Empty Cage

Rest in Peace Rick Wright.

All the best at the Great Gig in the Sky.

Well, I guess now is the point in which I finish talking about my trip and talk about my homecoming. Home… such a relative term. Anyways.

 At Munich I also toured Dachau, the other concentration camp on my mission. I took a guided tour and it wasn’t quite as moving as Sachausen, but I learned a whole heap more about sort of what when on in the camp itself. On the whole Munich was a pretty average place to visit. I would recomend it to people who actually drink unlike yours truly.

Keyboards in Germany are bizarre. The letter ‘Y’ and the letter ‘Z’ are actually switched, so it was nearly impossible for me to type anything. In Munich I met an Aussie lady travelling actually with her daughter, I tried to imagine how that would go for me and my mom, and who would try and drown whom first in the beer garden.

There were some other strange things in Germany though, like every cup has a line on it to show exactly where, say o.4 litres is so they don’t accidentally give you too much soda, as well, most bathrooms have an automatic seat cleaner, which, after you flush, wipes down the seat with what looks like a wet napkin. So strange, and yet, so German. My German was terrible as expected.

My thoughts are scattered again, so apologies for another entry that seems disconnected, my mind is missing today. I’m just so… But nevermind.

From Germany I went down to Italy, stopping in a small Austrian town in the Alps. It was pretty, but we only stopped there half an hour. I think it was called St. Johannes or something. Regardless, very picturesque… but of course… I have no pictures of it.

Yea, my second camera was stolen in Venice. Go me. Ugh.

Anyways, Venice was quite interesting, but beautifully terrifying. When they say you ‘get lost in Venice’ this is not some sort of romantic sentiment, this is cold hard fact. You will get lost in Venice. I went into the city thinking I’d spend two or three hours just chilling in the city — seven hours later when I found the train station again. Haha. But yea, camera with all of my pictures from the trip… gone. Figures.

Venice is stange and terrifying with an hundred small streets and alleys the walls are all high so it’s almost impossible to navigate properly, and with all the mask shops and other rather eerie looking places it really is a bit of a creepy city. Though it is interesting to go into a shop and see some Italian painting a mask right there on the front counter. Seriously, genuine Venetian or what? I wish I had someone to talk to in Venice though because I felt very alone the whole time. My Visa stopped working for awhile whilst I was there too, thus leading to a little unbridled terror for one of my days in Venice.

The ‘hostel’ in Venice was actually a camp site, right by the airport. Yes, all night it was awesome all you could hear was ‘VAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!’ of the airplanes going overhead. And, my room mates who left on the first day left something rank in the room. Venice was, on the whole a place I was a bit uncomfortable in. I want to go back, but not alone, which is odd for me.

 From Venice I hit Rome which was a bit on the surreal side I have to admit. Oh, look, there’s the Collseum, and… the Forum… and the Pantheon… and a hundred amazing buildings and… well let’s face it, the city oozes awesome from it’s ancient pores. Seriously, if walking London is like walking a novel, walking Rome is like walking a history text book. Who knew the Pantheon was now a Christian church, because I certainly didn’t. Seems, I don’t know, ironic or something.

Vatican City was impressive to say the least, so extravagent, sort of like Versailles, where you sit there thinking no wonder it couldn’t last forever without some serious trouble. I even got to see the real version of my favourite painting, ‘The School of Athens’ by Raphael. And the pope paid for my lunch. Indirectly of course.

I go to the cafeteria and pick up a modest lunch, noting that they take Visa, as to be honest I never had more than 5 Euros cash all through Italy, anyways, I go to pay and wouldn’t you know it, the Visa machine isn’t working. I ask where the nearest ATM is, and she says there isn’t one in the Vatican. I’m starving and probably look it, because she mutters something in Italian and runs off, coming back with a manager looking guy, and they basically say ‘Go eat.’ so there we are free lunch.

Okay.

Sorry this entry is lacking my usual charisma, but my heart isn’t really in it right now. I really want to relate all these stories to you properly, but I’m so dejected about returning to Canada just opening up Wordpress seemed unapealing to the point of nauseating.

Now everyone’s mad because I don’t want to come back, but it’s not the people I don’t want to come back to. It’s that I’ve fallen for this stupid country quirks and all. Everything from the robolady on the Chyuuube, to driving on the wrong side of the road, to the lifts. And I love all you nutty Canucks back home, but this is the place I feel like I should be, and leaving it is hard.

Back to packing.

Well, a lot has happened and that is why I haven’t written for so long. In fact, I have to reread my last entry before I post this one. Not even that much time has elapsed, just a lot of stuff has elapsed, and I’ll never be able to do any of it justice on my journal, so, here I go, taking the plunge now.

 Well, since the last entry I have broken out of my little social dead zone, in a rather huge way. You see, my dorm with good old Dominic filled up with two more South Africans and two Aussies. All male of course. Yes, I’ve been ‘one of the guys’ for the past — two weeks, which hasn’t been too terrible, as I have had people to talk to. From time to time at least. And only at the cost of having to listen to the lot of them snore in chorus. Seriously, they could have a choir group with their snoring. But other then that they’re all endearing, ish. That and the fact that everything is cold to them and it’s been really warm here lately.

 But I need to start from the beginning, way back, what, two or three weeks ago now. Bloody ‘ell, time flies when you’re actually doing stuff. And I have actually finally been doing stuff. No, seriously, I swear! I’ve just been so unmodivated to write about any of it because I’ve been so busy actually doing things, shocking, I know, but there you have it.

For the past few weeks I have been working at the Royal Infirmary doing stuff with their archives, the work is alright I suppose, and there is no asshole breathing down my neck about doing things faster. In fact, the only qualm about the job itself that I have is this: ‘They have no idea how they want these archives to be sorted’ Which, I mean, technically isn’t too big of a deal, except that they tell me to do it one way and then suggest a ’slightly’ different way of sorting things which only takes a good day to finish. This would be fine if the job wasn’t only three days a week. The best part of the job was when the agency called me, the first thing they say, before when or where I’m working is ‘How are you with the sight of blood?’

Yes, so, riddle me this Batman, if I am working three days a week for £6.50 how am I making enough money to stick around here?

I’m not.

Here’s where I tell you all about the massive trip around Europe I have planned, but I’m not quite ready to share yet as the itinerary still needs some serious tweaking.

Okay, so, all that excesive preamble and still no goods about what I have been doing (well, besides working). I actually need to dig out my paper journal to figure out what I have done, it seems a bit blurry. Not due to substance abuse, keep your minds out of the gutter, simply a lot has happened.

I guess it was about Wednesday when I finally decided to get in touch with Jamie (Hottie McScotland), we planned to meet up on the Friday of last week, which had me a little giddy. Hello, school girl. Not that I planned to really flirt with him or anything, I mean, let’s face it, I was planning to leave within the week of meeting up with him. But, hey, it’s nice to see a friendly face, all-in-all the meeting went well, he’s one of those crazy musicians that I always seem to meet up with, and so we spent the evening hopping from pub to pub listening to the bands of his mates. A number of them were quite good, and while we ended on a hand holding cheek kissing kind of note, I keep reminding myself international crushes are a big huge no-no, they lead to amazing heartbreak AND ruin awesome countries for you, the double whammy of ’suckage’. We’re meeting again this Saturday evening, so hopefully I can persuade myself that it is a one-shot crush and will vanish from there.

Despite the above being the sort of blushingly awesome part of the weeks, what’s been really fun about hostel life is my room mates, despite the fact that they were a bunch of idiot guys. One of the South Africans (Steve) and I hit it off pretty well and spent a lot of time just talking. He had just broken up with his girl friend of six years, and I was angsting about Andrew’s trek to northland. Because that’s what 19 year olds do, we angst, and we are damn good at it. So Steve and I chatted about whatever for a good most of the week at random points. Specifically about the wild and crazy ways of Canada. It’s amazing how thing like… skating on a pond, that are such an integral part of my childhood can simply… not exist in other countries. In Canada, we skate on ponds, in South Africa… well… they have lions.

Derek and Steve fed me a few times within the week, which, since becoming an international traveller really endears me to people. Haha. In reality the last few weeks have been fun, but not in a reportable kind of way, that is to say, those involved had a good time, but it was a lot of movie watching and Edinburgh wandering rather than grand and sweeping adventures that I try and report to you.

One evening we went to a graveyard to take photos (you must note this was Steve’s suggestion and not mine, and so, don’t be rolling your eyes at me) and it was decided that I would take no more photos of the trip as Steve and Derek got all touristy and dragged out the tripods meaniong they had nice pictures and I got to frolic in the graveyard. Seemed like a pretty fair deal to me.

Another interesting event was the hike to Arthur’s Seat, upon arrival, I had a massive allergy attack and headed back to the hostel, soon to be followed by my two South African friends. I’m not sure why they didn’t go to the top, perhaps it was too cold or something. Regardless, they actually beat me back to the hostel even though I left first, only because I was on the hunt for allergy drugs.

 The problem with this entry for a reader is that it is all out of order, but my retrospect for the past two weeks is kind of funny, I remember things in chunks and not chronological order, let’s see if I can actually get everything in.

On his second or third night, (this is back before Arthur’s Seat) Steve brought home a rebound fling to the hostel. He claims nothing happened, but let me tell you, awkwardness does not begin to describe sleeping in a bed beside two people who are uhm… quite obviously doing absolutely nothing. Nothing at all really. And the night before Arthur’s Seat, one of the Aussies, Zach had brought home a girl and they also did nothing I’m sure. The police showed up at the hostel in the morning because the girl’s friends had reported her missing. After being awoken by the police and assuring them that the fling was alive and well the two Aussies and the kidknappee started drinking wine, and they were still drinking by the end of the day when the three of us returned.

Steve and Derek were feeding me in the ‘Southern Hemisphere Kitchen’ so all of room 2 just sort of hung out there. Two sloshed Aussies and the South Africans about to bust out the Brandy and Coke.

But again, before I continue I should talk about what the Southern Hemisphere Kitchen is. Basically in the hostel there are two kitchens. The clothes dryer feeds into the one kitchen and it is always really stupidly humid in there, whereas in the other kitchen it is sort of generally chilly. Chastising me for being in the cold kitchen it was dubbed the ‘Northen Hemisphere Kitchen’ by my almost sneering room mates. If I didn’t want to be alone I was forced to go against my natural inclination and hang out in the Southern Hemisphere Kitchen.

Back to my tale though, though looking at it now there isn’t much to tell. Everyone got drunk and started laughing about god knows what. It whole incident was so politically incorrect I had to shield my poor Canadian ears. I eventually made an almost dramatic exit when an Aussie accidentally dropped a glass of wine in my lap. That was all she wrote for me, and strangely enough it wasn’t long before the chorus boys came back to sleep.

The next day we went to visit Rosslyn Chapel and the beach. Two total opposite ends of the city but we figured since we had a bus pass we may as well see all of the city that would require bussing. Rosslyn Chapel was, well, interesting I wished I had managed to get there before the Da Vinci Code had come out so I could actually see it. The chapen itself is under a tin barn like canopy, making it very unphotogenic on the outside and you are not allowed to take photos on the inside. The only good thing about the canopy is that there were steps along it so you could climb up and see the art of the roof of the chapel exceptionally well. We also hiked to the ruins of Rosslyn Castle and, apparently someone’s house. On the whole, the Rosslyn Hike, while a nice one and such sort of suffered in that it seemed very much like Canada, but Steve and Derek seemed to enjoy it. Only to be let down by the beach which they seemed to expect would be something like the beaches at home. This is Scotland, beautiful white sand is as common here as it is in Canada.

I finally got myself something from Scotland, it only cost me 50p so I don’t feel bad having bought it. A half penny from 1888. The person who guesses why I picked that year wins… something. I’ll think on it and decide once someone figures it out — it’s really easy and only took two tries.

Yesterday Steve left for Dublin, and the day before the Aussies vanished into thin air. Dominic (The old South African and my lifelong room mate it seems) is in London, so it’s just me and Derek now, and to be honest, I almost miss the snoring. Though not enough to ask for it back… trust me.

I’ll probably remember something I forgot to say as soon as I sign off this entry, so the next entry my be incredibly long like this one. Apologies in advance. Next entry will hopefully detail the itinerary for my last hurrah. I should be home June 11th 2008 and I expect 24 hours to sleep, and then people offering me gifts and love. Or gifts of love.

To my commenters:

Amber, glad you liked it! Despite the grammatical errors in it. I don’t want to leave yet, curse making the mature decision! Curse it to heck! Hopefully you’re feeling better since last night, lav.

Mom, naw, I would never make that face at you.

Val, Brazil was pwnt. But seriously, ghost tours are so much fun, I think I’d like to lead one.

Kassi, argh, I’m going to miss your return! I hung out with Will just the other day, we sort of wandered the Burgh and talked. I have to catch you later, maybe you should come to Canadatown.

I have not written for a good long while so I figured an update was in order for all of you fans. All three of you, that is. Is it sad that one of my few avid readers is my mother? That’s like saying ‘Yea, I’m a good singer, my mommy tells me so.’ Regardless, time to talk about something that makes me feel less pathetic.

 Like Setine’s discovery of my blog, which brought much rejoycing to my shocked and wondering eyes. If that wasn’t a one-hit-wonder type of comment, I say, ‘Hello Setine, of course I remember you, you defined the awesome of my childhood along with the rest of the gang.’ Amber and Crystal may bask in that statement as well.

On to more about Scotland and my new discovery. Cockburn street is where freaky goth/emo/subculture kids hang out, it’s kind of like Queen street, minus the big box stores all crammed into about half the size of hardcoreity. It’s pretty nifty, actually, I spent a lot of money in my mind. No actual money, but with brain money, christ I’ve gone into negative numbers.

But I have come to a number of conclusions about the hardcore sector in most major cities, called (very uncleverly by me) the Black Light districts. First is the Canadian example, that is Queen street, this huge sprawlingly massive street where the weird walk easily amongst the normal. American Eagle is practically across the street from Borderlines, if you see what I mean. Basically, it’s where the brightly coloured people look at the ’shades’ people and wonder which will go postal. Interestingly enough, the ’shades’ people are wondering the exact same thing.

Camden Town is London’s ttly (chatspeaked for a reason) hardxcore district. Whenever you go down here you feel like it’s a fasion show, you half expect when the people get to the end of the street, they stop, make a pouty face, and turn around and walk back up the street. Everyone is the complete and perfect stereotype of whatever subculture they partake in. There’s no semi-goths like me, only hardfickingcore ones. In all honesty, like most of London, when you walk down the streets of Camden you generally assume people dislike you for some reason. Possibly because you have an invisible tattoo on the back of your head that says ‘idiot colonial’ that only British people can see. There is no way to remove this tattoo.

Finally, Cockburn street, the street that made me realise what the world would be like if goth was the prodominant dress style, rather than preppy. Let me explain. Walking down this street you have the usual cobbled lanes and shops, the street itself is on a hill, the street is not extrordinary, the people was what got me. A bunch of eyelinered children playing jump rope on the sidewalk, while a few watched. Some oddly aged ones (no I’m not kidding, old goths) sitting on a bench chatting while two black boot clad parents pushed a baby in a carriage up the hill. I thought I was dillusional. Maybe I was.

I went to Waterstones after that little out of body experience and purchased the 2 pound editon of Sherlock Holmes, remembering only after that this was the hometown of the author, I read the first bit in the park before returning to the hostel to blog about how insane Cockburn street was.

To my commenters:

To Setine, of course I remember you (see above) and was delighted to see your comment. We should talk more!

To Amber, of course I am enjoying myself, and I would be beside myself with glee to have the Ravens Fanlisting, I now have the Fanlist for Ravens and The Raven. Thus proving the bird which used to be in the empty cage. Though, now I have to make a layout.

To Kassi, (sorry for the name misspelling! Erk!) You should seriously come back, and don’t worry about the plastered thing, if I wanted to avoid it I would have made an excuse on the phone, seriously. Don’t be embarassed, I’m cool.

To Ange, ANSWER YOUR FUNKING PHONE! *ahem* Of course I am popular with the guys now, I have an accent, and that makes me wicked cool.

To Mah, 153.

To Crystal, always.

I had no momentum going with my old notebook so I got a new one.

No momentum in the job/home front so I’m moving.

 Scotland here I come.

Likely, “Well, that’s to be expected…”

In case my song reference was a bit obscure (It wasn’t) Yes! I spent the weekend in Liverpool. I ‘past stalked’ the Beatles. I am now filled with the light of the holy Beatles, made my pilgramge to the Cavern club, and just about ready to shave my head and retreat to the mountains humming yellow submarine to myself.

As is the way with costal towns I came away from my amazing journey with a cold. I am now sniffling and sneezing and the girl at the next computer appears to want me to die. Might not be far off, girl at the next computer, wishing ill on me is bad karma in this condition.

I brief overview of what I saw in Liverpool. The childhood homes of George, John, Paul, aaaand Ringo, Penny Lane, the place where John met Paul, and (the site of my FIRST touristy photo) Strawberry Fields (somehow it just… didn’t seem real… and, I’m well aware I’m not funny) Tons of fun, plus me tour bus totally had the Magical Mystery Tour logo painted on the side. That was a little taste of win-sauce right there.

I don’t have much to write about, I did a lot of hand written introspective journalling in Liverpool, thus not being overly adverturous. I chatted with a street musician for awhile in the pouring rain, very strange… (I just can’t stop it it seems)

And I met my first person from the Isle on Man! I saw her crying at the train station and against my natural inclination to sit there and keep reading I went over, apparently she goes to school in Leeds and was homesick, so we chatted a bit and such. Intrigue.

To my commenters:

Amber, it is indeed Castaway where the guy talks to the volleyball, as I recall the only real redeeming factor of the movie.

Ange, I tried calling you a MILLION times in Liverpool because I know of your Beatles love but your stupid PHONE was off. I tried incessantly at Penny Lane. YOU SUCK! I’m still NFA, however if you sent things to the following address I will get it:

16 Bowling Green Lane,
London,
EC1R 0QH

Sweeney will not be coming out here until May 15th… Seriously, What the hell? It was set here!

And they have the GALL to call this western civilisation. Frontier territory, that’s where I am… I mean, what do they have to do? Translate it?

However, they do have literally shelves of the Battle Royale movie. No seriously, I have a photo. In the first section of HMV there were several shelves with Battle Royale on them. Definate shock there — thus I actually did take a picture.

I’m so bored and lonely. Honestly, only old people in my hostel, again I say, YOUTH hostel, not old-bloody-age home! I just need someone to spend some time with, you know, lone ranger skit is nice but complete isolation is going to have me chatting up a volleyball.

Hey! I’m alone on an island! It could totally happen!

Possibly Liverpool on the weekend. I should do my Beatlemania thing and past-stalk the Beatles. Maybe I’ll do Abbey Road tonight to get myself warmed up.

The noisy Aussies who hated me, the Indian who was probably  too ill to be in a hostel that night as she made the most amazing sounds from the moment her head hit the pillow until she woke up, the pant(and trouser!)less wonder, Team God Bless America… you certainly meet interesting characters in hostels. Then you meet people like KiwiClare, HottieMcScotland, and ‘I’m not in Mississippi anymore’, and suddenly you remember that hostelling isn’t really all that bad.

HOWEVER. I am going to KILL my only room mate this week. KILL HER WITH KNIVES. Call my BFF Jack, teh rippxxorzxcorelollerskates.

But seriously.

This woman is probablyyyy about 60 something or 70 something. Therefore lulling you into a false sense of security. You’d THINK it would be me pissing her off, after all, I am a strapping teenager full of vitality and life.

But no. Not at all in fact, night one, I politely introduce myself and say ‘I have to sleep now, I need to work tomorrow’ Does she shut up? No! Is it general chatter? Nope! Specific questions that I feel obliged to answer in the interest of peace in the hostel? Abso-bloody-lutely!

Now, generally speaking, talking too much is forgivable in a hostel, last night is why I want to kill her.

I go to bed nice and early after talking to Stacey on the phone, I notice her bags and stuff are still around but she’s not in yet, I figure I should sleep anyways ‘Hostel Law number five hundred and twenty four states if thou gets to thy hostel after thy first person in the room falls asleep thou shallt get thy shit together silently in the dark, in the mercy of our lord, the manager’ Which I assume she does, because I didn’t wake up when she came in.

It’s not until she turns her radio on at 3:55AM that I wake up. A talk show. First assumption is it’s a mistake, or some kind of seriously funked up alarm system, as the topic of discussion seems to be rice. Then I hear the volume and station being adjusted slightly, to eliminate static.

I am floored by this. As I try to decide if it is quiet enough to sleep through I decide I am too indignant to even try. I try to subtly get across the fact that I am no longer sleeping, by conciously tossing, and sighing. No avail. So I growl over my shoulder, ‘You mind turning that down a bit?’ She offers a gloomy half-arsed apology and turns it off. As though I am putting her out. Hello? It’s 4 AM, don’t funking mess with me.

YHA, Youth Hostel Association my…

 Anyways! Ireland!

I was surprised at how ‘hardcore’ Dublin was. I imagine it has a much ‘younger’ population in London. I arrived after about 45 minutes on a plane and met up with Marilyn. Every sign is in Gaellic and English! My room at Marilyn’s was preeetty much like a hotel room (needless to say I was pleased)

Our day around Dublin was awesome, I managed to get all my touristy stuff down. The Book of Kells, Trinity Collage, and of course I am physically unable to enter a city and not see the official museum. And NOTHING makes you feel like a bad person for being English like an Irish museum. You know, every atrocity EVER was committed by the British. EVER. Nazi Rule? The Royal Family is German! You kind of feel like putting on an Irish accent just in case. The surname… uhm… O’Bagg… yes, that’s me, Caitlin O’Bagg, and of COURSE Caitlin spelt with a C and an I what do you think I am? British?

The worst part is I am Irish and I still felt bad.

After doing Dublin Marilyn took me out to the countryside to see the lambs. I nearly died of adorable overload. Especially the little black one, I relate to the little black sheep. I am the little black sheep.

Sunday was… amazing.

We went to this castle ruin. Only it wasn’t a ‘popular’ castle ruin, so I had the whole castle to myself. It was breathtaking, and to be the only one there. On the way down Marilyn and I met up with a local. I think he said he was going to be doing an archelogical dig there, but I didn’t understand a word with his thick accent and the speed he was talking.

We also went to a monastry and cemetary which I would have appreciated so much more if I wasn’t still in awe of the castle.

To my commenters:

Ange, some of the Hardcore Irish boys were pretty swoonable. My joke was most amazingly amusing! My jokes always are! You said so! You have to stop hanging out with me if my jokes stop being funny! You are ultra fabby (my Britishism) Huzzah!

Daniel, Do comment more, or I’ll set… Dana on you!

From the last entry:

Emmadawn, I needed you and your ‘le 1337 (un-trois-trois-sept) skillz francais’ in Paris. I was so happy getting to see Jim <3

If you want to send me le mail de escargot you can send it here:

16 Bowling Green Lane,
London,
EC1R 0QH

And I will get it <3

Bwahahah on the evil Yellow faces which I’m still trying to figure out how to disable.

To Crystal, I know D= I misses real internets

To Amber, I have a few pages for you to start with, how many do you want at once?

To Mah, no only dead people I hero worship get that sort of love. Syd’s next.

Well, I haven’t stopped in here in awhile. Internet access has been a pain, so I’m abusing the work internet for a few minutes. A responsible abuse, I can assure you. Thus, the entry may be short, and very sneaky.

 Oxford, was there maybe last week or so, it wasn’t too bad, I mostly did (dun dun dun) shopping. So, I can’t tell you about the beautiful sites. Also, incidentally, it was pouring. I did get a copy of Memento and eat pizza though, so it wasn’t a total loss.

 So! What else have I been doing? Working! YAY! A charming £9/hour with a 1 braincell/second tax. Angelena’s rant about going to school plays ad nauseum in my head daily. I’m just waiting for my Tell-Tale Heart moment when I shriek to the silent room “I GET IT! SHUT UP!” The office is as silent as a tomb usually, as I liken tapping on keyboards to rattling bones or something equally spooky.

I am allowed to listen to music, but my ears actually hurt from two weeks straight of having ear buds in them. So I’ve gone unplugged today (buy the album) and kind of want to gouge my eyes out. No particular reason, but it might illeviate the boredom.

Some nice things about my job — well, not the job specifically, but they are more work related than not. The nearest Tube (Chyuuuube) Station is St.James’ Park. I work on the short street between the Chyuuube Station and the actual park.

I talk to mom quite a bit because I get so bored at lunch, see example below.

April 1st:

“God, mom, the weather here is bloody TERRIBLE! I have never seen anything so miserable.”

“Tell me about it, at least there’s something in common!”

“APRIL FOOL’S! I’m sitting on the grass in the warm sun in the park surrounded by flowers!!”

Wasn’t that a funny April Fool’s Prank? I thought it was hysterical.

My new pals the Kiwis don’t get it. But then, they’re so far south they frequently get cut off the bottoms of maps.

Ah! I haven’t mentioned my new found knowlage of New Zealand, and love for all things Kiwi! New Zealand is the Canada of the Southern Hemisphere you see. Always getting bullied by stupid Australia!

I learned much about the Kiwis after meeting Clare the Kiwi in the Earl’s Court Hostel, then finding out my fellow bored temping co-worker James is ALSO a Kiwi! We hardly talk for fear of hurting the silence, but when every one else was in a meeting I found the ideal ice breaker.

“Am I the only one who wants to KILL myself?”

“Yea, I’m on Facebook.”

“Fair enough.”

So, he was on Facebook and we had quite the talk about how little work he does. Thus, my rebel-blogging!

I went pub hopping with my Kiwi Pal Clare, and a (quite good looking) Scottish guy named Jamey. Andrew and I are finito (again) and so I am allowed to look at cute guys. I have his phone number so I win. Told me to look him up if I was in Scotland. He’s 22 so there’s no prayer, I’ll just gaze dreamily off into space.

Thank you to my beloved commenters, I’ll reply to them on the next entry. I’m off to Dublin tonight!

The first thing you will notice about employment agencies is that absolutely everyone is so painfully cheerful that it’s scary. I mean, the agency is cheerful to impress the client, the people looking for jobs are cheerful to impress the agency and the agencies clients are cheerful because they know that for a small fee they are on top in this particular establishment. Everyone smiles constantly, post-agency-face-pain is likely a common side effect of being in too many of these places. I’m surprised how amazingly few hospitals there are in Oxford Circus to accomodate for this.

Okay, so I’m registered at the agency, the smiling agent would like me to know that with my skill set I should be looking at a job before the end of the week. I hope she didn’t take the twitching eye of smiling discomfort as me being an escaped lunatic. I snuck a look at her notes on me as she left for a glass of water. She wrote me a rave review, fooled another one Daddy! I type 46 words per minute apparently, that is when I’m copying out a passage about American commutes, which I pretty much fell asleep while typing. I also, for those who have never had the pleasure of watching me type, only use two fingers (well, and one on my let hand to press shift). She that’s mighty impressive.

The other day (Friday, I am tempted to say…) Mike and I headed to the V&A (Victoria & Albert) Museum, which is a pretty amazing little museum, it’s stuffed full of interesting, but less famous items. Like, you won’t find the Rosetta Stone, but you will find some amazing Renaissance artifacts, the Medici are not mentioned very much though(!) Are they a Zimmer hyperbole(!)? Regardless, Mike finally learned the true extent of my museum addiction and cut me off before I got too carried away, and showed me Hyde Park (Yes, I did think of Sweeney, so shoot me) From there we headed back to Milton Keynes. I highly reccomend V&A I neglected to mention, it’s a low key museum with a lot of sculptures, and everyone except me seemed to be running through it which was disappointing because there was a lot of cool stuff.

I have finally experienced British rain, this is the first I have been out in the rain since coming here believe it or not. And, of course, the only day I did not pack an umbrella in my purse, which I’m considering upgrading to something bigger once this job thing hopefully pulls through. I can’t fit anything in it.

One thing I am going to start kicking people about is my friends and replying to my entries… all my mom’s friends, and my friend’s parents are replying, but none of my chums seem to be able to find it in their hearts to reply to me. So, loves, expect some nasty e-mails involving ‘Comment on my posts or die<3′ To the parents replying to my blog I thank you… at least I know some people love me.

And to commenter:

Crystal<3 I hope Sweeney and Jack join me, we can dance around in happy hippie circles until the sky goes out. You should come down and visit, by now I feel like a regular Londoner. Love! No, you see the trouble with poet is how do you know it’s deceased — Try the priest!