GET DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS

SOOOO I just finished catching up with Gnarlitude's blog. Haven't visited the fiesty Jen in quite some time. She posted something about a metal band. I like me my occasional gothic/symphonic/heavy/black metal, so I definitely clicked on the link to watch the documentary on Gaahl, from the black metal band Gorgoroth on VBS TV. And well, she's fuckin' right. Jen is R.I.G.H.T. You really gotta watch this video, man. ALL of it! To the END! Do it. Now.
Because I can't be bothered to get into specifics myself, here's Jen's satisfactory synopsis:

"In what might possibly be the best episodes I’ve yet to see on VBS TV, legendary and amazing photographer Peter Beste and crew headed to Norway to meet up with Gaahl from Gorgoroth on his release after a short stint being locked up for some gnarly shit (you have to watch to find out.) They go to his home which no reporter has ever been to. Traipse around the town he lives in while trying to no avail to get a word from the townspeople on Gaahl, who they are all to frightened of to say anything about. Described as the most hated man in all of Norway, Gaahl is gripping on the screen and once you think they are getting close to him, well, just watch the very end to see just how amazingly creepy dude can get."

I thought I might add this YouTube clip for effect...

...BUT that's not what I think the actual VBS documentary portrays. He raises good points in it; just in a sinister way. I just want to make sure I get it clear that I don't support Satanism. Actually, fuck what you think haha.

I especially like Gaahl's quote (somewhere around part 3 of the VBS docu., after showing us his artwork), something like"It's like a painting; you won't stop until it's finished." However, the context it was dropped in made it uber bone-chillingly creepy. I say undergound TV series with like...a BAZILLION seasons. Pretty. Please. With a bloody lamb's skull on top. Watch it here.

DIARY OF AN INTERN: DAYS 3 & 4

It's been a really busy week. By the time I got home yesterday and the day before from work, it was quite late and I was quite tired so I have not been posting about my experiences at the Viva office on the exact days. Hence, this bursting weekend post.

Day 3

Okay so Day 3 wasn't particularly exciting. I was told to do extensive research on some articles that could be possible hooks for the features and spreads they planned to produce in the next issue. So basically, I spent the day slurping a take-away Pina Colada from TGIF next door and browsing story-hoarding websites like Digg, Fark, and Pretty Social (a relatively new website where women can 'share and discuss stories from around the web'). For the record, since I love the guy, I found out about the last website from Joe, which means, he made my job at the office even easier. Millefois Merci.


As a result of all that internet research, I stumbled upon my favourite story of the lot: Isolated Tribe Spotted in Brazil. Beautiful. I have a thing for tribes, especially after thoroughly indulging in 'Apocalypto' three times. So great that they're still out there today. It's so fascinating seeing them protect themselves with their bows and arrows from the camera in its helicopter above. Most beautiful thing I've read all week; along with Amy Tan's novel 'Saving Fish From Drowning', which I finished last night, which of course you MUST read, and which is actually quite focused on a Burmese tribe called the Karen tribe.

Anyway, this what I stupidly wore to work that day as I braved the excruciating heat on the way to work. All black.

DAY 4

Apart from the events that happened between 7:30pm and 2am yesterday, I had a great day. Allow me to briefly sum up those unfortunate events before going on about the activities that were internship-related. Finding my way home from a different location other than the usual Viva office (as the photoshoot was elsewhere) resulted in:

me searching for a nearby bus stop which wasn't nearby and had me walking up and down several highways like a prostitute (which some people slowed thinking I was), finding one, figuring out which bus from there would take me to my destination, waiting an hour and a half for a bus to actually even stop for me as they were all packed with workers, finally getting one an hour and a half later, arriving at the bus terminal for the express to Abu Dhabi and finding that there were no more for the evening, calling my dad from a party to tell him I would be spending the night in a nearby bush if he didn't come for me, arranging to meet him just outside the city, getting to the planned location (Dubai Marina) and discovering that the area was so newly constructed that there were no road signs or street names yet, stumbling around in painful shoes looking for a familiar building to stand and wait at, finding out my dad was still an hour away and had no idea where I was, bursting into tears from all the wandering, the crippled feet, the seclusion, the heat, the parched throat, finding a security guard outside a place called La Riviera Towers who said he would talk to my dad, my dad telling me after I was given the phone back that he had no idea what the guy was talking about, my phone beeping saying the battery was low, being fed water and tissues by the guard who allowed me to sit in the blissfully air-conditioned lobby to wait, then standing out on the highway with him to wave at my dad's car as he flew by then turned around and collected me. Yes, we gave him a bloody good tip. I got home at 4am and thanked Allah, God, Buddha and Mother Lakshmi that it was the weekend and I didn't have to get up an hour later for work again.

PHEW! Now the photoshoot! Yes, I went on my first fashion photoshoot (photos posted here) with Viva, which was located at a newly opened club called Alpha, which is part of Le Meridien Hotel Dubai. All clubs and restaurants serving alcohol have to be situated at a hotel in the U.A.E. Alcohol can barely be obtained elsewhere. They don't sell it at supermarkets or anything. So people make a big deal about going for 'booze runs' (which the photographer informed everyone she was going on this weekend) and my dad, as he's a pilot, usually just stocks up when coming through Duty Free.

Anyway, so I helped out the Fashion and Beauty editor Chee, and her assistant Gaby by organizing the clothes, shoes and accessories for the shoot. There was a huge crisis when the steamer refused to work and we had to go ask to borrow an iron and ironing board from the hotel staff. The first one they sent us didn't work, so we had to go back and request another, which took nearly half an hour to come, and tested it out in a nearby outlet in the vast lobby; with the hotel's guests brunching, bozing and smoking eyeing us with amused expressions.

The whole organizing an iron and ironing board ordeal took nearly an hour; the reason being that the immigrant workers who come to this country and apply for jobs barely even know what the job entails or how to do it. They're just grabbing what they can, and fast. Once they are given orders, they follow them mechanically. Anything outside of what they are ordered to do, they know absolutely nothing about. This is also the reason I spent so much time getting more and more lost yesterday evening. Not even the bus drivers knew about the correct buses or directions I should take, around this city they have been working in for quite some time, I imagine. This is also why once when I jumped in a taxi and asked some advice about where a particular building might be on a particular street, the driver (who was hired to drive) barely knew english, could not understand what I wanted him to do and told me 'Cannot showing me where? I'm sorry, no,' opening the door for me to get out.

So what happened when we approached the front desk about the iron TWICE was we were faced with a tiny Indian man, who merely looked at us with bulging eyes, then looked down at the ground racking his brain and muttering 'what to do? what to do?' We could see the doom in his eyes as he thought about impatient Gaby seeking out the manager to complain about him, and him getting fired as a result. Anyway, eventually he talked to someone, and they talked to someone, and so forth, and we received a new iron. All was well.

The photoshoot featured real everyday women with different body types, showing which clothes flattered their body types most. I was the first person to show up at Alpha, then the photographer Candy, next. She was a lanky Australian woman with fried bleached ringlets and thick black glasses.
"Are you the first model today?"
"Oh no, no, no, " I stammered, flattered, staring at her concerning lack of breasts printed through her Karl Lagerfeld tank top. "I'm just the intern. The team's all on their way."

Of all the cool people I met that day, Candy was the most exciting. In fact, I might be harbouring a small girl crush. She had 6 tattooes, blasted Sheryl Crow and Bob Marley songs through her Mac, her butt-crack peek-a-booed over her briefs and baggy surfer jeans when she stooped and crouched and jumped about excitedly to take pictures, and she wasn't at ALL pretty. Actually, when she took off her glasses, she looked the way Carrie Bradshaw might look if she wore absolutely no make-up and hadn't slept in several days. In other words, she wasn't too ugly either. On the breaks in between, she sat reading a book about 'thinking big' while lounging on one of the club's longue chaises. She rolled and smoked copious amounts of brown-papered cigarettes.
"They're licorice flavoured," she told me.

Although we were served an unlimited amount of drinks by one of the bar staff they had provided us with, she asked several times for the only thing they didn't serve; coffee. They diligently trekked up to the hotel to get it for her. And in between tiny porcelain cups of those, she chugged Red Bull, and yet remained pleasantly aware of her surroundings and not maniacally buzzed. I marvelled. She also called me over once and to my surprise (I shouldn't have been surprised. She was satisfyingly crazy), she asked me to help her pick out a model of Jeep Wrangler on her laptop. She was thinking of buying a new car this week. We chose this.

The make-up artist was also quite talented, and the only one who scarfed down as much of the meditarranean food that I ordered for everyone as me. We chatted quite a lot. She gave some of the staff, who were going out afterwards, a new face for the evening. Chee, the fashion director, asked the Plus Size girl they used for the shoot to bring along 6 gift bags to thank all the models for taking part, as she worked at some cosmetics department or other. But the girl brought too many bags, so Chee handed me one. So happy was I for this bag containing the latest DKNY mini roll-on perfume, DKNY shower gel, a mini London Fashion Week make-up set and Sean John's latest fragrance for women called Unforgiveable. I'm usually quite picky with scents, but everything in there smelt FANTASTIC! And they were no longer mine anyway. I knew exactly what I had to do. I presented the pretty gift bag reading 'Unforgiveable' to my mother this morning, asking her to forgive me for forgetting her birthday, which was a few weeks ago. She left the house a few minutes ago, the roll-on perfume tucked neatly into her clutch bag.

CALLING ALL FASHIONISTAS!

Is someone living in your closet?
No really.
Go check.

MOVE, BITCH!

Ah, yes. Moving time. I've sent in my deposit return form, rung the Daddy about flight dates, rung the aunty about car hire, lugged the storage boxes down the street and settled into a precarious city of towering piles of my campus collectibles.

Still no sign of a future place to live though. And so it goes...But screw it. Home is calling me. Mother's cooked food is calling me. A bed twice this size with significantly cleaner sheets and more bounce is calling me. I can go on, but will desist in an attempt to ward off depression. The parental unit called, and I said get me outta here by Saturday!

But I wonder how many other students are packing and hitting the road like me...
three pairs are missing from this by the way.

Merely the scarf section of my accessories (the lightest section too)

I did all that folding two seconds ago through Sex and the City Season 2! TOO PROUD! Now to choose...what's going in the summer trunks and what stays in storage...

Good deed for the day: distributed all my magazines to the campus clinic, counselling suite and Queen Mary's Hospital across the road. Best reading material they would've had in their waiting areas for centuries! (Thanks for all the contraceptives and sexual health screenings! Yes, T.M.I. but is that not what this blog is all about?)

Half of my bag collection

Jewelry and hair accessories sorted nicely today!

Why do I have a decorating scheme in dorms?

ALSO, NOT SHOWN: Electronics, a significant chunk of the rest of my accessories, many many books (come on, Creative Writing major), noticeboard, a few handbags that can't be folded, a fedora that is bound to get smashed, an appalling amount of toiletries/pharmaceuticals, bedding and towels, my impressive sweater collection and kitchen utensils. Pretty stoked I'm not the rice cooker type and live out of a Che Guevara tea mug. Now all I need is a willing strapping young man to help a Lonely Londoner out! POO!

ANYWAY! After overdosing on Sex and the City Seasons 1 and 2 all weekend, I realised how fun, fabulous and frivolous life can be. That is why I have decided to have a Daphne Guinness-esque clearout sale when I head over to Trinidad this summer (OOH! AHH! Goodies from a 1st world country!) Sorry, a tad mean. But a girl could do with some cash, and I see a thick wad ahead of me. A detox is always good. Imagine the new and fabulous things I could buy next!

AWOL-ness

Hi.
Um...
Been a while, I know. Truth is, I have nothing to talk about really. I've been flat-hunting for September which is proving fruitless and it's too hot around here these days to do anything but lounge and gaze. So I've been lounging and gazing; with the occasional movie (watched a documentary on Metal, The Jane Austen Book Club and American Beauty) and the occasional book (am reading The Inheritance of Loss and The Snows of Kilimanjaro). There might have also been some absynthe, tequila with the worm at the bottom, menthol cigarettes, karaoke and regrets. Might have...

Ugh. I hate my life. Seriously.

Also, these shoes suck. They ate my feet off. FUCKERRSSS!!!

IF YOU'RE A LONDONER...

...you are not going to believe

a) How much I paid for these.

Then, knowing how much I paid, you should be able to guess

b) where I got them, and then

c) Hurry your ass down there!

LES SAVY FAV

So, I'm going to see this fat ass and company perform tomorrow night at the Works for my friend Anant's birthday. I think I'm in for a killer night...except I'm still waiting on my ticket in the post...

LES SAVY FAV:

['AWW COME ON!' FACEBOOK UPDATE: Today 5:07pm]

Just got an email, Les Savy Fav have had to cancel cos they cant get work permits in time - should still be alright tho! 'We are the Physics' are still playing - and they're good! Also,because they've pulled out, it means tickets have gone down to £4, so we can claim £2 back on the door! nice!

(At least £2 means an extra pint! YARRRR!)

THE TEN THINGS

1. SUMMER SEGMENTS! Or Spring rather. A natural wonder spread across the fields of Hitsujiyama Park in Chichibu, Japan. Moss Phlox flowers.



2. I had a dream about it being really early morning. I was sleeping in my parent's bed but they were not around. My sister was making racket outside and knocking on my door and trying to get me to wake up and come out and go sailing with her. She wouldn't stop begging. I just ignored her. Eventually I got so fed up and wanted to get back to sleep so I flung the door open to yell and there was Ellen Page looking at me, smiling. She said it was her all along, and she really really really needed me to go with her because I knew how to handle the boat better and she was scared to go on her own. It was so early it was still dark out, and the waves would be major and thrashing and angry. So, because it was Ellen Page, my girl crush, I started getting dressed slowly. She told me that Diablo Cody(Juno screenwriter) always talked about me, my work, my writing, how great I was at my craft; and said she was always quoting me. And she was serious too. And that's why this was a dream. Anyway, it ends off, I think, with me saying 'Well tell Diablo I said I think she's fuckin' hot.'

3. I got a Facebook Friend Request from Sherel. Still not believing that she blocked me in the heat of fury. Anyway, there is no explanation for why we are now friends and talking again like...a month later. She just up and texted me one day while I was at a bus stop at 2am somewhere...and we've planned to meet up for drinks this week like nothing ever went down. Okay. I can dig it.

4. So I just spent roughly £6 on this Keracare foam wrap set formula to attempt wrapping my hair at night to keep it smooth and stuff instead of rowdy and chaotic when I wake but I have serious skills issues. How come all other black girls wrap their hair effortlessly as if they were born doing it save for me?! UGH I'm such a fuckin' Oreo! It's in a fuckin' ponytail for bed. FUCK THAT!

5. I can't believe how hot I am.

6. I went to the library at 9am for some reason today, to get out copies of 'A Moveable Feast' and 'The Lonely Londoners' but apparently, today was a bank holiday (so they were opening at 11am). So, I jumped on a happy sunny bus with happy sunny people to Marble Arch and went on a ridiculously fruitful Primark shopping spree, where I faced my fears and dug into size 8 pants (rather than my usual size 10) and I came out with the sexiest motherfuckin' pair of tight as lycra black skinny jeans. Jen from Gnarlitude ain't got nothin' on me in them jeans. SHIT. As soon as I came home I just HAD to set myself a task in them. So I braved the student-infested lawn and went to get a coke from the vending machine. This hot lounging blonde guy reacted instantly! ...Okay, but not to my jeans. He said, 'Wow, that girl's sunglasses are fucking epic.' That's okay though. I still took it and flipped my hair and ignored him and walked on in my metal band tshirt and SEXXXYYYY JEAANSSS (AHH!). But I really have to question his whereabouts over the past year, as my sunglasses were only the increasingly popular red wayfarers featured in my blog's header :s

7. I find it really difficult to produce a short story now that it is not required of me. But today, after my Primark haunt, I sat in Starbucks for roughly two hours and wrote several pages of any and everything for the first time since school got out. I'm really worried about this in the future though...It seems like story ideas have evaded me with the arrival of vacation.

8. Four words on film. The Science of Sleep. Rent it, buy it, burn it, steal it, just so long as you see it. Gael Garcia Bernal and Charlotte Gainsbourg!!!

9. I have nuff love for my friend Damian. He messaged me to find out the dates I'll be in Trinidad this summer because he's having a major joint birthday party with his girlfriend and isn't holding it unless I am there. AND I'M SO THERE, BABE! And organizing the DJ it seems...And I'm thinking that I just might re-do my 19th with them too because I didn't get a fair shot this time around what with all my crying and depression over getting old. Yeah, I have incomprehensible issues and am probably making my entire reader population feel geriatric. Sorry.

10. There's something you should know. I own retainers. I make everything cool though so they are hot pink. My teeth are back to their old shifty ways so I am going to start back wearing them as much as possible this summer. I'm talking to myself to hear the slight lisp it creates when you are re-familiarizing yourself with them. I guess I'll have to remain speechless for a couple days.

PURPLE ICING

WOULD YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take a hot minute and check out Gala Darling's ingenious new eyebrows. Read the full post on her experience. Oh I wish....

[photo credit- iCiNG]

EAT ME; DRINK ME

I can burst into tears at Pizza Express over garlic bread, canelloni and appalling red wine if I want to.

I GOT YOUR FACEBOOK MESSAGE

Remember that text I got? Finally figured out who it was...

"Oh shit! Can't believe you put one of my random texts on the web...you total arse!! Miss ya sex bomb xxx"

WALKABOUT PRESENTS WORST PIANO MAN. EVER.

I hate it when I'm late for things. This morning I was off gallivanting in Marylebone (which I realised I have never pronounced right til now since my cousin corrected me). I thought I gave myself enough time to get home and shower etc. before my VERY IMPORTANT tutorial and subject choice briefings for third year(ick!) but I messed up the times and missed my tutorial. And my lecturer is a feisty Jamaican woman. Mumbled something profusely about being in Heathrow to pick up a family member and delayed flights hence absence. Something to that effect.

And then I did it again this evening, coming 40 minutes late to meet my cousin Becks at Wagamama in Putney. AGAIN, SORRY! I know she's reading this because I just got back from Walkabout with her and told her to expect a post on this worrying piano man we encountered there. P.S. Is it sad that on the bus on the way to Wagamama I texted her and told her straight off what I wanted from the menu already? I haunt that joint. I'm just glad my regular waitress wasn't on shift this evening because that means she would've seen me there twice in a space of 3 days.

SO ON WITH THE PIANO MAN!
Who knew Walkabout had a piano man? We were able to request songs and have him play them. Becks and I sat snug in a corner with a couple of Malibu and pineapple mixes, putting song like 'Chopsticks' and 'Nature Boy' on the list. He fiddled around with Nature Boy for a bit then said 'That's a hard one'. And well Chopsticks...? Suffice to say, none of our songs got played.

That man was either catering to the Chav-tastic likings of the Thursday night Walkabout crowd or we were witnessing his very descent into something lower than low. He was quite funny in the beginning until it was dawning on us that he wasn't going to stop being pathetic and that that's what he really was. He knew a little less than half the words to each song (songs from people like George Michael, Dire Straits and Billy Joel), and frequently replaced the lyrics with crude remarks or bursts of laughter. It was all 'fuck this' and 'fuck that' and 'fuck off you big dicked man in the corner' and 'duh duh duh duh daaa, don't remember the fuckin' words'. He apologised for his ability to be EVERYTHING BUT a talented musician more than he sang, the whole while looking at the two of us. My cousin and I were really worried. He was definitely on something. If not, he's going to go home and kill himself tonight. I wonder what his daytime life is like? Wonder how much he gets paid for saying things like:

'this next song is one of those songs where you find a picture in your house of someone you loved whose just died and you don't know whether to cry or just masturbate to it'

For the record, the song was 'Father and Son', and after that, Becks gave me the most frantic look and said 'Drink up. We're leaving.'

I GOT YOUR TEXT

"Hey sExy matey! So pissed with alex my little bro!! A tiny bit stoned too!! What a night!! I've got a possible career path too!! So happy!! Hope you're good!! XxxxX alex says - hope ur havin gr8 time, we'll have to have session with you!! Ant's stoned!! I will txt you soon - my number is (x) Alex xx"

Hi back (!!) Those frickin' exclamation marks huh!?
P.S. I've forgotten who you are and have put you under "The Who" in my contacts for the time being.

IN HER SHOES

Went to Dubai with the parental unit to get properly boozed with some other Trini's stationed in the Gulf. I tottered around with ever the full glass of red; the oldies making crude sex jokes, cackling to their clogged heart's content and telling me not to be embarassed. Shit, I wasn't. Some old Texan guy wearing the same shirt as me, who kept wishing he was thirty years younger, said he lives a short distance from me in London and is looking forward to seeing me in the Caiman Islands this summer. I got invited to stay at some old lady's boozy pad in the Caimans this August. "All you need is booze, baby. I really like you. Come and be my pet." Um, okay.

So, eventually the ballet ribbons on my mom's shoes had cut off my leg's blood flow(because I didn't want them to fall limp around my ankles) so I went walking in the street and drunk dialling. The wedges were actually great leverage for when I squatted in the road crying to my ex-boyfriend in America. "I hate you! I hate you" But I don't, okay?

FOR ALL THE DRUNKEN SLUTS OUT THERE

Urban Aid, man. Gotta give them a pat on the back for this. They are going to make so much money with this. It's All-American ingeniuosness!

The Product: Urban Aid's 'Shame on You' Kit

The contents: 3 condoms, toothbrush and toothpaste, extra pair of one-size-fits-all underwear (a thong, mind you, to retain the sluttiness factor), an emergency phone card, aspirin, and get this...*drumroll* 1 'leave behind' note...

The tagline: If you have to do the "walk of shame" at least you will be clean! No matter what the reason.

The site's really clever though. They've got 'On the Go' kits, 'Period Pal' kits, 'Be My Guest' kits ('If your home becomes a hotel...this is the kit for you'), OH(!) (PHEW I WAS BEGINNING TO GET WORRIED) and a male version of the Boozy One Night Stand bag above., with disposable razor, shaving cream and of course boxers instead etc. The only thing I think they're forgetting to include here is a greasy British 'Fry-Up' for the morning after because aspirin sure as hell doesn't work for me. Actually, sadly, my hangover cure is a simple can of coke.

FENDI LAUGHING ITS WAY TO THE BANK AS USUAL

I'm not liking this. Not at all. I mean, in theory, it's pretty cool. But in reality, no. Fendi is making YOU AND I, the consumers, designers for a day. They recently brought out this 'Canvas Baguette' that comes with a set of Fendi markers that you can use to doodle all over it with and possibly never wear because you drew a stick figure person with a penis on it when out on a cocktail night with your girlies. So, you decide, are you willing to risk wasting $1300 trying to be an artist? You haven't got me on this one, Fendi. Actually, you NEVER had me at $1300. I was already off to Japan with that money.
HERE ARE SOME TALENTED ATTEMPTS. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

THE WEEKEND: Never mind the length, you're gonna wanna read this!

FIRSTLY, HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY! Would've been in Ireland right now with my mates if we were even TALKING. I was about to Superpoke Sherel on Facebook to 'dye everything green' with her for St. Paddies when I realised I couldn't find her on my list, which means she deleted me from hers. What can I really say to that? Nothing, right? SO, on with the weekend.

My friend Lewis had his 61st birthday party on Saturday night, the night before my early morning flight, Okay so he's not actually 61. He was sharing a birthday party with two other friends and their ages added up to 61 lol. Anyways there were several undecided themes including an Old Fogies theme, a 'Tattoo Yourself' theme (which I wanted to do but figured I didn't want any trouble with irritable black body paint hours before I was due to head to the airport. There was also a Zoo Animal theme and about three others I can't recall. I just went as someone with a glittery face and a pale pink wig anyways. And I would post the few pictures I managed to snap while not swigging empty a bottle of Peach Schnapps or lying on a sofa in a dreamy haze as the room swirled with ambient tracks, but my ex just told me I looked gross.

So, needless to say, even though I decided to call it quits at 2am and trudged home in the rain, where I proceeded to argue with my ex on skype while srcubbing at my face for bed, and set my alarm for 5:30am in order to leave the house at 6:30am to get to the airport two hours before my flight, I woke up two hours before my flight. I scrambled my shit together, called a cab, which got me to the airport precisely at the time the check-in counter closed, because they like to close an hour before the flight now. Of course I had to pay the driver, but I didn't have any cash on me so this is where the debit card drama begins...

Apparently HSBC decided to de-activate my card that morning because in the airport I tried to take out a whole load of cash at once for my trip; like 350 pounds. The daily limit is 200 pounds. So I went back to the taxi swinging my arms, my fingers trembling, my scarf over my newly done hair because it was pouring, hard!

"Um, my card isn't working. They won't give me any money."

The driver, sitting on my suitcase in his open trunk, didn't move, his arms folded.

Luckily, after long pauses and quiet rain, we established that I was able to give my card details to his company via phone and that worked. It came up to 32 pounds, all to miss mt flight in the first place. ALL FOR NOTHING!

So after that incident I called up HSBC, because SHIT I was travelling to DUBAI, the shopping capital of the world, with no money. I sat in a restaurant, counted out 8 pounds in my coin purse and ordered a vegetarian breakfast, while listening to the 'On Hold' lounge music on the phone. They said they detected fraud because I had tried to take out so much money and that it would be fixed in 10 minutes. And naturally, it wasn't, so I called back several times, until eventually, 20 minutes before I was scheduled to get on the next flight, at 3pm(!) it finally worked.

Anyways, I skipped out a few details. According to my ex, I had an airhead moment at the restaurant. I ordered another coke and told the waitress I was just going to pop into the bathroom really quick, which was two paces away from my table. I left my overly loaded trolley there to keep my table and when I came back two minutes later, there were three people around my table telling me I had nearly caused a potential bomb scare.

RIGHT! And LASTLY, while waiting for possibly 5 hours on the floor in Heathrow, next to an old arab man and a clueless Indian young man, we heard dogs. Possibly feisty, mammoth ones with strings of saliva swinging like a pendulum from their gaping mouths. We heard them from miles away. And they were booming, and echoing. Eventually, my ideas of what they were became a horrifying reality. They roamed through the frantically swerving wheeled suitcases and the backpacked toddlers hidden in their mothers' skirts. Suited up guards with awesomely mammoth guns with magnifying lenses attached to them accompanied them. They were looking for someone. Only then did I remember that having had to rush this morning to get here, I hadn't had much time to mask the weed smell in my hair from the previous night's partying. I fidgeted behind the pages of my Hanif Kureishi novel, reading the same sentence over and over again due to lack of concentration. I knew they weren't looking for me. Becuase it was already established that I wasn't a debit card fraud, I wasn't a terrorist, and they could've given me 10 urine tests and wouldn't have found a TRACE of drugs in my quivering innards. But of course, a huge black gun passed dangerously close to my face, and there stood a guard, staring down at the three of us; the Arab, the Indian and the Trinidadian.

"Are you three together?"

"Um what? No," I cowered into my novel.

He clearly lost interest in me and asked the Indian for his passport. He didn't have it. I muttered swear words. WHY WAS I HERE? NEXT TO THESE PEOPLE, WITHOUT PASSPORTS?! WHY!? WHY DID I HAVE TO MISS MY FLIGHT? I SHOULDN'T BE HERE. WHAT IF HIS DOG JUMPS ON MY MUSTY GANJA'D HEAD? WHY DID I HAVE TO WAKE UP LATE? WHY DID I GO TO THAT PARTY? WHAT WAS I THINKING WEARING THAT MUCH GLITTER? IT'S IN MY EYE!

But it was all okay in the end. He pointed to his dad in a check-in line and said his dad had his passport and that he was just waiting to go to New Zealand. And the dog clearly sucked at its job.

And FINALLY! FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY I sat, unperturbed in the beauty and luxury that was the Etihad airplane, in an aisle seat, perfect for all the peeing I had to do after knocking back copious amounts of red wine, with my own little booth and reclining bed, and my own little entertainment system, and my own little coat closet(not that I needed one). I. SLEPT. WELL. I. ATE. WELL. Risotto? Date Cheesecake? Fine cheeses? REALLY! As my dad is a pilot for the airline, I usually get severely discounted staff tickets and enjoy the niceties of Business Class (provided that it's not full). Sometimes I can get upgraded to First, which is just..indescribable. It's the only thing that makes me NOT want to get to my destination, having to lounge there for hours; my only problems being deciding what to pick from the extensive menu and being checked up on too often by the over eager hostesses.

It's all well and dandy but as I'm representing my dad and the airline, jeans and sneakers are out of the question, and uncomfortable business-esque clothing is in. So this is what I wore. I am really excited about it because I have been eyeing this cornelli and lace top on the Topshop website for ages! And now that I've quit my lenten shopping ban, I grabbed it off the racks the day before travelling. Isn't it gorgeous? *sighs*

What a day huh? I even forgot to mention that they made me check in my violin because I was a standby passenger and could only take one carry-on, EVEN though it was an expensive instrument (which I normally get to take on with me) and I threw a tantrum, which resulted in the guy telling me I'll miss my flight if I didn't agree with him and check it in. And naturally, when I opened up the 'Fragile' plastered violin case at home in Abu Dhabi, it was semi-wrecked. As a result it will have to accompany me to the US at some point this year to get professionally fixed, AS A CARRY-ON! HMPH! I don't even want to open that case again to take a picture for you. Violins are SO expensive...