In the city and the country

Hello! So I'm settling in. I moved into a room and it's lovely, even if I don't know where they keep the ironing board. I know it isn't strictly what V.W. was talking about, but to have a room of one's own at long last is a dream. I bought a teapot. I bought throw pillows. I'm just so happy.

The thing I love best about my new place (apart from the 24-hour Tesco at the bottom of the street that has a perennial sale on the bagels I like) is the 210 bus. In London? Go to Brent Cross station and then catch it towards Finchley (and away from Tesco, I'm afraid). It takes you past sprawling mansions, through Highgate (the closest thing you're going to get to a village in these parts) and even on a real, proper hill. The best part, though, is the proximity to Hampstead Heath, otherwise known as a bleeding great wood at the top of the metropolis. I go there nearly every day. (On a vaguely related note: is anyone aware of folks hiring? Hah!) If you've looked out the window or, to my dearly beloved Southern Hemispherians, crawled out from that sunny rock you're basking on, you'll know Spring has been hesitant. I wandered down to get the starkest shots I could, but did notice that leaves are beginning to bud. I always forget how fond I am of Spring, but it really is so refreshing.

I do like Winter's contrast.

There are things I miss about home. People, places, the ocean... I didn't even realise how I felt about the latter until I saw it in an episode of Jonathan Creek (which I really shouldn't have been watching). I miss coming out of the station, walking down past the hospital and the milk bar that sells individual cigarettes to high schoolers, and seeing it, that reliable streak of blue. I didn't appreciate it. I should've. And so, much like affordable San Pelligrino's and Netflix, I'll enjoy the Heath while I've got it.

Spring is trying.

 

Long night, White Night

Melbourne threw its own Nuit Blanche. I think this whole world's most liveable city affair has kind of gone to its head. Australian culture dictates that a night out must must must involve booze, lest it be labelled a waste and gay. My charming countrypeople! So what started out as a bright evening of culture and jazz dissolved, by about 3 or so AM, into a distopian day-night with tumbleweeds of empty vodka bottles, Pie Face wrappers and abandoned shoes. I wish I'd taken a picture of the bottle-o because it was empty. I mean it; spirits gone, two little miniature bottles of bourbon arranged thoughtfully on the middle shelf.

 

Aiie, but I am being negative. My own White Night was... multi-faceted. That has to be the word. Highlight of highlights: I saw Cent une tueries de zombies (have a look if you don't mind the gore). 101 zombie deaths cleverly edited into 40-something glorious minutes. Not for the faint of heart. (They even included my favourite zombie death, but be warned: this video is graphic.) I also got to see Flap!, the very best live outfit in Melbourne, perform, which was excellent as always. They have this way with an audience; it's hard to describe. Every time I've seen them (and I admit, there have been a few) it takes about three songs for them to win the crowd completely over. You know the kind of person you don't actually know, but feel close to and want to buy a pony for? That's this band. They're good value folks.

After the zombies and the music it was getting towards that eerie stage I told you about. I'd said goodbye to J and IMJ (soft!) and just sort of wandered. Things get very strange for me when I'm low on sleep. I don't remember much, but I have distinct memories of trying to walk toe-heel instead of heel-toe. What can I say? In the immortal words of Honey Boo Boo Child, girl's gotta get her beauty sleep.

I resurfaced at 6am, ate too much breakfast (cold scrambled eggs, bleagh) and went home, then to work. Probably should have had a lie-down beforehand; probably shouldn't have drunk six espresso shots in half an hour. Was it all worth it? You know, I think so.

 

Collins Quarter

 

Rolling stone

And just as it turned an impossible shade of salmon, my battery died. Of course.

Life has been quiet and easy. I've been working a lot; I have two jobs now, both in food retail at train stations. My spare time is spent on typing and flyer delivery, as well as Poirot and Die Hard. I save and I buy dirndls. But the funny thing is that I'm happy. Despite my innate laziness, I don't like to gather moss. (I like money too, I admit.)