly, horribly trashed he couldn't stand up, and kept throwing up far too close to my shoes for my liking
(b) His friends, who thought the best way of helping him was giving him more beer and cigarettes whilst they bopped away with not a care in the world
(c) The guy who smoked joints the whole way through the set, and got angry when I asked him to maybe let me have five minutes' fresh air as I was beginning to feel ill
(d) The couple who were not only passionately snogging, but also had their hands down each others pants

10. Was it worth the price of entry?

(a) Only to see The Pixies
(b) I wouldn't have gone if my mate had have told me say on Friday he could have gotten me into The Pixies sideshow as he was working on it
(c) It was a great final day with Non-Shag, enjoying the Sydney sunshine and the outdoors
(d) Did I mention Mr Trashbag and his vomiting?