Fookin' Bruges (and Brussels)

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

When I look back, if the beginning of my trip to Belgium was anything to go by there were always going to be glitches. The night before departing I naively went out for a friend's birthday with the belief that I'd be tucked up in bed by midnight. However, as I'm currently staying with my friend Cat, our departure time was completely dependant on when she finished 'getting acquainted' with my friend's housemate. As it turned out this wasn't until about half one, which was slightly problematic as I had to be up to catch my bus to the airport at half three!

Nevertheless, I got up and caught two buses to Heathrow only to pass out on the plane. Luckily, the adrenaline kicked in upon arriving in Brussels as I was meeting one of my oldest and best friends Tess in the Belgian capital. Our reunion was everything I'd thought it would be, after all, Tess was my first "boyfriend". At our all girls primary school, Tess kindly offered to dress up as a boy and be my date at a barn dance on year 5 camp. Obviously, with such a rich history, our reunion was bound to be dramatic. Just like in a movie we ran to each other and embraced in excitement. Well, she ran and I kind of cautiously shuffled as I was on a hill holding bags.

Tess had picked an amazing location for us to stay in Brussels, right off Louisa Avenue, a stunning street with a combination of high end and high street fashion for us to explore. It reminded us of Paris, without the wank. Our first port of call was a good coffee shop. We were amazed to find a very cool cafe that had soy milk (a rarity in Europe) where we caught up on the events of the past year. From there we went exploring the city and found ourselves meandering through in a gorgeous Christmas market where we indulged on bratwurst and crepes.

To finish up a lovely day together we went to dinner, and this I believe is where it all started to go wrong. The meal was in a very touristy part of town and was overpriced with terrible service. So when the bill arrived minus the acidic house white we had struggled down, neither of us were keen to point out their mistake. Tess was riddled with guilt afterwards however, I didn't bat an eyelid. Perhaps I should have, after all, karma's a bitch. After our meal Tess and I went for our first waffle, which was unfortunately undercooked. This may not seem like a big deal, but it was the twig that started a tumbleweed of disappointment.

The next day we went on a walking tour to really discover Brussels. It turned out to be a very cool city, with no bill boards because the mayor decided that people should be able to look at images that are creative, inspiring and don't aim to sell anything. Where bill boards used to be, there are now murals of Belgian comic characters like Tin Tin. On a short break we stopped in a pub where we had yet another disappointing waffle (this one was like cardboard with cool whip) which put a bit of a damper on our morning. It seemed that this was a turning point in our tour too; our once jolly guide all of a sudden became solemn and bossy. Bad waffles will do that to you I guess.

Our culenary mediocrity continued when we went in search of the famous Belgian frites, which are supposedly double fried to make them extra delicious. But after hearing all the mouth watering hype, the chips were sadly pretty average. We were having no luck and Belgium only had two chances left to reinstate it's reputation: chocolate and beer. The rest of our afternoon was spent chocolate shopping and in a cafe called Delerium which served over 2000 Belgian beers. The first beers we tried were amazing fruit beers which tasted similar to cider however, not as sweet or carbonated. Sadly, bad luck struck on our second choice. Tess had made a friend at the bar who recommended the Christmas beer which he described as being full of cinnamon and other festive flavours. In reality, it was a dark ale that left a bitter taste in your mouth (both literally and figuratively). 

We had planned on heading to Bruges that evening however, after a few fruit beers we thought it would be better to grab some dinner, an early night and catch the train in the morning. I'm so glad we did because on our way home we stumbled across a sound and light show in the main square that was totally magical. Watching the historic town hall light up while Tess held me to keep me warm made all our bad luck melt away (best "boyfriend" ever). Just to top it off, on our way home we admired the Christmas lights and sang Christmas carols.

However, in the morning our Belgian bad luck reared its ugly head again. My weekend bag broke and I had to hold it together with my scarf. Then the owner of the hostel wasn't awake to process card payments so Tess had to go hunting for an ATM, delaying our departure to Bruges. To provide a little background, I've wanted to visit Bruges ever since I saw the movie In Bruges years ago. When I read there were Christmas markets there it only heightened my excitement. Unfortunately, our arrival was dampened by the people at St Christopher's hostel who attempted to charge us an extra €50 for the room we were going to book online. We assumed the prices had gone up since we looked the night before, but actually the price to book in person was just ludicrously more expensive. Feeling ripped off we decided to go in search of the famous Christmas markets to lift our spirits. Turns out I was mistaken, the markets in Bruges are actually tiny and the big ones are in another town called Gent. My heart was officially breaking. 

Bruges temporarily redeemed itself when I caught glimpse of a little cafe called 'Miss Ellie'. As this is a nickname from my parents as well as what the kids at work call me, we obviously had to stop in for a snack. Tess went to town taking pictures of me with the placemats, signs, menus...really anything that had my name on it! We were so distracted by Miss Ellie's that we almost missed our walking tour. Luckily we didn't because while the tour itself was just ok, it provided us with the vital information we needed about a pub crawl that night.

That night we grabbed some mulled wine and bratwurst from the market for a quick dinner and went to meet our pub crawl group sporting some amazing Christmas getup. I was particularly fashionable in a Christmas jumper with a cat wearing a sequin Santa hat, pompom included. We enjoyed some more fruit beer, shots poured straight down our throats in the street and some quirky company. From American brothers who were cagey about their professions to a total stranger who insisted on drawing us, everyone seemed nice, albeit a little odd. However, odd quickly turned to confusing and downright disturbing when we reached the final bar.

This bar was more like a club and was completely full of men. Tess and I were having a great time dancing when I spotted a guy by the bar with shaggy blonde surfer hair. Convinced he had to be Australian, Tess went and asked him only to discover he and his friends were Belgian and deaf. We had an amazing time communicating with them via text which amused us all no end. After our conversation Tess and I returned to dancing when suddenly one of the American brothers announced he was a stripper and would take his shirt off for Tess for €20. She laughed it off assuming he was joking, but he sat her down and began to slowly remove his shirt and tie, flinging the tie around her neck. Meanwhile one of our new deaf friends was getting very upset by the whole situation and stepped in to tell him to leave Tess alone. Being deaf this wasn't an easy feat and I swear I saw them writing their argument on napkins at one point! Apparently whatever he wrote didn't get across because the American kept coming back demanding money from Tess. It was only when she got really upset that he changed his mind and said it was a joke. We're still not sure if he was kidding but we knew it was time to leave...

We were escorted home by an Australian guy who was concerned that some creeps in the club had been sneaking photos of us. Desperately in need of a pick me up, we decided to grab some chips on the way home. I befriended the chip guy who played me music off his iPod and provided us with a heater while we waited. Unfortunately, after this hospitality Tess dropped the chips down herself, covering her coat in 'samurai' sauce. We managed to salvage some though, and admittedly they do taste better at 3am after a few drinks.

So we had come to the end of our time in Belgium. We spent the morning shopping in Zara and eating at Miss Ellie's. We had left ample time to get back to Brussels and to the airport but of course, every bus and train we had to catch was delayed, causing us to almost miss our flight. When we finally reached the airport we were told the only way to get on the plane was to throw out any liquids over 100ml, meaning we lost almost all our toiletries. Belgium had broken us. It must have been obvious because the flight attendents were more than happy to give us a large dose of vodka on the plane home and kindly told us that if we needed more, we knew where to find him.

That's the Jingle Bell Ball

London Bucket List: See Olly Murs Live

In his song Thinking of Me Olly Murs asks, 'Winter time in London, are you making plans?'.

Who is Olly Murs you ask? Well shame on you. Olly Murs was a runner up on UK X Factor and has apparently become England's (and my) sweetheart. He also happens to be the reason I forked out over 100 quid to go to the Jingle Bell Ball at the O2 last weekend. See, I have found a kindred spirit in my friend Cat who also loves Olly, so we promised each other we would see him live before I leave the UK. It turned out the only gig he was doing in London in that time frame was at the huge Christmas party, the Jingle Bell Ball.  

To clarify, JBB isn't actually a ball, it's more like a one stage festival that goes over two days. We were thrilled to discover that sharing the stage with Olly would be Katy Perry and Ellie Goulding along with an assortment of British artists like Tinie Tempah, Rizzle Kicks, Union J, Naughty Boy, Disclosure and James Arthur. On first glance I only vaguely recognised the names on the lineup, but it turned out I knew songs by everyone who played. In fact, quite a few of the songs have been the backing track to my time in London, or at least my time on London dance floors.

The atmosphere at the O2 was amazing. If I wasn't already feeling festive, this was the place to get an injection of Christmas cheer. The audience were all given tiny lights that you attached onto your fingers so that when the house lights went down it looked like thousands of tiny stars were floating in the stadium. At one point in the show they held a giant karaoke session with the entire audience by putting the lyrics to All I Want For Christmas Is You on the big screen and towards the end of the event they even made it snow. A number of balloons filled with white confetti and iTunes vouchers were burst over the audience, it's just a shame Cat and I were a tiny bit too far up to reap the rewards.

First to take the stage was mine and Cat's future husband (there's a religion that allows that, right?) Olly Murs. Cheeky as anything, the notorious troublemaker paraded around the stage pulling off some awesome moves and singing some of my favourite songs. He even changed the words of his own love ballad Put Your Hand on my Heart to "put you hand on my ass", which admittedly isn't quite as poetic. Regardless, I was transported straight back to when I first moved to London and I used to listen to Olly on my walk to Liverpool Street station to get to work. He was even the soundtrack on my train trip to Cambridge before my interview at the University.

Following Olly was another X Factor contestant, James Arthur who sings the song Impossible. I absolutely love that song and it too has the ability to transport me to another time and place. On my first night in the UK I was up in Yorkshire and struggling to keep my eyes open from the jet lag. My head was bobbling around like a buoy in the ocean as I sat in the back of a friend's car, but I can still remember that that song was playing on the radio. It's one of those songs that you can't sing along to without really belting it, as the Year 5s from work last school year proved. It was coming up to the summer holidays and I was left with them for the whole day, by myself, for the first time. I was merely given the instructions that they could do 'something fun' which I knew really meant finish off some drawings they had started. However, we all got bored of that pretty quickly so instead I decided we would have class karaoke. The rules were the kids could only choose a song if they were able to act or draw the title. The most memorable was definitely Impossible; one of the kids stood in front of the class and told them that he could fly. Eventually one of the other children responded that what he was saying was impossible. Bingo! So the song got played, year 5 belted it out and I got some raised eyebrows from other staff members. Oops. Needless to say, when James Arthur sang it at JBB I got really into it, it was just a shame he didn't. I've never seen someone so miserable on a stage in my life. Not to worry, I had enough enthusiasm and embarrassing hand gestures for the both of us.

Another song that reminded me of the kids was Ellie Goulding's Burn. This time it was the current Year 5 class who I had been teaching for an afternoon. They had been reasonably well behaved while they worked to the sultry tunes of Ed Sheeran, so I decided to try something a teacher at home used to do. She would let one child who had behaved well choose a song and the kids would have the length of that song to pack up. Because they wanted to hear the music they were often quite quiet. So, I allowed a girl to choose a song and she picked Burn. What I hadn't factored in was that these were not the private school kids from Brighton, they were spirited Londoners from Hackney who apparently become possessed when they hear a base line. Although the song begins quite gently, it certainly builds to the climax of the chorus where the dance beat kicks in. It was at that precise moment that my classroom turned to a chaotic nightclub for 10 year olds. Oops again. As it happened the kids had some pretty interesting moves, much like Ellie Goulding herself, who bounced around the stage flinging her gorgeous blond hair around like a mad woman. What was really surprising though was how well spoken she was. Considering she had such a big attitude while performing, she had the tiniest voice when she addressed the audience, spoken in perfect Queen's English with impeccable manners. I guess looks can be deceiving.

I have a few new favourite British acts thanks to Jingle Bell Ball, one of which is Rizzle Kicks. I had absolutely no idea who the hip hop duo were before last weekend and now I'm totally hooked. They had so much energy and their songs were so catchy you couldn't help but get up and dance. They even have their own dance to accompany their song Mamma do the Hump, which I now play every morning to motivate me to get out of bed and brave the bleak English weather. It involves leaning back, wriggling your hips and moving your fists around in small circular motions. Google it, it's addictive. My other new fave is Union J. Move over One Direction because a new boy band (also from X Factor) is in town. I already had a soft spot for Union J after discovering their song Carry You which I played on repeat for about a week. However, thanks to their performance at JBB my love has grown and I'd definitely consider myself a J-Cat. This could be because they captured my heart by singing a medley of Christmas songs, or because their Britpop sound is incredibly catchy or simply because I found out that one of them, Josh, is really cute. So cute in fact, I went to see the Union J concert this week and came ever so close to meeting the boys, thanks to my friend whose job is to market the Union J dolls. Sadly it wasn't to be, but my hopes are still high that he'll be under the tree on December 25th. I've been pretty well behaved this year...mostly.

Amongst the 9 acts at JBB there are always going to be the big boys. On our night there was the obvious headline act, Katy Perry, who brought all her Christmas cheer with dancing elves, falling snow flakes and even fireworks, but perhaps more surprising was Tinie Tempah, who the crowd absolutely loved. It was pretty amazing to see the whole of the O2 on their feet, hands in the air waving their fairy lights around. It turns out Cat and I knew Tinie Tempah well, we just didn't realise it because his name gets tacked on with better known artists such as Swedish House Mafia, Calvin Harris and Labrinth. While it was a little disconcerting to see so many 14 year olds singing along to Drinking from the Bottle, Tinie Tempah was the undeniable crowd favourite.

I personally loved Katy Perry, who was the perfect ending to my trip down memory lane through music. With so many reminders of why I love London it was good to have some tunes that reminded me of home. For my 21st birthday I went to see Katy in Melbourne with my best friend and her first album was always playing in my car when I cruised by the beach. Today marks one month until I fly back home, and with so many doubts in my mind it's good to have a little reminder of what and who are waiting for me on the other end. But to answer Olly's question, yes I do have some amazing plans ahead for my London Winter and my final month living in the UK!

Drink, Pray, Love at the Church

Challenge 3: Explore & wander 
Challenge 4: Introduce yourself to everyone
Bonus: The London Bucket List

Making friends

As my time in London is rapidly coming to an end, I have created a bit of a bucket list of things I want to do before my impending departure. Yesterday I ticked off one of London's 'must do' events for an Aussie passing through: The Church. I had heard mixed things about this notorious even that runs on a Sunday afternoon, ranging from 'it's amazing' to 'it's an experience' to 'there's bad, and then there's The Church'. All I really knew was that people get dressed up and go to have a good time on a Sunday while praying that their hangover is bearable the next day at work. For anybody considering going or for those who are just curious about what goes on, the website provides very little assistance. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to create a list of "frequently asked questions" and answers based on my chaotic four hours there.

Where does The Church take place?
The Church has recently moved from Clapham to Elephant and Castle, apparently it's 10th venue due to the unruly nature of the event. This doesn't shock me as I had heard stories about people getting to the door, vomiting on the bouncer and then still being granted entry. Upon entry you are required to go through a metal detector before having your bags checked and if you're really lucky, like the girls in front of me were, frisked by security. Once you are inside the venue you will be faced with a raised bar that overlooks a large concrete dance floor and stage, reminiscent of the former Famous nightclub in Melbourne. Classy.

Do you have to dress up?
No, you don't have to dress up but it's very much frowned upon if you don't. Donned in our matching baseball player outfits my friend and I fit right in amongst the power rangers, cowboys, animal onsesies and cross dressers that strut their stuff on the dance floor. Let's be honest, dressing up provides an opportunity to spark conversation with your fellow revellers too. For example, if I hear the words "I like your hat" one more time I'm probably going to scream. I was literally fighting off random men just to keep my plain white H&M cap on my head (I know you bought it to keep me sun smart Dad, but turns out it's just a dude magnet).

Do they accept credit and debit cards at The Church?
No, the bar staff deal exclusively in cash. It adds to the sophisticated feeling you get when they place your Smirnoff Ice or Fosters, which you buy in bulk, into a plastic bag so that you can easily carry it with you on the dance floor. As if that wasn't thoughtful enough, you're also provided with a bottle opener on the end of a lanyard for your convenience. However, if you're strapped for cash like everyone else in London, I highly recommend doing a champagne/vodka breakfast at home like we did, just to get you in the mood. Sure, you feel like an alcoholic drinking at 10:30 on a Sunday morning, but this isn't your average Sunday session.

Will there be entertainment?
Oh yes, absolutely. Don't let the information on the website fool you. While they inform you there will be cracking tunes and a comedian, only half of that statement is correct. I did thoroughly enjoy dancing to some classic 80s anthems but when they say comedian, they actually mean there's an MC who cracks a few jokes while introducing the strippers. Yep, strippers. We're not talking talented Magic Mike style strippers either. There was a lovely young lady by the name of Stephanie who did a delightful routine to Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend while removing her clothing and dancing with some large feathered fans. I don't really understand what the fans were for as they didn't cover anything by the end of the routine. I'd love to say I kept my cool during the performance but the truth is I wasn't sure where to look and the nice girl in me kept wondering how many more performances she had to do before she had enough money for med school. As if Stephanie wasn't traumatising enough then came the male stripper. I can't remember his name but I'm pretty sure it was Tyrone or something along those lines. To cut to the chase I was convinced Tyrone had something stuffed down his pants to make himself seem well endowed, however I discovered this wasn't the case when he removed his towel and began to helicopter his junk around. I knew exactly where to look this time, straight into my hands which covered my eyes while I screamed like a little school girl.

Is The Church only for Australians?
No, The Church is a mecca for a variety of backpackers and expats from Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Ireland, America and France just to name a few. There was even the occasional Brit there. Really, it's an excellent opportunity to meet new people and become more knowledgable about the variety of cultures that can be found in this wonderful city. It's a place where amongst the cans, bottles and bags that swim around your feet, various nationalities come together for a swapping of ideas and saliva. Deals are made (for example, trading hats for kisses) and race and age don't matter (as a young Aussie lad discovered when he become acquainted with a 46 year old). It's really quite lovely when you stop to think about it. Perhaps if the world's governments sorted their issues out over chocolate body paint and made deals involving the odd cheeky pash, the world would be a better place.

Is The Church for me?
I think it takes a special kind of person to stomach The Church. If you're going to go, go with an open mind and be prepared to get your feet dirty. It's probably not the place to be if you're part of a couple as every minute there feels like 'desperate o'clock', and even as a single you'd only ever go once! In short, it's fun to get dressed up and have a dance and a laugh, but if anything my main complaint is there's probably too much class in one place to handle on a regular basis.

The dangers of karaoke

Challenge 2: Karaoke

Mia 'thriving not shining'

As a child I was regaled with stories of how my mother used to steal microphones at social events and belt out Mustang Sally. She was a self-proclaimed and admittedly awful karaoke queen and now every time I hear that song a shiver creeps down my spine. On the weekend I unfortunately discovered that I am in fact my mother's daughter, a filthy microphone hog and I have the scars to prove it.

It had been a running joke that my friend Max and I would one day do karaoke so, as my time in London is rapidly coming to an end we decided there's no time like the present. Despite having taken private singing lessons, being in the school choir from the age of 9 and studying music up until Year 11, the notion of standing in front of people and singing utterly petrifies me. I've always wondered if I'm like one of those poor souls on X Factor who truly believes they can sing but really sound like a cat being strangled. As a result I desired, nay needed, a little dutch courage to get me through the two hour session that we had booked.

As I was running late, there was a quick pre-drinking session at a mate's place, which proved enough to take the edge off. After some vodka the notion of yelling into a mic with a group of friends seemed a tiny bit less daunting, until someone asked, 'Didn't you used to sing at school?' Shit. Had I really mentioned that? Luckily the focus was taken swiftly off my choir girl days when my friend Mia started informing strangers on the train that we were headed to Dime Bar for a spot of karaoke and began and in-depth discussion about which songs she would be choosing. She was adamant that while she may not shine that evening, she would indeed thrive.

And thrive she did. As soon as we were escorted into our little karaoke dungeon, which resembled a sauna with a large screen on the wall, more drinks were ordered and Mia was onto that microphone faster than Max could request Gangnam Style (which he did sing in perfect Korean might I add). We were dancing on couches, the vodka cranberries were going down nicely and after I felt sufficiently tipsy I decided it was time. I had already added one of my favourite shower songs Hit Me With Your Best Shot to the playlist, so when it came on I was ready. Now, what my friends don't know is that I wasn't going to leave this monumental moment up to chance; I had actually had a quick run through of the song using the lyrics off youtube a few nights before. Spot the loser. What I hadn't banked on was that with a little vodka in my system, what I'd anticipated would be simply trying to stay in tune became a full blown performance. I was a woman possessed! There were Mariah Carey hands, there was vibrato, I didn't care what anyone else thought because all of a sudden I was a diva. Another girl who I'd only met once before decided to join in with me and it turned out she could really sing! Brilliant! Someone to duet A Whole New World from Aladdin with me!

I was obviously devastated when our time was up however, I was still overcome by the music. After exiting the booth I decided to duck off to the bathroom which was down some stairs. The combination of too much vodka, very high shoes and bouncing to my own rendition of songs from the Lion King proved too much. With the grace of a baby giraffe, I tumbled straight down the whole flight of stairs and landed by the feet of some poor unsuspecting stranger. I remember thinking at the time 'act sober' and that my hand was stinging a little but I otherwise didn't notice any damage. The following morning I awoke to discover I had scraped skin off the stop of my hand and that my legs were black and blue from the knee down. I couldn't help but laugh at the irony of coming away from singing Hit Me With Your Best Shot looking as though I'd been assaulted.

On Monday the kids had plenty of questions for me about what happened to my hand. I've learnt from my recent obsession with shows like Lie to Me and White Collar that the best lies are the ones where only part of the truth is omitted, so I told the kids that I had fallen down some stairs while wearing very big shoes. One of them told me that it was ok and she understood, after all she had fallen off the swings once. I just nodded and told her they sounded like very similar stories...

Kids say the darnest things...innit

Challenge 4: Introduce yourself to EVERYONE

I can't believe I'm saying this, but this week I am on my last school holiday before embarking on my final half term in London. I still remember the sleepless night I had before my first day; I had heard horror stories about London schools and I was utterly petrified. I decided to voice my concerns to someone who I knew had taught over here (after all, he had told me the horror stories) but was swiftly told to suck it up and enjoy!

Turns out there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Sure, I was no longer working in a private Catholic school where the kids would hand themselves forward if they had hit someone, after trying to rationally discuss the situation of course, but I can comfortably say that I have met some of the most hilarious and spirited kids while working in London.

Being from Australia was a definite ice-breaker with the kids, and has continued to be a point of fascination for them. On my first day I was left in the year 5 classroom to read them some questions about a book they were studying. I'll never forget the wide-eyed looks I was given when asking a simple yes or no question. I couldn't understand why nobody was answering me when finally one kid raised his hand and informed me, 'Miss, we can't understand what you're saying'. While most of the children have learnt to decipher my Melbourne drawl, it still does cause problems occasionally. Most recently, and probably the most embarrassing, was when I was doing dictation with a group of year 2 and 3 children. The sentence was A fish can't fly. I was horrified when I sat down to mark their work and discovered that a quarter of the class had misunderstood how I pronounced the word can't and written a more controversial four letter word starting with c.

Not only have the kids learnt a bit about Australia from working with me (for example, no I cannot just become an aborigine because I'm Australian), but I have learnt a lot about London, specifically Hackney from working with them. A short film was made about Hackney and the school around the time that I arrived. I was probably still a little nervous about working in London at this point and my worries were not exactly put to rest by two little girls who featured in the film. When asked by the interviewer if they enjoyed living in Hackney one girl replied, 'yeah, it's really fun' while the other calmly interjected with, 'someone got shot in my street'. 

I love the black and white way the children view their world. A 5 year old came into my class one day with a temporary tattoo on his hand. I told him it was very nice and teasingly asked him if it was real. He politely replied that no, it was not and he would not get a real tattoo, especially if it was a crab because crabs pinch you and that would hurt. Fair enough. I have also learnt from the concerns of a year 6 girl that if I am going to go back to Australia to become a psychologist I will need to invest in more pencil skirts, collared shirts and a leather notepad (however, my watch is fine...I can keep that).

My favourite logic from the kids is that if a man and a woman hug, that means they're boyfriend and girlfriend, or so playground gossip tells me. One day I was leaving work early because I wasn't feeling well and my friend Andrew gave me a hug goodbye. Andrew and I were the talk of the school with last year's year 5s as they not only believed we were a couple, but decided to hold a wedding for us at the park. It was a lovely ceremony perhaps except for when the 10 year old celebrant asked if Andrew would take me as his awfully wedded wife. The fact that the groom was gay may also have been problematic, and totally lost on the children. Well, it appears our hug sparked up rumours once more with the current year 5s. One Thursday, Andrew's day off, a year 5 casually mentioned that perhaps my day would have been better if Mr Miles was around. Trying to stifle my laughter, I asked the boy why he thought that. He pondered this and decided that it's because we 'laugh lots together, talk quietly together and seem very comfortable together'. Trying to wind him up, I asked the boy if there was something he wasn't telling me. Was there a point to what he was saying? A sheepish grin spread across his face and he surprised me when he put his index fingers together and drew the shape of a giant love heart in the air. No matter how much I deny my relationship with Mr Miles, the kids seem to think this is a romance for the ages.

There have been some absolute gems in the kids' work over the past year too. When marking a (quite outdated) comprehension task one day I noticed there was the question, Why did the soldiers look gay? The correct answer was because they were wearing blue and red uniforms however, one child answered The soldiers looked gay because they had strange faces. In a year 6 class, another TA informed me that the kids were coming up with words that contained the word man, like snowman. One girl wrote the word womaniser. When asked what it meant she conceded that she didn't know, but she knew Britney Spears sang about it. One of my favourites was when I was in year 1 doing a 'who, what, where, when sentence' activity. I was roaming the classroom checking work when some girls seemed very proud that they had put me in their sentence. They had not quite finished, so when I asked them what they thought they were missing they enquired was it, 'who is on Miss Ellie?'.

As much as I want to lock myself in the stationary cupboard some days, I have loved getting to know these amazing kids who come from such different backgrounds to myself. I think after a year together we have come to understand each other. This was confirmed when Andrew was taking a group of children that I normally help and he asked one of them would she rather Miss Ellie be teaching her. Apparently after a brief pause she replied, 'she's...complicated.' God, kids are preceptive!

It's Wingardium LeviOsa, not LevioSA

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips

A friend once asked me if it was weird that when she thought of Harry Potter she thought of me. I knew she meant because the release of the movies always coincided with my birthday in the school holidays, but I was secretly flattered. See I'm a self-proclaimed HP nerd. Some of my fondest memories growing up involve going on road trips with my best friend and not saying a word to each other because we were so engrossed in the novels. At one point I became so obsessed I would take my book into the bathroom with me, prop it against the shower glass and keep one hand dry so I could turn the pages. I was absolutely convinced that I would bump into the casting director one day and he'd tell me Emma Watson had to go because I was his dream Hermoine, and it's no secret that here in London I don't like sitting on the top level of the double decker buses...I've just failed to tell people it's because I'm traumatised by the way the Knight Bus was driven.

Last weekend my childhood dreams came true; I went to visit the Harry Potter Studio Tour to experience how the films were made. It only took a short train ride from Euston and a Harry Potter bus to get us to the attraction where we spent a blissful few hours exploring the world of Hogwarts. Whatsmore, we were told that Chris Hemsworth was on the next backlot shooting a new film while Henry Cavil was filming on the other side (sandwiched between Hemsworth and Cavil...suddenly my adult dreams had come true too!).

The tour began with a short film that outlined how long it took to make the movies and how many people were involved. To my amazement, after the film the cinema screen lifted up to reveal the door to The Great Hall, where we were invited to step inside and explore the set just as it was during filming and view a range of the costumes. From here, the tour was self guided and we were free to go and marvel at sets of places like Dumbledoor's office, the potions classroom and Diagon Alley. A smile was permanently stamped on my face each time I discovered something new and amazing.

What struck me most was the level of detail that went into the preparation of the sets, props and costumes. Every oil painting was hand painted, every tapestry specially made and every single one of the thousands of wand boxes in Olivanders was labelled by hand just to make it all seem more real. What also amazed me was how they created Hagrid; when filming shots where Hagrid was standing with smaller actors and needed to appear huge, a 6"10 former rugby player would stand in with a mask of Robbie Coltrane that was voice activated, and would move as the double spoke the lines, all to avoid using digital animation. But perhaps the most dumbfounding thing I learnt was how short Daniel Radcliffe is! His costumes revealed a lot about his tiny stature (which Google later confirmed).

Amongst the sets you could learn to use a wand, practice flying on a broomstick and my favourite part, try butterbeer. The delicious concoction was served on a backlot where you could also jump on the Knightbus, get in the Weasley's blue car and visit the Dursley's front door. 

Upon walking past the to-scale model of Hogwarts at the end of the tour, I felt like I'd found somewhere that I was understood and in no way judged for my nerdy tendencies. While most teenagers were probably caught hiding porn from their parents, my mum used to tell me off when she busted me reading the Deathly Hallows when I should have been studying for my Year 12 exams. But here's the thing, at the HP studio tour that's not only ok, it doesn't even put me in the same quidditch park (see what I did there?) as some of the other Potterheads! I don't own a wand, or a Griffandor scarf or even a Hogwarts notebook...but I did notice they were all available in the gift shop if anyone needs ideas for Christmas presents...

Fiestas and Siestas (Spain Part 2)

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

Having completed my leg of the Camino de Santiago, it was time to enjoy Pamplona. The city is full of old Spanish charm and is a labyrinth of cobblestoned streets built within the city's large wall. It is on these streets that the famous running of the bulls festival takes place. Although the festival was not on while we were there, the streets were buzzing with food markets, medieval festivals and even a travelling choir. We decided to walk the route that the bull run takes in order to see the city and the large bull ring where bullfights still take place. To be honest, the stadium was a little underwhelming. Perhaps I was expecting something a little more like the bullring in Madrid which is quite spectacular, with beautiful statues and architecture. The one in Pamplona is quite a stark round structure in the middle of the city, much like any old football stadium, but you can see that it would come alive during the festival. 

After our walk we decided to enjoy some tapas and retire for my new favourite part of the day, siesta. I definitely felt that I had earned an afternoon of reading my book and resting my legs after my effort over the previous three days! Despite the rest, we were still keen to eat dinner at a normal hour rather than the Spanish way of eating around 10pm. If not from the jumble of Australian, British and New Zealand accents, the restaurant must have known we were tourists purely based on our dinner reservation time. When we were entering for dinner we were literally the only people there and the place was packed and still eating when we left after midnight. In that moment I got a sense of what my old age would be like, getting in for the early bird special at the pub.

The following day we left Pamplona and made our way to San Sebastian. This was a special trip as we were heading there to go to lunch at the three Michelin Star restaurant, Martin Berastegui. One of the people in our group had visited the restaurant the previous year and had loved it so much that he made another reservation, just in case he was in Spain. I can say with confidence that the hype was well worth it. While I wasn't brave enough to sample the 10 course tasting menu that most of the others in our group dined on, I had an amazing 3 course meal and copious amounts of gorgeous local wine. As an appetiser I had a potato soup, which sounds pretty standard but as I quickly discovered, nothing on this menu was standard. Everything was beautifully served and creatively put together. For example, the soup came with tomato to accompany it which was served in the form of a red powder along the side of the bowl. The second appetiser was a squid ink pasta ball served in a broth. We were told that the ball should be eaten in one bite otherwise it could become messy. I had misunderstood what we were eating, assuming that the pasta was dyed with squid ink when it was in fact filled with it. I did as instructed and ate it in one go, however I had pushed it to the back of my throat where it exploded and the ink went down the wrong way. Anyone who knows me well knows that this would have been a big deal for me, as I usually don't eat small round objects (yes, I know it's odd). Grapes, cherry tomatoes, pretty much anything that can burst in my mouth so to eat a ball filled with squid ink was no small feat and it didn't exactly go well!

For entree I decided to continue my brave exploration of food and ordered oysters served in coconut, kaffir lime and cucumber. I had never tried oysters before so I thought that the best way to do it would be when they're served in the thai flavours that I love. While I wouldn't go making them a regular choice, they were delicious. For mains I had red mullet served with squid ink pasta (not the exploding kind). By this point in the meal I was well and truly drunk so the novelty of having my tongue dyed black from the squid ink resulted in some very unflattering photos as well as uncontrollable giggling in the privacy of the bathroom. Last but certainly not least, was the amazing chocolate soufflé for dessert. Articulating how soft and light the soufflé was and how warm and rich the sauce tasted when it oozed out of the centre does not do it justice. Finally, when tea and coffee came around I thought it best not to ruin my meal with something as standard (and sobering) as coffee so I ordered a cheeky moscato, much to the amusement of the others at the table.

Red Mullet and Squid Ink Pasta

After lunch, in a wine fuelled haze, we headed into town to see a bit of San Sebastian. There was some sort of festival on though and the streets were filled with drunken adolescents, singing and peeing wherever they felt appropriate. We sought refuge in a pintos bar where we drank sangria, played cards and somehow managed to fit in a little tapas and pintos. 

The following day was my last day of the trip. I had the pleasure of catching up with the two friends I travelled to Budapest with and we enjoyed a lazy day together, walking along the beach and catching up on some much needed rest. That evening I had dinner with my fellow pilgrims for one last taste of the amazing food that Spain has to offer. I am so grateful for such a unique and amazing experience; not many people can say that they walked the Camino and ate at a Michelin Star restaurant all in one week!

El does El Camino de Santiago

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

While all the rest of the staff at my school returned to work on the first Monday of September, I was lucky enough to be whisked away to France for an extra 10 days break with my dad. The trip had been organised for months and I was under the impression that we would be spending 8-9 days walking the Camino de Santiago with a day off at the end. However, I quickly discovered that travelling with my father should really come with its own manual entitled, 'Shit My Dad Doesn't Say'.

The first thing my father failed to mention was that our trip started in the gorgeous beach town of Biarritz in the south of France. As I had packed bathers I couldn't really be too annoyed at the notion of spending a day or two sprawled on the sand with the sun beaming down on me. In fact any annoyance I had seemed to disappear when I found my spot on the beach right next to the lifesaving tower. I couldn't help but notice a common theme amongst the lifeguards; apparently tanned + beautiful = good at saving lives in Biarritz. I suddenly resented my parents for buying me swimming lessons as a child...

After two days in paradise we caught a train to the little town of Saint Jean Pied de Port. This beautiful French town sits at the foot of the Pyrenees and is the beginning of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. It was also our meeting point with our other fellow pilgrims, a group of my dad's friends. It was from them that I discovered I would only be walking 3 days however, it was the most challenging 3 days of the entire pilgrimage as it went straight up and over the Pyrenees into Spain. I was starting to realise that perhaps my training, which consisted of walking between London pubs, may not have been enough. I was so ill-prepared that I hadn't even brought a backpack (in my defence Dad said I wouldn't need one). Luckily while Dad and I were at the supermarket stocking up on mass amounts of water, we found me a lovely 4 Euro bright pink backpack and a matching pink water bottle to attach to said stylish backpack. It even had a matching pencil case. I was ready.

The following morning we rose bright and early to conquer our mountains. Equipped with walking sticks, walking boots and filled with adrenaline we began to stride out to the edge of the town in search of signs of shells which point the pilgrims in the right direction. This grand beginning was somewhat anticlimactic when we discovered that we were headed in completely the wrong direction. My faith in the seven adults, who were supposedly Camino veterans, began to waver. Moreover, I had heard horror stories of vultures who had pecked a pilgrim to death when she broke her leg on the walk and couldn't escape. Even with my adorable pink backpack our odds of survival weren't looking good if we couldn't even find our way of a very well signposted town.

Eventually we made it out and began our trek up into the mountains. It was not long before we encountered our first very steep incline which seemed to set the standard for the rest of the day. It was about 30 degrees while we were walking however, it felt slightly cooler due to a wind that was both a blessing and a curse. Although the wind meant the heat was not as stifling, it made it difficult for me to walk in a straight line at times. Despite all of this, the scenery was absolutely magical. Nestled amongst the green mountains we encountered sheep, horses and cows grazing. Their huge cow bells in the breeze quickly became the soundtrack to our walk. But what goes up must come down, and of the 25km we walked that day only 5 were downhill, resulting in an incredibly steep gradient to the point of being painful. Even high powered businessmen were making noises that resembled the whimpering of a kitten. It was sweet relief to finally reach our first destination, kick off the shoes and enjoy a Sangria. I was pleasantly surprised that not only had I completed day 1, I had done it with relative ease.

Day 2 was by far the most challenging for me. Although the track was flatter, my toes were covered in blisters and it was incredibly hot. My pace was a lot slower than the first day and I thought I was going to cry from the pain at one point. However, once again the scenery was pretty amazing. Very different from the first day, we ventured through tiny Spanish towns littered with window boxes full of bright flowers. I also discovered that the best way to distract myself was just to get lost in my own thoughts. They say that miracles happen on this walk so long as you focus on them. While I'm not sure I can claim I witnessed any sort of miracle, walking through the idyllic countryside and beautiful Spanish towns did manage to provide me the clarity I'd not been able to get in the hustle and bustle of London.

Day 3 I was bandaged up and ready to go! We had a much shorter walk for our last day so we went at a leisurely pace and nibbled on wild blackberries along the way. We stopped for omelettes, to cuddle horses and even for wood fired pizza. At one point I had a little black and white cat accompanying me down the path however, when she figured out I had no food to share she decided the trek wasn't worth it. After a three day journey the final hour into Pamplona seemed to drag on for an eternity though. Finally, we crossed a bridge to encounter a huge wall that encased the home of the running of the bulls and the end of my Camino experience.

To be continued...

A little party in Notting Hill

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips

The talk of the town in London this Bank Holiday weekend was Notting Hill Carnival. Not having experienced one before I began to imagine it was going to be like Portobello Market on steroids; tea cups and trinkets galore with an abundance of men who resembled Hugh Grant. I was definitely not prepared for possibly Europe's biggest street party.

In fact the carnival is a huge Caribbean street party with a parade that processes through the streets of West London. Large trucks pump out Caribbean music while voluptuous women donned in amazing costumes made with feathers, sequins and glitter dance behind them. To be more specific they follow the trucks while whining, a dance that involves the women twisting their hips while a man often gyrates behind them. Google it if you've never seen it, but all I can say is I didn't know whether to stare in awe of how well they move their bodies or book them a hotel room. I quickly discovered that I definitely can't whine, but regardless it was impossible not to smile and shake my pathetic white girl booty when surrounded by the sea of colour and music. Even the police couldn't resist busting a move with the beautiful partially clad women.

Off the main streets we found an abundance of jerk chicken stalls as well as other street food. After building up an appetite dancing we grabbed a quick bite and congregated outside a bar which was hosting one of the many parties for the day. The music from the bar spilt out onto the street, so armed with BYO wine and beer a mass of people began dancing on the pavement outside. Eventually a crowd began to form around one woman who was easily 75 years old had all of their attention with her old school dance moves. Delicately placing one foot to the side and then in front while holding her floor length floral skirt, she would lure in young shirtless men and relish in their attention.

Eventually we left our little street party and went in search of some colour. Feeling as though we were lacking the glitter required to fit in at carnival we headed straight for a little face painting stall. However, when we were informed it was going to cost 8 quid per face, we decided our money would be better spent pooled and we would nominate one person to take one for the team. When one of the boys announced that we all knew who it was going to be, I completely misunderstood where he was pointing and assumed he was picking on the youngest, me. High on the spirit of the festival my hand shot straight up in the air and I declared, of course I would do it. Unfortunately I had not realised that the deal was I didn't get a say in how my face was decorated. Imagining I would get a beautiful glittery butterfly across my eyes, I was mortified to see my friends flipping through the catalogue and picking out zombie faces. Eventually we came to an agreement, a koala seemed to be the most appropriate option for the loud mouthed Australians. This didn't bode well with the face painter though as it would have been time consuming so somehow my friends settled on a kitten.

For the rest of the day I was subjected to walking around the carnival with my face painted as a white kitten with big whiskers and a pink bow in the middle of my forehead. Luckily we soon found ourselves not watching the parade from the side lines like before, but smack bang in the middle of it. Surrounded by the amazing costumes I merely became an attraction for camera phones and had my picture taken with numerous strangers. It was amazing to be right in the middle of the crowd and to bump and grind our way down the street with the rest of the carnival goers.

After a long day of festivities my housemate and I decided to make our way home by bus. In my tired state I had completely forgotten what I looked like and was only reminded when I saw a lady on the street waving up to me. At first I began to look around to see who she was waving to until she began pointing right at me and waving. Possibly worse were to the two Rastafarian men sitting on the bus who started exclaiming 'what a silly face...look at the joy on that silly face'. They weren't wrong I suppose, it was a pretty joyous day even if I did get meowed at on the walk home from the bus stop!

Fork in the Road

Challenge 4: Introduce yourself to EVERYONE

All too frequently we make fun of people for having a whinge about their "problems"that stem from otherwise pretty good circumstances. Well, this post is unashamedly all about my mother of a  #firstworldproblem: getting accepted into The University of Cambridge.

At the impressionable age of fourteen I went on a family holiday around Europe. One of our stops was Cambridge and I was instantly in love with the beautiful grounds, gorgeous river and historic colleges. At the age of 18 I returned to Cambridge for yet another visit which only rekindled the romance. So, not being a girl that believes in playing hard to get, this year I introduced myself to the prestigious University and applied to study there. Admittedly I didn't actually believe I would get in, so it was a huge surprise to receive the invitation to go for an interview. One thing lead to another (as they often do in romance tales) and last week I received my acceptance letter...well, email into the Masters of Education and Psychology.

It all sounds peachy keen except that there were a few details I had grossly misunderstood. Firstly, I believed that on my British passport I would be eligible to pay local fees rather than international fees. This is in fact incorrect and I would have to have lived in the UK for three years to be able to claim that I am a local student. Secondly, I hadn't factored in that taking the place would mean giving up my place in a Masters course at home, a risk that could result in losing my spot in a course that will allow me to practice as a psychologist while the Cambridge degree is purely course work and research.

Looking back I think I was blinded by the romance of the place and believed that if, on the very off chance, I got in it would all work itself out somehow. Well, now that 'off chance' is reality and I'm left with a pretty large decision to make. If I close my eyes I can imagine an intersection with three possible ways that I can travel. To the left, I can go to Cambridge and spend a lot of time and money on something that would be purely for the experience and my ego (a fantastic option if money grew on trees), straight ahead I can stay in London for another 18 months and continue 'playing' granted I get permission from Uni, or to the right I can go home to Australia in February and decide to be an adult by starting my Masters and in turn, my career.

I'm not going to lie, I'm utterly petrified of making the wrong decision. It breaks my heart every time I tell people I don't think I'm going to take the Cambridge offer because the circumstances aren't right. Like a love struck stalker I made the mistake of Googling the college I got accepted into only to pine after how stunning it is (it was St Catherine's by the way). I suppose every good love story is about timing though. I know that now is probably the best time to galavant around Europe and frequent London pubs, as I'm still young enough to enjoy it without the pressures of life. Perhaps in the future the timing will be better for me to get stuck into academia and I can reintroduce myself to Cambridge. For now I just have to take comfort in the fact that I can officially say I'm smarter than I look!

I lost my heart in London but I lost my liver in Budapest

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

I've never really been the spontaneous type, an impromptu trip to the pub is about as unplanned as it gets. However, when my Australian Tax Return and a voucher from STA travel came through in the middle of my six week summer break, I couldn't resist the calls of an old uni friend urging me to meet her somewhere in Europe. Purely based on dates, Budapest was the chosen destination for five days. Before I begin attempting to recap, I feel as though there should be some kind of disclaimer that this will not be a story about our cultured trip to Eastern Europe... 

The girls and I arrived in Budapest on Sunday to discover that it was the last day of the Sziget Festival, one of the biggest music festivals in Europe. Feeling a little sheepish that we didn't know it was on, we were almost resigned to the fact that we would be the only people in Budapest not donning a yellow "Lets Sziget Fucked" singlet and making our way to Freedom Island. However, choosing to ignore the "out of stock" notice on the website we went ahead and ordered the tickets anyway. Before we knew it we were printing them and heading off to Sziget. Simple as that! 

The festival was like nothing that we get in Australia. Not only did it have the main stages, there were circus acts, piercing parlours, traditional Hungarian dancing and bars galore. Due to our late entry the only act left on the main stage was David Guetta, so we made our way straight there. Amidst the laser lights, confetti, fireworks and gropey European men, we danced while Guetta pushed some buttons and did a lot of fist pumping. Sounds trivial but it was pretty amazing. The rest of our night was spent dancing to various DJs and exploring the island. Among the crowd we noticed that one girl had brought her mum to the festival. Keen to join in the fun with the young ones, 'mum' jumped on the back of a bike with a side cart, dancing in that unique middle-aged woman way. Unfortunately, she was so consumed by the attention that she lost her balance and fell backwards into the cart, legs straight up in the air like a cartoon character! I only hope I can embarrass my children half as much as she did when I'm her age!

The following day was spent eating ice-cream and enjoying the sunshine. I had planned on sleeping in, but was woken by my British roommates returning from the festival around 7am. They were very concerned that one of their trio hadn't come back, not because he was lost but because the girl he had gone home with wasn't very attractive. Trying to dig deeper into the male psyche I naively enquired whether their mate would get any kudos for picking up at all. He informed me that no, his friend would not as he would rather remove his genitals than engage in coitus with said female (but not nearly as eloquently as that). 

Once we had recovered from Sziget it was time to jump back on the horse, or in this case boat. Monday night's festivities consisted of a booze cruise down the river Danube. Despite the large bottle of champagne we were given (each) we were awe struck by the city which looked stunning by night, especially the beautiful building of parliament and the Chain bridge which lit up the river. There was a loose rule that whenever the boat went under a bridge you had to kiss someone. I now understand how my Nan feels at Christmas as all the kisses I received were on smack bang on the cheek. 

On Tuesday we took the opportunity to enjoy the heat at one of the oldest thermal bath houses in Europe. Lying in the beautiful ornate surroundings of the bath house with the Budapest sunshine peaking through the clouds was the perfect way to spend the day. The lovely warm water also did wonders for our aching muscles from all the dancing in the previous 48 hours. However, the best part of the baths was definitely the people watching. There were tattoos, piercings, six-packs, guts, breast on ladies, breast on men, selfies, cellulite and more hair than you would find on yogi bear himself. Perched on a sun lounge with my big sunnies on I was enjoying the display of the human species when we were unceremoniously asked if we wanted to pay for our sun lounges. Our bikini clad bodies lying on the ground must have been a pathetic site because the gentleman in charge of taking payment shortly returned to inform us that we could have our sun lounges back free of charge as long as we didn't tell anybody. 

By Wednesday we realised we hadn't been very cultural while in Budapest so we decided to take the walking tour of the city. We learnt that Hungarian is the second most difficult language to learn, a Hungarian invented the Rubik's cube and that Budapest is the largest exporter of baby hippos in the world. Possibly most interesting the the fact that Budapest has the third best bar in the world and it was just around the corner from our hostel. So of course that evening we jumped on a pub crawl and went to visit the famous ruin bars. These bars were decaying homes which have been emptied out and filled with an eclectic mix of retro furnishings and decorations and turned into very cool night spots. Szimpla is the one that has the top rating. It goes over two stories linked by winding spiral staircases. Fuelled with a little dutch courage from a hefty pre-drinking session, we went about meeting some new friends in the tourist-filled bars. As a result we encountered some of the most creative pick-up tactics I have seen in a while:

• Apparently, if your name is George you are in luck. With the recent naming of the royal baby this name now has some serious pull, as a 21 year old English lad discovered with one of my friends. 
• Also, lulling the girl into a false sense of security with quite camp mannerisms and studying fashion seems to (almost) work. Another friend of mine found herself sitting on a guy's lap for this reason but became quite confused when his hands started wondering up and down her leg. By the time he offered to buy her a drink she was out of there. 
• Or finally, if all else fails and you're Canadian and attractive, you can just grab the faces of three girlfriends and give each of them a cheeky kiss. You may even have the audacity to remind the girls of this the next day (well played "Canadian Dave").

Needless to say after a night of vodka shots, beer chasers and Baileys on the rocks my last day in Budapest was spent sleeping, eating and debriefing with the girls. On my way to the airport I met a Hungarian-born American who told me she had caught up with her ex-husband while in Budapest and had gone for a candle-lit dinner to "celebrate" their divorce 30 odd years ago. She seemed to think Budapest was a good place for karmic retribution. I just think it's a good vibes city and I was so sad to say goodbye.

Buon Compleanno in Italia!

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

Photo by Wendy Lipzker

Having been away from home for almost 6 months now, my 24th birthday had the potential to bring a strong dose of homesickness with it. Luckily, I received one of the best birthday presents I could have wished for: a weekend in Italy with my mum.

On Friday morning I dragged my heavy body out of bed at 3am to get myself to Gatwick for my much anticipated flight to Milan. I was anxious about missing the Gatwick Express or that my flight might be delayed as I was told my step-dad had booked tickets for us to see The Last Supper. Admittedly, I was very confused by this; we're not really a religious bunch so why were we going to see a reenactment of a biblical story? Would Jesus be Italian? Once reunited with my mum and step-dad, I politely posed these questions to them only to be met with laughter. We were actually going to see the famous Leonardo Da Vinci painting which is painted onto a chapel wall. In order to keep the painting in good condition, people are only allowed 15 minutes of viewing time to avoid too much moisture and dust entering the room. It was 15 minutes well spent though; the painting was beautiful and the history behind it was incredibly interesting.

With the cultural stuff out of the way by noon we were free to spend the rest of the day focusing on what was really important: eating and shopping. I realised by the end of my first day in Milan that I had found my culinary mecca! Where else could I consume copious amounts of my two favourite foods, pasta and ice-cream, without judgement? I was mildly concerned to discover that on profile I looked about 3 months pregnant, but if that's the price you pay for happiness, I'll pay it.

The following day we woke up early to catch the train to Como. The first few hours of the day were spent lazing on a ferry in the sun as it took us to the town of Bellagio on Lake Como. The lake sparkled as the sun danced across it, lighting up the different coloured villas dotted along the bank. We spent about an hour exploring Bellagio (stopping to get a gelato on the way, of course) then it was back on the boat and over to the medieval town of Verenna. It was so relaxing to enjoy the beautiful scenery of the town as well as more pasta and my second gelato for the day. Needless to say, my food-baby and I slept soundly on the train back to Milan that afternoon.

That evening we returned to the restaurant we had visited the night before as the food was so good. After polishing off a large bowl of gnocchi I discovered that I could in fact translate Italian despite not speaking it. The jolly waiter explained to us that he enjoys watching Australian Border Security on TV and that in one episode a man shut down the whole airport because his belt buckle looked like a bomb, but in fact wasn't. Unfortunately my translation skills were not good enough to save me from the disgusting Italian liqueur that tasted like cough syrup that he insisted I try. Unable to bare more than a sip, Mum came to the rescue and decided to shot it using her limoncello as a chaser. We discovered that wine, limoncello and horrible Italian shots are a lethal combination resulting in my drunk mother alerting the streets of Milan that she would skip if she could, but she would probably wet herself.

Regardless of her escapades, Mum was bright and perky the next morning for my 24th birthday. I was spoilt with chocolate mousse croissants for breakfast before setting off to visit the oldest church in Milan. It became apparent that modesty is still highly valued in Italy as I was scolded by an elderly nun for showing my shoulders in the church. If only she knew I would be showing a lot more than that later that morning...After leaving the church we jumped on the 'Bike Mi' bikes and cycled around to another chapel. While the notion of riding through the cobblestoned streets of Milan in a beautiful white sundress sounds romantic, the reality is far from it. As I rode I could feel my dress slipping up my thighs and I'm quite certain I gave a few elderly Italian men a view that was hardly modest. For the sake of decency I tried to awkwardly ride with my knees together making the journey that much more challenging.

The next chapel we visited was famous because it has been decorated in hundreds of human skulls and bones when the cemetery became too full hundred of years ago. We then headed to the most famous Cathedral in Milan, The Duamo. After visiting the awe-inspiring interior, Mum and I ventured up onto the roof to see the amazing view of the city. For lunch we refuelled with a pizza, then headed to the castle for a quick bike ride through the beautiful park. However, this became problematic when we could not get one of the bikes out of the stands. An Italian gentleman named George, witnessed out plight and saw it as an opportunity to attempt to run a scam or pick our pockets (we're not quite sure). His tactics involved buttering up Mum by asking if I was her sister and then organising for us to return the next day so that we could discuss our engagement. I couldn't help but laugh when he purred, "I'm a good looking man, no?" Well, no, George was not which is probably why he used lines like, "I will see you tonight...in my dreams." Eventually we made our escape on the bikes in search of more gelato.

Luckily, I did not spend my birthday evening with George. Instead the three of us dined at an amazing restaurant on the canal which was awarded a michelin star. The food was creative, quirky and completely amazing. Highlights included a dish called 'frog in a pond' which came served in foam with origami frogs made out of pastry, pigeon served on a light board with fake blood underneath and my birthday dessert which came on a lit up PAC-man board with sorbet pieces. The food played with all of your senses and was a very memorable way to end the trip and to spend my birthday.

"This is not a game" dessert

"Frog in a Pond"

The Perils of Moving onto the Monopoly Board

Challenge 4: Introduce yourself to EVERYONE (they could be your new best friend/future husband)

A couple of months after I moved to London a girl that I went to primary school with also made the big move. Having experienced so much hospitality from old acquaintances living here, I thought I would pay it forward and do the same for her. Our reintroduction took place at what seemed like a fairly tame BBQ which actually ended up being a pretty messy night at the pub. So over too many shots an old friendship was reestablished.

A few months down the track and we have moved in together to a gorgeous part of London, Angel (or as I like to tell people, the light blue bit on the monopoly board). However, we've discovered that attempting to rent in London isn't an easy game to play.

Chance: Go back 3 spaces

After many hours of searching the Internet, my housemate found a cute little place near Camden. It was so exciting to have finally found a place and put down the holding deposit for our new home. However, we were quickly disappointed when we learnt that the flat was deemed "unroadworthy" by the council, sending us back 3 spaces and leaving us a little disheartened.

Rolled a double: throw again

So the house hunt began again and luckily we found a lovely flat in Angel. It looked like it was all ours until another person showed interest at the last minute, taking us to the point where we had to put in our best and final offer. Waiting to find out who would get to put their little green house on the light blue square was a nerve wracking process so it was a huge relief to finally hear we won and had a home.

Community Chest: Go straight to jail. Do not pass go-do not collect £200.

But, as in any game your luck can change pretty quickly. As we have not been in the UK 6 months we both required guarantors. Thankfully we both have family in the UK so this didn't seem to be any sort of issue. Unfortunately, we were misinformed about the requirements of a guarantor and mine failed her check as she is retired. My stomach fell as I realised I didn't have anybody else in the UK who could act as guarantor and my options were running thin. It crossed my mind that maybe London and I weren't meant to be and it might be time to run away again. After all,  I would have been left homeless if this flat fell through.

Chance: Advance to Go. Collect £200.

Finally the universe decided to throw us a little sugar to sweeten all those lemons. My housemate managed to find us a guarantor in an old family friend who very kindly agreed to act as mine as well. 

Our move yesterday came with the biggest sense of relief and excitement as we finally collected the Angel Islington card. Sure, when we arrived the keys didn't work and we couldn't move our stuff in because the cleaners were still here...but at least we've put our little green house down now.

(In bed by) Midnight in Paris

Challenge 3: Go on lots of day/weekend/many day trips (don't stay in the same place, explore, travel, wander)

Every time I step foot in Kings Cross station to catch a train somewhere, I feel like I'm bound for Hogwarts. While this obviously isn't the case, last weekend I was just as excited to catch the Eurostar from St Pancras across to Paris to see my Dad complete his second London to Paris bike ride.

As it was the summer solstice the French were holding their annual music festival where the streets were littered with a variety of musical acts. While in theory this sounds like an enchanting notion, we probably arrived a little too late to join in the festivities. Instead of witnessing fun French music, we were confronted with two fights and a delightful lady who took to throwing glass bottles at passers by. 

The following day however, Paris turned on its charm. Our morning was spent doing a little shopping and eating croissants before departing on the supporters bus to see the 400 riders complete their three day journey from London in the afternoon. Perched on a fence, Moët & Chandon in hand with the Eiffel Tower watching over us, we eagerly awaited Dad's arrival amongst the sea of athletes. The first to cross the finish line was the only hand cyclist to have took part this year, followed by the professional riders and then the amateurs, amongst which was Dad in surprisingly high spirits. I'm yet to decide whether he was elated purely because he had finished his three day cycle in very difficult conditions, or if it was because he had managed to find my future husband over those three days. He had barely cracked open his champagne when he eagerly pointed out that the man who won the race was both young and attractive as well as being the son of the very wealthy Nigel Mansell. You'd think he had better things to focus on...

As it was the 10th anniversary of the event, that evening we attended a gala dinner to celebrate. Whilst sipping champagne I was flattered to be frequently asked which group I rode in. After drinks we were treated to a three course French meal and some entertainment. Admittedly, I was exhausted (it's hard work lying about completing a three day ride) so I skipped the band and was tucked up in bed even earlier than the oldies with a gentle champagne buzz.

Sunday saw my last day in Paris and that gentle champagne buzz had turned into a thudding champagne hangover. Luckily, a beautiful breakfast was held for us which helped ease my pain. Not deterred by my thudding head or the Paris rain we set out for a day of sight seeing. It was magical to see iconic sights such as the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomph, Champs Elysee and Notre Dame however the highlight was a stop off in Angelina's, a famous French cafe established in 1903, for incredibly decadent afternoon tea of thick, silky hot chocolate and giant, light macarons. We also made a quick trip to my favourite bookshop, Shakespeare and Company to soak up the beautiful atmosphere amongst some literary classics just like Owen Wilson did in Midnight in Paris. Despite being soaked on my way back to London, I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon in the city of love.