While this week in February I
love adore London, I found this post in my drafts from a few weeks ago which has me half entertained, half in absolute despair…ahhhh the week that was…well, simply awful.
When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life
Actually Mr Johnson, I disagree. When a man is tired of London, he is absolutely bone crushingly exhausted… frustrated… sad… angry… alone… stressed… sore… anyway, you get my drift (oops).
This week has been the worst of the worst. While I’ve been counting down the days till I reach number 365 of life in London, I couldn’t possibly be enjoying London less than I currently am. My dear reader, if you’re sitting on Samuel Johnson’s side of the fence, here’s a recap for you – I’ll let you decide whose views on being tired of London you agree with… Continue reading
Sitting at home on the eve of Waitangi Day with a
glass of wine cup of tea reading the news (#rockstarlondonlife) I was anticipating a bit of patrisim. The New Zealand Herald, Stuff.co.nz and Facebook were my voyers to life at home. Alas. My patriotic excitement was flatened like the Punakaikai Pancake Rocks. I felt like I had been slapped in my kiwi face with a chocolate fish.
Negativity consumed the media. I don’t know why I was expecting to read or see anything different – maybe it’s because I’m 18,324km from home – rose tinted glasses, grass is greener and all that jazz – because in reality year on year the majority of the country’s patriarchy is clouded by the minority radicals and the political issues surrounding our national day.
Us expats over in London will find any reason to celebrate our roots, boast about our clean, green islands a world away from the real world and all of its problems. So while us girls didn’t join the 30 odd thousand Kiwi’s on the annual pubcrawl through central London, we explored five different supermarkets across three potscodes to find the perfect ingredients for our own Waitangi Day celebration. Continue reading