16th August 2014, The Curtain's Up, West Kensington, London
I love visiting other people's local pubs. The grubby ones, the posh ones, the hipster ones and the dirty ones - I love them all.
The Camel's local is no exception, I've heard plenty of good thing about the place. However, it may have been preferable to attend said pub under different circumstances.
Planning to go to the bride's house mid hen do to get ready for the night seems like a safe bet right? It's not weather dependant, not down to unreliable opening hours and there's definitely going to be curling tongs there. Unless someone forgets the keys.
Upon our discovery of the non key-having situation, we did not give into disappointment. We did what any reasonable grown ups would do and arranged an impromptu party on this West Kensington doorstep. I even used a trash can as a table for the champagne. That's called being resourceful.
The party came to an end though once we realised that it would take the hubby-to-be an hour to come let us in and people were starting to look at us funny. Some people were bothered by that. I just thought we could invite them along to our party on the stoop.
So we went onto the much talked about Curtain's Up around the corner, with all our champagne bottles and snacks in tow, only to find we attracted just as many strange looks there. It's OK, at least I'm used to it.
As far as locals go, this turned out to be a truly great one. Super cute and quirky with fashionably tattered armchairs, striped walls, bunting, big beautiful Victorian windows and everything else that makes a classic and brilliant English pub that was once upon a time how I fell in love with my new home town.
On top of the prettiness of the place it had an excellent wine selection and if I knew anything about beer, I'd say that selection wasn't too shabby either. As it stands, I know nothing about beer and therefore I wouldn't take my word for it, but the bottle labels sure looked cute.
After a few drinks, the hubby to be - who probably scored some serious boyfriend points - shows up with keys for all of us and kisses for the bride, which was the end of my very brief visit to the Curtain's Up.
I have a strong feeling I'll be back however.
Tuesday 30 September 2014
191. One Helluva Do
16th August 2014, Orangerie at Kensington Palace, Kensington, London
The time had finally come for the Camel's hen do! My dearest three-apples-tall, Oprah loving, always sees-the silver lining Camel who is about to become a Mrs Someone!
Following the standard London style run about of cancelled tubes, picking up champagne and getting lost in the park, virtually all us attendees were finding ourselves late. Obviously that mean the bride and Barbra the Bride's Maid decides, for possibly the first time in their lives, to be on time! After arranging a stalling of the bride, we were soon all gathered to greet her at the beautiful Orangerie at Kensington whilst she was getting furious with said bride's maid for stopping mid way to redo her make up and look at the flowers.
When I say all of us were there waiting for the bride, that means almost all of us. Now, she was excited enough as it was upon meeting parts of her current and former London crew outside the Orangerie. But when she enters the dining room and also finds Sweden crew there, that caused the loudest of her trademark 'OH MY GOD' squeals I have ever heard.
Once the lovely lady had calmed down, cried a bit, laughed her signature laugh and cried a bit more we proceeded to the great afternoon tea one can only get at the Orangerie. And with that we'll always have the fact that at least the day started in a classy manner!
After the lovely tea and champagne and scones and finger sandwiches and cake and cake and cake, we proceeded to Kensington Gardens for more champagne, and impromptu cork shooting contest (OK that was mainly me) and the classic Mrs & Mrs quiz which the bride-to-be obviously aced.
With this fairly sophisticated start to the day, we were off to the next section of this epic hen do, of course deemed to be a lot less elegant.
Bring on tacky!
The time had finally come for the Camel's hen do! My dearest three-apples-tall, Oprah loving, always sees-the silver lining Camel who is about to become a Mrs Someone!
Following the standard London style run about of cancelled tubes, picking up champagne and getting lost in the park, virtually all us attendees were finding ourselves late. Obviously that mean the bride and Barbra the Bride's Maid decides, for possibly the first time in their lives, to be on time! After arranging a stalling of the bride, we were soon all gathered to greet her at the beautiful Orangerie at Kensington whilst she was getting furious with said bride's maid for stopping mid way to redo her make up and look at the flowers.
When I say all of us were there waiting for the bride, that means almost all of us. Now, she was excited enough as it was upon meeting parts of her current and former London crew outside the Orangerie. But when she enters the dining room and also finds Sweden crew there, that caused the loudest of her trademark 'OH MY GOD' squeals I have ever heard.
Once the lovely lady had calmed down, cried a bit, laughed her signature laugh and cried a bit more we proceeded to the great afternoon tea one can only get at the Orangerie. And with that we'll always have the fact that at least the day started in a classy manner!
After the lovely tea and champagne and scones and finger sandwiches and cake and cake and cake, we proceeded to Kensington Gardens for more champagne, and impromptu cork shooting contest (OK that was mainly me) and the classic Mrs & Mrs quiz which the bride-to-be obviously aced.
With this fairly sophisticated start to the day, we were off to the next section of this epic hen do, of course deemed to be a lot less elegant.
Bring on tacky!
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| Who's there? |
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| OH MY GOD!!!!! |
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| One very excited lady! |
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| Off to the next mischief! |
Sunday 28 September 2014
190. Good Karma
15th August 2014, Karma, West Kensington, London
There's something about travelling from Brick Lane to West Kensington for... Curry.
But it wasn't just the Indian food making me agree to the long journey across town. My trusted wine lunch pal, Barbra, who has spent the last two years living her life on the beach is finally back in London town!
Ahead of the killer bash that was to be the Camel's hen do, we decided to celebrate our reunion with gossip, Indian and, of course, wine. Possibly a bit too much wine considering the festivities planned for the next day, but hey, if bride and two bride's maids seem OK with it - who am I to decide against the idea?
Following a few pre drinks (wine) with Barbra and attempting to sum up 2014 in the time it takes to drink a glass of Pinot, we went on to Karma. And it turns out that unlike the curry houses down my street on Brick Lane, the Indian Restaurants in West London are somewhat more posh. Now that's a shocker for you!
Whilst waiting for the Camel to get out of work me and Barbra had the loveliest appetizer platter I have ever had in an Indian restaurant. Get me right, the appetizer platters in East London does a lot to fix your hangover - but this one actually tasted like something aside of grease and starch.
And there was also the fact that their wine list stretches beyond white, red, pink and Cobra beer that made this place appear a bit more classy than those with the neon signs around the corner.
Finally upon the arrival of Camel, I got to try what was probably one of the best curries I've ever had. Now that doesn't necessarily say a lot, I am not good with spicy curries and will usually order things with names like King Prawn Coconut Delight - something I'm being mocked endlessly for. But this time I was actually a bit daring and ordered a lamb dish with actual spices in it. And it was lovely! Granted, I ate it with peshwari naan which is the sweetest thing there ever was - but I still think it's an accomplishment.
Soon, the second bride's maid also made an appearance fresh from Spain and at that stage I realized the world could learn so much from us. There we were; a Swede, an Arab, a Jew and a British Indian, a lot a wine and even more love, putting our differences aside and focuses on positivity rather than negativity. And quite frankly, our little universe at the table of a West Kensington restaurant is one I'd happily live in.
And on that philosophical note - bring on the hen do!
There's something about travelling from Brick Lane to West Kensington for... Curry.
But it wasn't just the Indian food making me agree to the long journey across town. My trusted wine lunch pal, Barbra, who has spent the last two years living her life on the beach is finally back in London town!
Ahead of the killer bash that was to be the Camel's hen do, we decided to celebrate our reunion with gossip, Indian and, of course, wine. Possibly a bit too much wine considering the festivities planned for the next day, but hey, if bride and two bride's maids seem OK with it - who am I to decide against the idea?
Following a few pre drinks (wine) with Barbra and attempting to sum up 2014 in the time it takes to drink a glass of Pinot, we went on to Karma. And it turns out that unlike the curry houses down my street on Brick Lane, the Indian Restaurants in West London are somewhat more posh. Now that's a shocker for you!
Whilst waiting for the Camel to get out of work me and Barbra had the loveliest appetizer platter I have ever had in an Indian restaurant. Get me right, the appetizer platters in East London does a lot to fix your hangover - but this one actually tasted like something aside of grease and starch.
And there was also the fact that their wine list stretches beyond white, red, pink and Cobra beer that made this place appear a bit more classy than those with the neon signs around the corner.
Finally upon the arrival of Camel, I got to try what was probably one of the best curries I've ever had. Now that doesn't necessarily say a lot, I am not good with spicy curries and will usually order things with names like King Prawn Coconut Delight - something I'm being mocked endlessly for. But this time I was actually a bit daring and ordered a lamb dish with actual spices in it. And it was lovely! Granted, I ate it with peshwari naan which is the sweetest thing there ever was - but I still think it's an accomplishment.
Soon, the second bride's maid also made an appearance fresh from Spain and at that stage I realized the world could learn so much from us. There we were; a Swede, an Arab, a Jew and a British Indian, a lot a wine and even more love, putting our differences aside and focuses on positivity rather than negativity. And quite frankly, our little universe at the table of a West Kensington restaurant is one I'd happily live in.
And on that philosophical note - bring on the hen do!
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| Doesn't look like much, but so worth a visit. |
Saturday 27 September 2014
189. Running Wild
9th August 2014, Strängnäs, Sweden
Running in Central London isn't so bad...
There's a certain charm in killing your knees on paved streets whilst trying to dodge the post-stabbing forensics team and someone's 3 AM kebab the second time around.
So with a bit of returning running motivation I decided it was time to get back into proper running, as in, in the woods. And seeing as my hometown is literally in the middle of nowhere, it was a good enough place to start.
I had completely forgotten how relaxing running in actual nature can be. All the greenery, end of summer flowers, birds singing and I even spotted a roe deer on the path ahead of me. It was basically like I was the Disney princess wearing striped lycra and me and my animal friends were about to break into song any second.
I didn't really sing though - this wasn't East London where that behavior is condoned.
Plus, 6 k into the woods me and the roe deer were no longer pals. As I'm running around a corner, minding my own business, the damn thing jumps out of a bush like it owns the place and the collision is a fact. And whilst that conniving Bambi creature happily jumps along to do some further flower munching and hanging out with her bunny friends or whatever it is roe deer like to do with their spare time. Meanwhile, I limped back the remaining 3 K with my leg covered in blood and dodged the emergency room but never the less spent the night at my cousin's getting myself taped up. (Yep, in my hometown all us cousins live in the same neighborhood. It's more cute than disturbing most days)
It turns out, that running in the woods is no safer than running in Hackney.
Running in Central London isn't so bad...
There's a certain charm in killing your knees on paved streets whilst trying to dodge the post-stabbing forensics team and someone's 3 AM kebab the second time around.
So with a bit of returning running motivation I decided it was time to get back into proper running, as in, in the woods. And seeing as my hometown is literally in the middle of nowhere, it was a good enough place to start.
I had completely forgotten how relaxing running in actual nature can be. All the greenery, end of summer flowers, birds singing and I even spotted a roe deer on the path ahead of me. It was basically like I was the Disney princess wearing striped lycra and me and my animal friends were about to break into song any second.
I didn't really sing though - this wasn't East London where that behavior is condoned.
Plus, 6 k into the woods me and the roe deer were no longer pals. As I'm running around a corner, minding my own business, the damn thing jumps out of a bush like it owns the place and the collision is a fact. And whilst that conniving Bambi creature happily jumps along to do some further flower munching and hanging out with her bunny friends or whatever it is roe deer like to do with their spare time. Meanwhile, I limped back the remaining 3 K with my leg covered in blood and dodged the emergency room but never the less spent the night at my cousin's getting myself taped up. (Yep, in my hometown all us cousins live in the same neighborhood. It's more cute than disturbing most days)
It turns out, that running in the woods is no safer than running in Hackney.
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| It's like they even try to encourage people run in this town! |
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| Collision victim. |
Friday 26 September 2014
188. What Makes Summer
7th August 2014, The Harbor, Strängnäs, Sweden
Nothing says summer like having ice cream in my hometown harbor.
I will usually make an effort to go home once every summer and a visit to the harbor for an ice cream treat is mandatory. So obviously it went on my list as one of those childish treats that may not be the thing a 30 year old should be excited about. Chances are that I still will be, but I won't take any chances with such important matters.
In all fairness, my one ice cream in the harbor this year have turned into 20 or so following my lady of leisure status and my much more frequent visits home. But I'm OK with that.
Of course, I had to bring my most trusted buddies with me for this very last harbor ice cream in my 20's. Although according to my sister, they're getting spoilt after a summer of daily ice creams and regular visits to the Land of Rollercoasters. But guess what - if you make two girls that amazing, their auntie will give them just about anything they ask for. She also has herself to blame. Well, and her husband I guess.
So following lunch on the town with these lovely little ladies and their granddad, we went off to the ice cream stall. And when I say we went off, we were dragged there by the 8 year old diva that is my youngest niece following her announcement of; 'There. I have eaten lunch. Several bites. We can go get ice cream now'. I do wonder where she get's that behavior from?
After two chocolate scoops with chocolate sauce and chocolate sprinkles, another two scoops of salty licorice and skittles ice cream (I know, can't understand it either) and saffron ice cream for the supposed 'grown ups', I found myself with two princesses on a sugar rush. Like the kind of sugar rush causing kids to be running around the harbor square at a speed that would have made both Coyote and the Road Runner jealous. I may have brought this on myself.
However. Sugar high children is a consequence I'm willing to accept in this instance.
Nothing says summer like having ice cream in my hometown harbor.
I will usually make an effort to go home once every summer and a visit to the harbor for an ice cream treat is mandatory. So obviously it went on my list as one of those childish treats that may not be the thing a 30 year old should be excited about. Chances are that I still will be, but I won't take any chances with such important matters.
In all fairness, my one ice cream in the harbor this year have turned into 20 or so following my lady of leisure status and my much more frequent visits home. But I'm OK with that.
Of course, I had to bring my most trusted buddies with me for this very last harbor ice cream in my 20's. Although according to my sister, they're getting spoilt after a summer of daily ice creams and regular visits to the Land of Rollercoasters. But guess what - if you make two girls that amazing, their auntie will give them just about anything they ask for. She also has herself to blame. Well, and her husband I guess.
So following lunch on the town with these lovely little ladies and their granddad, we went off to the ice cream stall. And when I say we went off, we were dragged there by the 8 year old diva that is my youngest niece following her announcement of; 'There. I have eaten lunch. Several bites. We can go get ice cream now'. I do wonder where she get's that behavior from?
After two chocolate scoops with chocolate sauce and chocolate sprinkles, another two scoops of salty licorice and skittles ice cream (I know, can't understand it either) and saffron ice cream for the supposed 'grown ups', I found myself with two princesses on a sugar rush. Like the kind of sugar rush causing kids to be running around the harbor square at a speed that would have made both Coyote and the Road Runner jealous. I may have brought this on myself.
However. Sugar high children is a consequence I'm willing to accept in this instance.
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| Yeah, these two are a bit special. Extra special. |
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| After sugar rushes comes the sugar comas. |
187. Around the World in a Gazillion Days
4th August 2014, Brick Lane, London
I really should have adored Around The World In 80 Days.
After all, I virtually live at Mr Foggs, I love travelling in random ways to random places and I kind of enjoy living in the past. So in theory I should have enjoyed the adventures of Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, Fix and Aouda. If only their adventures had not been so incredibly slow.
See, I've been through the plot before - I had the kiddie version when I was little and it was rather exciting. Turns out, my childhood book contained all the exciting bits and that would take my parents' 10 minutes to get through. Whilst I started reading the grown up version in the Caribbean 5 months ago. I get that it was written in the 19th century but come on! Chop chop Mr Verne!
Each and every character of this book is truly at a whole new, or very old depending on how you see it, level of annoying. An OCD snob, a flaming thick servant men, an even thicker police force and a feisty heroine who at least seems to have a grip, until she marries the OCD snob and makes herself the thickest of them all.
Nope, from now on my only interaction with this lot, will be by sipping fancy cocktails in Mayfair.
I really should have adored Around The World In 80 Days.
After all, I virtually live at Mr Foggs, I love travelling in random ways to random places and I kind of enjoy living in the past. So in theory I should have enjoyed the adventures of Phileas Fogg, Passepartout, Fix and Aouda. If only their adventures had not been so incredibly slow.
See, I've been through the plot before - I had the kiddie version when I was little and it was rather exciting. Turns out, my childhood book contained all the exciting bits and that would take my parents' 10 minutes to get through. Whilst I started reading the grown up version in the Caribbean 5 months ago. I get that it was written in the 19th century but come on! Chop chop Mr Verne!
Each and every character of this book is truly at a whole new, or very old depending on how you see it, level of annoying. An OCD snob, a flaming thick servant men, an even thicker police force and a feisty heroine who at least seems to have a grip, until she marries the OCD snob and makes herself the thickest of them all.
Nope, from now on my only interaction with this lot, will be by sipping fancy cocktails in Mayfair.
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| Now this a version I can get onboard with! |
Thursday 25 September 2014
186. Nuptials of the Nordmen
2nd August 2014, Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire, United Kingdom
And another one bites the dust!
In all seriousness, in spite of numerous jokes made by me regarding the institution of marriage and how appalling I find the idea, I could not be more excited about this wedding. The groom has been one of my longest standing London friends and a definite member of this urban family of ours and when he brought home a girl, it obviously was the loveliest girl in the world. This wedding was bound to be beautiful.
I do however wish I had been informed that this venue is the same place that Bridget Jones and Daniel Clever went rowing on the lake. Had a known I would have arrived early to arrange a re-enactment. Floridian could have been Cleaver, Scotty (Not The Christmas Goose) could have been the snotty lawyer girl and the attractive Hemsworth brother could be Mr Darcy. It would have been everything I always wanted it to be.
Resisting the urge to head for the lake and the boats, there we were, waiting for these two amazing people to become Mr and Mrs.
The ceremony was beautiful, as were this lovely couple - although the bride very nearly took a tumble when her father accidentally stepped on her train. After some gorgeous readings, beautiful string music and everyone who needed to say I do saying I do at the right time, these two were finally married and the festivities could begin!
According to a Swedish saying, a bit of rain on the wedding dress is a sign of a long and happy marriage to come - and considering that the light drizzle only lasted for 30 seconds and was followed by radiant sunshine, I'd say this one is in the bag.
After raiding the giant table of pickamix (which is basically cocain to any Swede) and having had a glass of champagne, we found the Kubb. The excitement can not be described. Move over croquet and boule - real men and Viking girls play Kubb.
Seeing as this Viking girl also lost at Kubb, I was quite happy when it was time for dinner. Plus there was that whole not eating for a week thing before the wedding making me rather excited about food.
Dinner was brilliant, food was delicious and the speeches heart warming - but nothing could really beat the look on the non Swedes faces once the bride left her seat and the race to kiss the groom begun. Yeah us Swedes are weird, but god damn it we're proud of it.
Five courses later, it was time for the bride and groom to dance their first dance as husband and wife and prove that there is no need for married couples to no longer enjoy a good party. There was dancing throughout the night and as Floridian and I left at 1 AM, the Nordmen were still shaking it.
Thank you both for letting me be part of such a brilliant day!
And another one bites the dust!
In all seriousness, in spite of numerous jokes made by me regarding the institution of marriage and how appalling I find the idea, I could not be more excited about this wedding. The groom has been one of my longest standing London friends and a definite member of this urban family of ours and when he brought home a girl, it obviously was the loveliest girl in the world. This wedding was bound to be beautiful.
I do however wish I had been informed that this venue is the same place that Bridget Jones and Daniel Clever went rowing on the lake. Had a known I would have arrived early to arrange a re-enactment. Floridian could have been Cleaver, Scotty (Not The Christmas Goose) could have been the snotty lawyer girl and the attractive Hemsworth brother could be Mr Darcy. It would have been everything I always wanted it to be.
Resisting the urge to head for the lake and the boats, there we were, waiting for these two amazing people to become Mr and Mrs.
The ceremony was beautiful, as were this lovely couple - although the bride very nearly took a tumble when her father accidentally stepped on her train. After some gorgeous readings, beautiful string music and everyone who needed to say I do saying I do at the right time, these two were finally married and the festivities could begin!
According to a Swedish saying, a bit of rain on the wedding dress is a sign of a long and happy marriage to come - and considering that the light drizzle only lasted for 30 seconds and was followed by radiant sunshine, I'd say this one is in the bag.
After raiding the giant table of pickamix (which is basically cocain to any Swede) and having had a glass of champagne, we found the Kubb. The excitement can not be described. Move over croquet and boule - real men and Viking girls play Kubb.
Seeing as this Viking girl also lost at Kubb, I was quite happy when it was time for dinner. Plus there was that whole not eating for a week thing before the wedding making me rather excited about food.
Dinner was brilliant, food was delicious and the speeches heart warming - but nothing could really beat the look on the non Swedes faces once the bride left her seat and the race to kiss the groom begun. Yeah us Swedes are weird, but god damn it we're proud of it.
Five courses later, it was time for the bride and groom to dance their first dance as husband and wife and prove that there is no need for married couples to no longer enjoy a good party. There was dancing throughout the night and as Floridian and I left at 1 AM, the Nordmen were still shaking it.
Thank you both for letting me be part of such a brilliant day!
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| The legal mumbo jumbo |
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| The boys in some serious Kubb action! |
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| Gorgeous table setting with SNAPS! |
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| The cake cutting |
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| The moves |
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| A Floridian, a lion and a lamp post. So close to being a Narnia book. |
Tuesday 23 September 2014
185. Slumming it in Slough
2nd August 2014, Slough, United Kingdom
Funnily enough, visiting Slough was the first official entry on The List.
When I first started to put The List together about a year ago I asked Flatmate for inspiration, for the big things in life he felt you had to do before the age of 30. His response? 'Visit Slough'.
So basically, the mission of visiting Slough ended up here, purely because of Flatmate's love of using this rather miserable homestead of David Brent as the pun for some rather sarcastic jokes.
And it is probably purely because of the Nuptials of the Nordmen that I actually made it there. Armed with snack packs and coffees on the train from Paddington, I started my trek to Slough. Even the short ride from London was depressing.
Then again, when the grimness of Slough has been described by geniuses from William Shakespeare to Ricky Gervais, how could I be surprised when I arrive to greyness? That's the only way I can describe the place. Grey. Even the cab and the cabbie looked a bit grey. Not actually grey in colour, but it was sort of like one of those Instagram filters people use when they're trying to be arty but just end up making themselves look ancient.
As I was exiting the roundabout that makes up the city centre of Slough, Tesco and... Nope, it was pretty much just a Tesco, I only had one thought going through my mind:
Thank God the actual Nuptials of the Nordmen won't take place in central Slough.
Funnily enough, visiting Slough was the first official entry on The List.
When I first started to put The List together about a year ago I asked Flatmate for inspiration, for the big things in life he felt you had to do before the age of 30. His response? 'Visit Slough'.
So basically, the mission of visiting Slough ended up here, purely because of Flatmate's love of using this rather miserable homestead of David Brent as the pun for some rather sarcastic jokes.
And it is probably purely because of the Nuptials of the Nordmen that I actually made it there. Armed with snack packs and coffees on the train from Paddington, I started my trek to Slough. Even the short ride from London was depressing.
Then again, when the grimness of Slough has been described by geniuses from William Shakespeare to Ricky Gervais, how could I be surprised when I arrive to greyness? That's the only way I can describe the place. Grey. Even the cab and the cabbie looked a bit grey. Not actually grey in colour, but it was sort of like one of those Instagram filters people use when they're trying to be arty but just end up making themselves look ancient.
As I was exiting the roundabout that makes up the city centre of Slough, Tesco and... Nope, it was pretty much just a Tesco, I only had one thought going through my mind:
Thank God the actual Nuptials of the Nordmen won't take place in central Slough.
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| Well at least they make it look inviting.... |
184. The Most Fashionable Little Bear in the World
2nd August 2014, Paddington Station, Paddington, London
I never liked Paddington Bear as a child.
Painfully polite, with a massively practical dress sense and the Brown family really annoyed me. So I obviously had no intention of picking him amongst all the much cooler, rebellious and dysfunctional bears on offer out there; Pooh with his eating disorder and dyslexia, the steroid addicted Bamse or Fozzie (who's just misunderstood really).
As I've grown up, I've learned to appreciate this little furry dude more and more. He clearly had a very tough life, orphaned in an earthquake and then abandoned dumped at a train station by Aunt Lucy and then stuck with those unnerving Brown kids. Plus, according to Vogue, his slouchy hat and duffel coat are really back into style.
In spite of a number of visits to Paddington throughout the year, I have never been to see the Paddington Bear statue. Primarily because the vast majority of my visits have included running towards Heathrow Express like a maniac in 6 inch heels, lugging a huge pink suit case and swearing at the fact that my flight leaves in less than an hour.
But seeing as I was for once in decent time for my train (to the Slums of Slough) and waiting to meet up with my travelling companion, it seemed like the best time possible to pay this little dude a visit.
And oh my gosh, how adorable is he? I just wanted to pinch his little bronze cheeks. And then I wanted antibacterial wipes. All those kids running up touching him... It's like asking for bird flu.
Look at me, I made a new friend!
I never liked Paddington Bear as a child.
Painfully polite, with a massively practical dress sense and the Brown family really annoyed me. So I obviously had no intention of picking him amongst all the much cooler, rebellious and dysfunctional bears on offer out there; Pooh with his eating disorder and dyslexia, the steroid addicted Bamse or Fozzie (who's just misunderstood really).
As I've grown up, I've learned to appreciate this little furry dude more and more. He clearly had a very tough life, orphaned in an earthquake and then abandoned dumped at a train station by Aunt Lucy and then stuck with those unnerving Brown kids. Plus, according to Vogue, his slouchy hat and duffel coat are really back into style.
In spite of a number of visits to Paddington throughout the year, I have never been to see the Paddington Bear statue. Primarily because the vast majority of my visits have included running towards Heathrow Express like a maniac in 6 inch heels, lugging a huge pink suit case and swearing at the fact that my flight leaves in less than an hour.
But seeing as I was for once in decent time for my train (to the Slums of Slough) and waiting to meet up with my travelling companion, it seemed like the best time possible to pay this little dude a visit.
And oh my gosh, how adorable is he? I just wanted to pinch his little bronze cheeks. And then I wanted antibacterial wipes. All those kids running up touching him... It's like asking for bird flu.
Look at me, I made a new friend!
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| Best Paddington experience to date! |
Sunday 21 September 2014
183. In reverse
1st August, Guys & Dolls Parlour, Brick Lane, London
After a week of crawling in the mud, sweating in placed I never knew God intended sweat to come from and generally looking like a women's softball coach for a week - I was desperate for some girlieness.
Thankfully, I have the best beauty salon in London within a five minute walking distance and what is even better, they are as crazy about an experiment as I am.
I've been keen on reversed manicures for ages and when stumbling across the most gorgeous reversed manicure in Vogue, I knew this was the one.
Sitting down in the chair at the salon and resting my very masculine hands on a cushion was like coming home from war. If homecoming after war included champagne cocktails.
You have to hand it to my nail guru, she has the patience of a saint. Each nail took what felt like hours to finish and on top of that she had to deal with a very cranky client straight from bootcamp who was not loving anything at all in that moment. She does have a three year old at home, I reckon that helped her when trying to be patient with me.
The nails were well worth the time when finished though, it's that kind of perfection only expected by Vogue and Guys & Dolls Parlour..
It feels good to be a girl again!
After a week of crawling in the mud, sweating in placed I never knew God intended sweat to come from and generally looking like a women's softball coach for a week - I was desperate for some girlieness.
Thankfully, I have the best beauty salon in London within a five minute walking distance and what is even better, they are as crazy about an experiment as I am.
I've been keen on reversed manicures for ages and when stumbling across the most gorgeous reversed manicure in Vogue, I knew this was the one.
Sitting down in the chair at the salon and resting my very masculine hands on a cushion was like coming home from war. If homecoming after war included champagne cocktails.
You have to hand it to my nail guru, she has the patience of a saint. Each nail took what felt like hours to finish and on top of that she had to deal with a very cranky client straight from bootcamp who was not loving anything at all in that moment. She does have a three year old at home, I reckon that helped her when trying to be patient with me.
The nails were well worth the time when finished though, it's that kind of perfection only expected by Vogue and Guys & Dolls Parlour..
It feels good to be a girl again!
 |
| Just like Vogue intended it. |
182. Extra Salsa, Hold the Nachos
27th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
I'm not big on dancing. In fact, I really do hate dancing.
I have never quite understood why people will look forward to spending a Saturday night out dancing and treat that as the main event and not just what you have to do when you're fun drunk at 2 AM and all bars are closing.
It may have helped if I had any level of rhythm in my body, but I look and feel a bit like a disabled heffalump trying to sway to the pace of the music and failing enormously. So, no - dancing is not on my top 1000 list of fun things to do.
As with everything else here in life however, I will not write anything off completely until I've tried all possible outlets. Which is why I agreed to give salsa class a try. Maybe it wasn't that I didn't like dancing, maybe it's that I've been trying the wrong kind of dancing?
It wasn't why. It really is boring. And I don't have any level of feminine hip swaying movement capacity whatsoever. If anything the salsa class convinced me that maybe I was born to be a man after all.
Learning the steps wasn't to hard, what is hard is getting the steps to look less like stomping and more like floating. I clearly can not manage floaty movements.
So no, I won't be picking up dance class for my next hobby either.
I'm not big on dancing. In fact, I really do hate dancing.
I have never quite understood why people will look forward to spending a Saturday night out dancing and treat that as the main event and not just what you have to do when you're fun drunk at 2 AM and all bars are closing.
It may have helped if I had any level of rhythm in my body, but I look and feel a bit like a disabled heffalump trying to sway to the pace of the music and failing enormously. So, no - dancing is not on my top 1000 list of fun things to do.
As with everything else here in life however, I will not write anything off completely until I've tried all possible outlets. Which is why I agreed to give salsa class a try. Maybe it wasn't that I didn't like dancing, maybe it's that I've been trying the wrong kind of dancing?
It wasn't why. It really is boring. And I don't have any level of feminine hip swaying movement capacity whatsoever. If anything the salsa class convinced me that maybe I was born to be a man after all.
Learning the steps wasn't to hard, what is hard is getting the steps to look less like stomping and more like floating. I clearly can not manage floaty movements.
So no, I won't be picking up dance class for my next hobby either.
181. Ice Ice Baby
25th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
This Viking does not do cold water. It's just not my cup of vodka.
As a child, I didn't even go in the water sprinklers on hot summer days and I most certainly would not go into chilly Nordic Sea water like most lunatics back home. The only time I'll contemplate getting in any other water than in my bath tub is potentially in a tropical sea.
But as I am a Viking, expectations are high on me to cope with these things. Mainly because I've made myself Viking ambassador of the world and will promote our toughness to anyone no matter how little interest they're showing.
Favourite Viking tale to tell happens to be about the saunas in winter. These beautiful outdoor pier saunas made for sweating and beer drinking with the expectation of jumping naked into the ice cold water outside when it gets too hot. Yeah I talk about them, but don't for a second think I'd ever do it myself. I'd never get that hot.
I did however figure it was time for me to deal with cold water - apparently it's good for your skin and exceptional for you muscles. Or some sadist is just trying to trick us all into suffering by spreading rumours like that.
So here I was, about to have my first ever ice bath and what better time could I have chosen. Hot day with the sorest muscles known to man following about 400,000 squats in the day. This is at least what I tried telling myself. Did. Not. Help.
When faced with the giant ice bucket I was suppose to hang out in for the next five minutes, every instinct in my body told me to run. Or actually, it was telling me to find a good place to hide since my ass and thighs would probably have self detonated had I attempted more running. I fought these instincts, and queued up to the bucket of doom.
I wish I would have picked a more graceful outlet for my determination to have an icey soak. I can barely get into bed without tripping and falling in face first - how I'd get myself into this bucket was a mystery to me.
But I did get in. Scraped my knee, splashed water all over the instructors and ripped my top, but I did get in. And it was not pleasant once in there. Contrary to what I had been told before getting in it was not refreshing, it was not relaxing and it most certainly did not relieve the pain. So it turns out, I have spent all these years avoiding cold baths for good reason!
Needless to say, I am not doing that again.
This Viking does not do cold water. It's just not my cup of vodka.
As a child, I didn't even go in the water sprinklers on hot summer days and I most certainly would not go into chilly Nordic Sea water like most lunatics back home. The only time I'll contemplate getting in any other water than in my bath tub is potentially in a tropical sea.
But as I am a Viking, expectations are high on me to cope with these things. Mainly because I've made myself Viking ambassador of the world and will promote our toughness to anyone no matter how little interest they're showing.
Favourite Viking tale to tell happens to be about the saunas in winter. These beautiful outdoor pier saunas made for sweating and beer drinking with the expectation of jumping naked into the ice cold water outside when it gets too hot. Yeah I talk about them, but don't for a second think I'd ever do it myself. I'd never get that hot.
I did however figure it was time for me to deal with cold water - apparently it's good for your skin and exceptional for you muscles. Or some sadist is just trying to trick us all into suffering by spreading rumours like that.
So here I was, about to have my first ever ice bath and what better time could I have chosen. Hot day with the sorest muscles known to man following about 400,000 squats in the day. This is at least what I tried telling myself. Did. Not. Help.
When faced with the giant ice bucket I was suppose to hang out in for the next five minutes, every instinct in my body told me to run. Or actually, it was telling me to find a good place to hide since my ass and thighs would probably have self detonated had I attempted more running. I fought these instincts, and queued up to the bucket of doom.
I wish I would have picked a more graceful outlet for my determination to have an icey soak. I can barely get into bed without tripping and falling in face first - how I'd get myself into this bucket was a mystery to me.
But I did get in. Scraped my knee, splashed water all over the instructors and ripped my top, but I did get in. And it was not pleasant once in there. Contrary to what I had been told before getting in it was not refreshing, it was not relaxing and it most certainly did not relieve the pain. So it turns out, I have spent all these years avoiding cold baths for good reason!
Needless to say, I am not doing that again.
 |
| No I love it in here. Really. |
Tuesday 16 September 2014
180. You're In The Army Now
25th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne
On a whim, and after reading one too many issues of Now Magazine featuring a TOWIE bootcamp special, I booked myself into a one week boot camp.
It immediately seemed some people were surprised by said decision. I mean, why would a wine loving dirt-o-phobe who is in the midst of an intense romance with her hair rollers decide to hit the rural woods of Kent when she normally won't leave zone 1 without a fight?
The short answer ladies and gentleman - she used to have an ass and six months of leisurehood have meant she now has about seven.
So, on a sunny July morning, after a healthy breakfast of Sugar Puffs, off to the metropolis of Sittingbourne I was. In my Mickey Mouse hoodie. A girl needs to keep some class you know. And a hop, skip and rather bumpy cab ride later - I had a arrived at my home for the upcoming week. I could really have enjoyed the beautiful room and the gorgeous fireplace, the stunning views and the fresh air. Instead I put myself through one week of squats, after which, I really could not care less about the air or the room or the views.
I then proceeded to allow myself to be fooled by the man in the little shorts and the neat hair cut greeting us at the door to the weigh in. Here's a hint to any lady attempting this - don't be fooled by the hair, the shorts or the joking around, these masters of torture will make you run until you want to throw up or at the very least want to fake a seizure (I tried that and also learned - these guys will see right through any stalling tactic known to man).
You also have to hand it to these guys, it's an equal amount of pain each day, but a brand new way go gain it every session. Eventually you'll learn to be grateful for this fact. Eventually. Especially if you make your new mantra at 7 am each morning: 'At least it isn't hill sprints'. Believe me, being grateful at anything in life that is not a hill sprint will help you through it all.
To demonstrate the length to which these people went to make my life exciting and varied for the week, here's a breakdown, freely based on diary notes from camp:
Day one: I was finding myself thinking that maybe this wasn't so bad after a few minutes of ab work, a few semi push ups, a short run and happily admitting my temporary fatness being down to six months of wine, cheese and chocolate five times a day. The other girls seemed lovely and, most importantly, not easily offended which is a must to hang out with me after all. So with high spirits I entered the dining room with all my new found friends to found a yummy starter of soup and crackers. Three bites in and with an empty plate in front of me, I eagerly anticipated my main. That did not happen. So with an empty stomach, a mug of broth and of course my Mickey Mouse hoodie, I went to bed at 7.45 PM.
Day two: For a girl who has spent the last six months not even contemplating getting out of bed until noon unless there's a fire and no marshmallows are at hand - telling me to be ready for circuits at 7 AM was hoping for a lot. Sadly for me, the instructor guys had very little sympathy for my recent life style choices and therefore, circuits it was.
After the dinner mishap of the starter being the meal, I had no high hopes for breakfast. And although tasty, scrambled eggs and salmon without the Bloody Mary just does not give me that post work out brunch feel. Then I realised this was really a pre work out brunch and that those circuits were barely the kiddie version of the day to come.
After a full day of strenuous work out, celery sticks and nettle blisters the size of golf balls we wrapped the day up with a casual run. With a stretcher. And an imaginary injured man in the shape of sand bags and tires. Never have I wanted an imaginary man to just die already as after those 10 k.
After a refreshing ice bath in the man sized bucket and a truly filling dinner of steamed stuff, I was ready to take my sore body up to bed and pass out there. Lying down on the bed, I realise I am in too much pain to get my trousers off. In too much pain to turn Chatty Man off. In too much pain to crawl to the door and lock my room. In too much pain to even think of the day ahead.
Day three: Right, this is pain. A good pain. I guess. My ass hurt so evidently there is still a muscle or two in there. Good to know. I don't want to cry.
It was another day of 7 AM until 7 PM workouts and somehow, lugging the heavy logs and sprinting until my head (thighs, calves, whatever) was about to explode did not feel so bad today. Not even the ice bath at the end of the day was too terrible and I even found it acceptable being shoved into the water by the man in the tiny shorts. Apparently this bootcamp came with an extra side of acceptance where my truffle fries normally go.
And for dinner - roast. I thought it had been a cruel joke when our brilliant chef had told us this earlier in the day but there was actual roast there. I don't think I have ever experienced genuine chicken induced euphoria before.
To finish this rather positive day off on an even more positive note, there was a quiz. On candy. That was a bit mean. But I won, so I'm OK with that and on this particular evening, following an intense argument of the true heritage of Daim bars, I went to sleep a happy bunny. Still wearing my quiz gold medal. And of course the Mickey Mouse hoodie.
Day four: All the weekenders had left us to get on with their lives in the real world. Leaving us and our celery sticks behind to fend for ourselves.
To cheer us up, the trainers took us to a pool. There were no Pina Coladas. None. There were however in-water pull ups, some delicious gulps of pool water and several highly graceful beached whale imitations on my end.
By the time I got out of the pool and into my dry clothes, I was starving. Now, at that stage of hunger, you do not want to have to walk about a gazillion kilometres through a town centres whilst lunch is being served in every corner. Just saying.
With new arrivals having appeared as we got back for lunch, I decided to show them who was the boss and when I was told to crawl on the ground, jump over fallen trees and lug ammunition boxes around that afternoon - my God was I being a Viking doing it. A bloody, dirty Viking with twigs in her hair. Oh boy would my ancestors had been proud. The new ladies however primarily looked scared. People just can't take a primal war scream these days.
Day five: From Peggy Positive to being in the foulest mood known to man overnight. I was determined to pick a fight with just about anyone. Thankfully, in a group of 15 women, someone was bound to tell me what to do at some stage, which as per usual had the effect of rage unbeknown to man and total refusal to do anything along the lines of the suggested order. Just another reason I am not in the army folks. In fact, I'd probably be kicked off within 10 minutes.
Following a minor tantrum over a screwed up neck, the rules of netball and my general annoyance at other human beings, I went back to Duracell Bunny speed and an attitude so positive that Amelie from Montmarte would appear as a miserable bitch in comparison.
Day six: I was actually finding myself sad that it's nearly over. Who would have thought? I had started to take a liking to this country side bubble of healthy eating, exercise, herbal tea and looser trousers. Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am really fed up with herbal tea and want to see it dead. Preferably killed by a man size cup of coffee.
I proceeded with this penultimate day of bootcamp by getting myself and all unfortunate creatures stupid enough to follow me, lost for the third time on the same route. And this time there wasn't even a bearded man with two teeth and three dogs to give us direction through the nearest corn field.
I thought I had learnt to cope with the portion sizes and had even managed to stay clear of the contraband pear cleverly hidden in my room by one of the weekenders.
Then we realised there were blackberries in the woods.
Some may say climbing into a nettle bush in flip flops, wave away the bees with bare hands and getting your bra stuck in the thorns was a tad exaggerated. I'd say it was a cry for help. Never have I understood kids fleeing fat camp as I have this day. And it would all have been worth it, had the blackberries not been confiscated the minute we walked through the door back home. Back to the broth it was.
Day seven: And we hit the beach! OK, so it wasn't the Caribbean, they had no jazzy background tunes or waiters bringing you cold beverages every five minutes. But I was willing to pretend. At least until I was forced into water (cold and dirty), doing some sort of Iron Man hybrid out of water. As it turns out, it's no easier lugging tires or ammunition boxes or a 50 litre water bottle back and forth in water with your clothes on. Especially not whilst trying not to get your hair wet. I should probably have aborted that mission much earlier on.
Once finished with the water circuits and back on dry land, I looked like a troll covered in sand and with seaweed down my underwear. No I don't know how that happened either.
By the time they got me the celebratory one week survival glass of champagne I felt the strongest sense of achievement I have since high school - only without having to flirt with the substitute English teacher for an A. Following the sense of achievement I also had a sense of champagne tipsiness - apparently not eating more than 1200 calories per day for a week in combination with that one glass of champagne one easily affected me makes. I may have made an inappropriate joke to the man with the tiny shorts about the tiny shorts. I kind of even wished I was sorry about it which is the closest to an apology you will get me!
At the one week weigh in, I had dropped 9.5 pounds and 12 inches (surely that's at least one of my asses) and felt ridiculously proud of myself and didn't even want a cookie or ten to celebrate it.
This place is tough but oh my was it worth it and I'm heading back in November. Bring on the hill sprints!
On a whim, and after reading one too many issues of Now Magazine featuring a TOWIE bootcamp special, I booked myself into a one week boot camp.
It immediately seemed some people were surprised by said decision. I mean, why would a wine loving dirt-o-phobe who is in the midst of an intense romance with her hair rollers decide to hit the rural woods of Kent when she normally won't leave zone 1 without a fight?
The short answer ladies and gentleman - she used to have an ass and six months of leisurehood have meant she now has about seven.
So, on a sunny July morning, after a healthy breakfast of Sugar Puffs, off to the metropolis of Sittingbourne I was. In my Mickey Mouse hoodie. A girl needs to keep some class you know. And a hop, skip and rather bumpy cab ride later - I had a arrived at my home for the upcoming week. I could really have enjoyed the beautiful room and the gorgeous fireplace, the stunning views and the fresh air. Instead I put myself through one week of squats, after which, I really could not care less about the air or the room or the views.
I then proceeded to allow myself to be fooled by the man in the little shorts and the neat hair cut greeting us at the door to the weigh in. Here's a hint to any lady attempting this - don't be fooled by the hair, the shorts or the joking around, these masters of torture will make you run until you want to throw up or at the very least want to fake a seizure (I tried that and also learned - these guys will see right through any stalling tactic known to man).
You also have to hand it to these guys, it's an equal amount of pain each day, but a brand new way go gain it every session. Eventually you'll learn to be grateful for this fact. Eventually. Especially if you make your new mantra at 7 am each morning: 'At least it isn't hill sprints'. Believe me, being grateful at anything in life that is not a hill sprint will help you through it all.
To demonstrate the length to which these people went to make my life exciting and varied for the week, here's a breakdown, freely based on diary notes from camp:
Day one: I was finding myself thinking that maybe this wasn't so bad after a few minutes of ab work, a few semi push ups, a short run and happily admitting my temporary fatness being down to six months of wine, cheese and chocolate five times a day. The other girls seemed lovely and, most importantly, not easily offended which is a must to hang out with me after all. So with high spirits I entered the dining room with all my new found friends to found a yummy starter of soup and crackers. Three bites in and with an empty plate in front of me, I eagerly anticipated my main. That did not happen. So with an empty stomach, a mug of broth and of course my Mickey Mouse hoodie, I went to bed at 7.45 PM.
Day two: For a girl who has spent the last six months not even contemplating getting out of bed until noon unless there's a fire and no marshmallows are at hand - telling me to be ready for circuits at 7 AM was hoping for a lot. Sadly for me, the instructor guys had very little sympathy for my recent life style choices and therefore, circuits it was.
After the dinner mishap of the starter being the meal, I had no high hopes for breakfast. And although tasty, scrambled eggs and salmon without the Bloody Mary just does not give me that post work out brunch feel. Then I realised this was really a pre work out brunch and that those circuits were barely the kiddie version of the day to come.
After a full day of strenuous work out, celery sticks and nettle blisters the size of golf balls we wrapped the day up with a casual run. With a stretcher. And an imaginary injured man in the shape of sand bags and tires. Never have I wanted an imaginary man to just die already as after those 10 k.
After a refreshing ice bath in the man sized bucket and a truly filling dinner of steamed stuff, I was ready to take my sore body up to bed and pass out there. Lying down on the bed, I realise I am in too much pain to get my trousers off. In too much pain to turn Chatty Man off. In too much pain to crawl to the door and lock my room. In too much pain to even think of the day ahead.
Day three: Right, this is pain. A good pain. I guess. My ass hurt so evidently there is still a muscle or two in there. Good to know. I don't want to cry.
It was another day of 7 AM until 7 PM workouts and somehow, lugging the heavy logs and sprinting until my head (thighs, calves, whatever) was about to explode did not feel so bad today. Not even the ice bath at the end of the day was too terrible and I even found it acceptable being shoved into the water by the man in the tiny shorts. Apparently this bootcamp came with an extra side of acceptance where my truffle fries normally go.
And for dinner - roast. I thought it had been a cruel joke when our brilliant chef had told us this earlier in the day but there was actual roast there. I don't think I have ever experienced genuine chicken induced euphoria before.
To finish this rather positive day off on an even more positive note, there was a quiz. On candy. That was a bit mean. But I won, so I'm OK with that and on this particular evening, following an intense argument of the true heritage of Daim bars, I went to sleep a happy bunny. Still wearing my quiz gold medal. And of course the Mickey Mouse hoodie.
Day four: All the weekenders had left us to get on with their lives in the real world. Leaving us and our celery sticks behind to fend for ourselves.
To cheer us up, the trainers took us to a pool. There were no Pina Coladas. None. There were however in-water pull ups, some delicious gulps of pool water and several highly graceful beached whale imitations on my end.
By the time I got out of the pool and into my dry clothes, I was starving. Now, at that stage of hunger, you do not want to have to walk about a gazillion kilometres through a town centres whilst lunch is being served in every corner. Just saying.
With new arrivals having appeared as we got back for lunch, I decided to show them who was the boss and when I was told to crawl on the ground, jump over fallen trees and lug ammunition boxes around that afternoon - my God was I being a Viking doing it. A bloody, dirty Viking with twigs in her hair. Oh boy would my ancestors had been proud. The new ladies however primarily looked scared. People just can't take a primal war scream these days.
Day five: From Peggy Positive to being in the foulest mood known to man overnight. I was determined to pick a fight with just about anyone. Thankfully, in a group of 15 women, someone was bound to tell me what to do at some stage, which as per usual had the effect of rage unbeknown to man and total refusal to do anything along the lines of the suggested order. Just another reason I am not in the army folks. In fact, I'd probably be kicked off within 10 minutes.
Following a minor tantrum over a screwed up neck, the rules of netball and my general annoyance at other human beings, I went back to Duracell Bunny speed and an attitude so positive that Amelie from Montmarte would appear as a miserable bitch in comparison.
Day six: I was actually finding myself sad that it's nearly over. Who would have thought? I had started to take a liking to this country side bubble of healthy eating, exercise, herbal tea and looser trousers. Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am really fed up with herbal tea and want to see it dead. Preferably killed by a man size cup of coffee.
I proceeded with this penultimate day of bootcamp by getting myself and all unfortunate creatures stupid enough to follow me, lost for the third time on the same route. And this time there wasn't even a bearded man with two teeth and three dogs to give us direction through the nearest corn field.
I thought I had learnt to cope with the portion sizes and had even managed to stay clear of the contraband pear cleverly hidden in my room by one of the weekenders.
Then we realised there were blackberries in the woods.
Some may say climbing into a nettle bush in flip flops, wave away the bees with bare hands and getting your bra stuck in the thorns was a tad exaggerated. I'd say it was a cry for help. Never have I understood kids fleeing fat camp as I have this day. And it would all have been worth it, had the blackberries not been confiscated the minute we walked through the door back home. Back to the broth it was.
Day seven: And we hit the beach! OK, so it wasn't the Caribbean, they had no jazzy background tunes or waiters bringing you cold beverages every five minutes. But I was willing to pretend. At least until I was forced into water (cold and dirty), doing some sort of Iron Man hybrid out of water. As it turns out, it's no easier lugging tires or ammunition boxes or a 50 litre water bottle back and forth in water with your clothes on. Especially not whilst trying not to get your hair wet. I should probably have aborted that mission much earlier on.
Once finished with the water circuits and back on dry land, I looked like a troll covered in sand and with seaweed down my underwear. No I don't know how that happened either.
By the time they got me the celebratory one week survival glass of champagne I felt the strongest sense of achievement I have since high school - only without having to flirt with the substitute English teacher for an A. Following the sense of achievement I also had a sense of champagne tipsiness - apparently not eating more than 1200 calories per day for a week in combination with that one glass of champagne one easily affected me makes. I may have made an inappropriate joke to the man with the tiny shorts about the tiny shorts. I kind of even wished I was sorry about it which is the closest to an apology you will get me!
At the one week weigh in, I had dropped 9.5 pounds and 12 inches (surely that's at least one of my asses) and felt ridiculously proud of myself and didn't even want a cookie or ten to celebrate it.
This place is tough but oh my was it worth it and I'm heading back in November. Bring on the hill sprints!
 |
| GI Jane's - arrive a princess, leave a man! |
 |
| A selection of cuts and bruises |
 |
| Suddenly wearing white felt like one of my less great ideas... |
 |
| Me and the other torture victims. |
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