So long, Dragon.

·         Popped champagne under the Eiffel tower.

·         Lay on the Champ de Mars watching Bastille Day fireworks balloon above me.

·         Took a tourist boat down the Seine with friends.

·         Celebrated July 4^th, American style, for the very first time.

·         Travelled to small French villages to meet Priests and attend Mass.

·         Rode velibs down empty streets singing Eye of the Tiger.

·         Met my first Disney channel celebrity.

·         Road tripped around Southern France.

·         Met two delightful French families. Lived with one.

·         Listened to Andrea Bocelli as the sun set in Italy.

·         Swam in the picturesque coast in Croatia.

·         Took my first overnight boat trip, complete with outside sleeping on life jacket containers.

·         Surfed fun waves in Zarautz.

·         Ate pizza and drunk Spritz in Venice.

·         Sweated buckets climbing cathedrals in the Valencia sun.

·         Had a bonfire on the beach in Spain.

·         Ate chips in Belgium.

·         Visited new family members in Bristol.

·         Discovered new levels of snow in Norway. Twice.

·         Danced Highland style in Ireland.

·         Battled the rain in Scotland.

·         Rode red double decker buses in London.

·         Tobogganed steep slopes and ate moose in beautiful Norwegian towns.

·         Surfed my local break and relaxed with friends and family in New Zealand.

·         Attempted to stay awake in Singapore. And failed.

·         Put on my professional face in a new job.

·         Attended university in Hemingway’s old haunt.

And that's the beginning!!

2012, you’ve been pretty fun.

2013: I’m ready.

A Snippet.

A small (blurry) photographic taste of Norway exploits.

Frozen hair, snow angels, skiing in near whiteouts and snow fights.

The Worlds Fastest Norwegian.

Put my life in the hands of someone whose name I couldn't pronounce and without a common language.

Hurtled down a hill on a tiny wooden contraption bound for disaster. Two giggling, screaming fast moving crazies. Eyes locked on the limited hazy distance, a blur of white whizzing past at every angle.

Holding on for life, being pulled down by the toll of gravity, unrelenting. Fast. Lush barriers of fresh snow attempting to comfort the spills. Failing.

Cheeks being nipped by the 15 below temperatures. Eyes stinging with cold, glistening with adventure.

Other moving bodies flying past, falling behind, taking tumbles. Avoid calamity.

The life in the white.

Possibly one of the scariest things I've ever done.

We didn't even win.

Generosity via Nerves.

Sitting next to possibly the most nervous airplane passenger ever.

There'll be no nails or hair at the end of this flight.

But free chocolate and Pepsi? Yes, please.

Bucket List.

-18 degrees.

Check.

Leaving Lillehammer.

Picturesque!

Ice Hair.

Just been taboganning in this. Think I may be an icicle.

Norwegian Logic.

While cross country skiing high up in the snow capped Norwegian ranges to reach a cabin, I mention my travel insurance doesn't cover sports.

"Don't worry, this isn't sport. This is transport."

Cool, I'll tell the judge.

Norwegian Anecdotes.

"We don't live and learn. We just live."

Norway.

Cross country skiing to new cabins high in the snow capped mountainous Norwegian ranges. Clubbing till all hours in Lillehammer as the snow falls outside. Making snow angels on the side of the road. Eating strange food and drinking hot tea. Skiing down steep slopes in fog, seeing only short distances in front, guessing the route. Falling. Laughing. Visiting friends of friends in huge lavish mansions, complete with Christmas rooms. Chatting by the fire in a mix of language, full with laughs. Wearing thermals over tights in the car. Cold, hot, cold, hot. Losing jerseys in bars. Rising as the sun sets.

Brown cheese. Berries. Skiing. Christmas trees.

SNOW.

Overheard.

Man who monitors passengers getting into tube.

"We've got a busy station here today folks. Everyone get cosy on the platform. Come on, it's Christmas."

"There's a bit of a delay on the Victoria line today so there's more of a gap between trains. Nothing to worry about. Unless you're in a rush. And then, it's your fault."

"Keep bags and coats inside the doors. Grandma won't appreciate her new vase after if it tries to stop the doors closing."

Buffet Dinner.

Pain. Always.

I never learn.

Trying to make the most of endless food and a free meal? Disaster.

Ambling and Rambling.

Bright blue sky, shining sun and an outdoor temperature FAR more bearable.

Perfect day to head outside and try and get my months worth of exercise in a couple of hours. I caught the tube all the way down to Harrods, and marvelled at that area of town. It's so flashy but deliberately so, somehow making you not feel completely out of place. That and the fact that only about 1/5th of people are speaking English. Tourist overload.

That was especially the case today but the lure of Harrods is enough to keep you going. I'll never tire of that store. In fact, today I went to a part that I hadn't even seen last time! It's huge. Of course, the big paddington bears are still there. Hurrah! So iconic.

I'm not going to complain and draw on about how busy it was. It's a Sunday. And just over a week till Christmas, I asked for it.

However when it really did get too much, I headed east alongside Hyde park towards Buckingham Palace! The streets were all closed off around Her Majesty's crib so the hoards of people, all rugged up, were filling the whole street, arms swinging with recent Christmas purchases.

Taking advantage of all the pedestrian space, I ambled along to Trafalgar Square, of course making sure to check out the giant tree that Norway gifted England (they did kind of lend a hand or a hundred during WWII) and the 'Norwegian strung lights' which means they're hung vertically rather than horizontally. It looked kinda odd.

I moved on to Piccadilly Circus, up Regent Street and down past Oxford Circus on Oxford Street, all the while becoming less and less successful at Christmas shopping (which considering my horrid start is really quite impressive..)

I did manage to go to Hamley's along that walk (Home Alone, anyone??) and while crowds kept me limited to the first floor, that shop really is something. Even the adults in that store walk around in wide eyed bewilderment. It's like Diagon Alley on steroids. I can't say I myself wasn't totally sucked in by the enthusiastic salesman advertising a see through remote control truck that could go UP walls. Yes Spider-Man, you heard me.

A week until I head off to Norway! Can't wait for a guaranteed White Christmas. If we have more days like today here there's no hope for snow! Christmas Day snow angels? Oh la la!

Off to listen to more Mariah, though I'm fairly sure I've got the jist of what she wants for Christmas.

FYI

The average Londoner appears on CCTV cameras 15 times in a single day.

I'm famous.

Christmas Cracking.

Firstly, I don't want to stretch my written capabilities, but Christmas shopping is a bit, like, shit. In the northern hemisphere, anyway.

While exciting to think about the looks on your loved ones faces, their sheer delight in having what they spent months sticking in blatant places, as if constantly mentioning it irrelevantly in sentences wasn't enough, and the faces of joy, wrinkled with consumerism pride, there is still an underlying, yet entirely unforgettable aspect to the act itself.

Most of the Christmas shopping I have done (while limited, yes) it is fairly clear that people are straining to get something. (How appropriate is the word straining when in italics, it just looks arduous.) Most of the people are spent huddling around the 'gifts' section. While aptly titled, it really is a fairly useless section made up of entirely useless things. And that is its strongest pull factor.

There is something so wrong about the phrase 'stocking-filler'. It's like a parent telling its child that they only had them to give the dog company (and who hasn't been told that..) It's selling a product based not on its worth but on its, ehh, de-worth. 'This thing isn't great, but put next to a load of other crap, it will make it all look much better!'

Ironically, this is a real Christmas winner. These gift sections are the 'go-to'. The fail-proof's. The Lance Armstrong's of the stocking world. Reliable.

There is a fun to shopping in the southern hemisphere at Christmas time. You look at things to use outside, sports, things to take to the beach and the pool, and do so with a full supply of Vitamin D. You shop with your friend's BBQ that night on the mind, the early morning swim/run/tennis game and the weekend trip's to the beach.

There is a festivite-ness to shopping in the cold. Getting indoors is such sweet relief, shops barely need to advertise, the warm swish of air eminating from shop doors is enough to draw you in. Nights are spent watching Christmas movies and re-creating the lyrics to the worst carols. Cookie cutter templates fill every kitchen shop store front and 'that summer body' magazines spend so much time glorifying is long forgotten, shoved to the back of a chocolate laden pantry, instead 'getting through the tough season' is front and centre surrounded by the latest Cadbury indulgences. One magazine went so far as to match the sweets to the films. Hallelujah, a magazine after my own heart.

I have to admit, the post office queue at this time of the year is rather nice. It's warming to see people clutching their gifts, ready and wrapped to send away. Cards and envelopes are covered in Christmas stickers and affection, it's a time of the year where 'cheesy' is as expected as dwarf employment.

Christmas is my favourite time of the year. However, I've also never been quite so cold at this time of year. Sometimes things 'look' far better than they really are. Today they announced on the news that there has been a sudden increase in rickets. I had to google this but upon learning it occurs from Vitamin D deficiency, I was not in the least bit surprised. That's probably a matter of small talk here, dinner table fodder. It is just so dark. All the time. I actually got a fright today because I saw blue sky for about a minute. It lit up the square so beautifully, I'd never seen that before. But before you could remember what it looked like, the rain returned, the umbrellas came out and Big Foot stumbled back into hiding.

I'm happy to experience this colder, wetter, darker way of life. This year I can say that I had a White Christmas, and I think thats something pretty special. Two years of a cold winter and a summer Christmas will have a whole new meaning.

Plus, how viable is the excuse "all my gifts got lost in the snow"?

Isolation, and it's effects.

Don't call it Glad Wrap. It is cling film. Glad Wrap is a brand. In NZ. No one will understand what you're talking about.

Never address Ben's by their name. Anything is better. Sir, mister, excuse me. Heck, even "yo" is more likely to work. The same could be said for Tim. Avoid if possible.

Don't talk about beds, bread, milk or even yourself in third person (..Henna). It only leads to one place for everyone involved. Confusion.

It is always perfectly reasonable to be asked if you live near Hobbiton. It is entirely possible for NZ to be cold year round. We are all very likely to live on farms.

Phew, assimilation is hard.

Black Cabs and Bronzed Elephants.

There is something about travelling down Oxford St in the back of one of the iconic black cabs that gives off an air of luxury. Never have I felt quite so, glamorous, than in that moment. And by moment, I really mean about an hour that it took to make the small trek from Mayfair to Soho. I walked there, for goodness sake. So is the Oxford St traffic. In fact, something about being in the back of a slow moving cab gives you a new perspective on a city. That, and I didn't have my face buried into the top of my scarf concentrating sternly on braving the chill and avoiding the huge puddles that form in the uneven London streets.

How did I end up in the back of said cab?

A task from work led me to pick up a Christmas hamper at a location off Regent street. I didn't get the name of the company, merely the address and indicators of the right building. Multiple doormen and two shiny bronze elephants. Riiiiight.

Once I arrived at the street it was immediately evident it was a very upmarket area of London. It houses a dizzying amount of embassies as well as Lords, Earls and Countesses, and that's just the street I was on. The Wikipedia list of individuals who are living/have lived on this street is like a who's who of the rich and famous (and, unfortunately, mostly dead). I mean, its the navy blue on Monopoly, for Pete's sake.

The address I was heading to became pretty obvious. When you're looking for elephants there's not too much that can be distracting. Three burly men were standing outside, and while very friendly and kind, I can only imagine what the scene must have looked like to an outsider. Obviously giant bronze elephants aren't going to indicate your average place of business but nor did I expect quite such a peculiar situation. Although not invited inside, the glimpses I had were of utmost wealth and luxury. Inside looked like a cross between Buckingham and Beckingham Palace.

I was bidded to pick up Christmas hampers for two of the bosses and when one of the doormen returned with an elaborate haul, I definitely felt like my value went up a couple of mill. The earlier question of how had I got there, ("Do you have a personal driver?" was followed by a smirk and a chortle when I announced I had walked, "I wanted to!" I pleaded) but immediately seemed less ludicrous when I realised that what I was about to transport was probably not your average 'keep it under £10' Secret Santa. With the weight, both walking and taking the Tube were ruled out.

So came my first cab experience. And in true female fashion, I had a lovely doormen hail one for me. Of course.

I was able to spend the ride watching the people brave the cruel outdoor temperatures meanwhile luxuritating in the foot space which must surely be one of, if not the, most spacious in the worldwide foot space ranks.

I have no idea what was in those packages I ferried. I do know they were from a members-only elite casino, though I don't think I picked them up from the casino itself. I feel like if I knew, someone may come to kill me.

Yes, I feel oh-so Ocean's Eleven right now.

Braving the Chill.

Leaving the house has now turned into something of a chore. It requires about 5 layers before exiting the door and a serious determination face to ignore the frosty toes and inadequate gloves. And why has no one ever invented a nose cover?

But this weekend I managed to force myself out of the house to be reminded that Christmas is oh so close and indoors is always a better option.

Saturday saw a slow start to the day and led me to Winter Wonderland to join a monstrous queue to get in. It was borderline Antarctica but the incredible glitz and colour allowed a brief respite. I was able to extract my gloved hands from my pockets for a millisecond in order to devour a delish, and freshly baked, cinnamon pretzel! The others opted for a gourmet pie and it had started to go cold before they even got half way through eating it.

The pie was ditched in favour of the most fear inducing ride. While I thought the zip lining type activity looked the best (and the winner of most likely to cause face frosticles), it lost out to the 'blizzard'. A giant stick gleaming high into the sky, four people strapped in for their life at either end. Terror and ice, all mixed into one.

An amazing, and huge, Christmas fun fair, it was packed on a Saturday evening and the Christmas spirit was high! I even saw a couple of Santa jumpers a la Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones.

We headed home the Park Lane route (where else do you get to see a limo parallel park between two Jaguars?) and arrived home just in time to thaw.

The Other Boleyn Girl followed for a bit of British education and the historic Anne/Mary debate.

Sunday was a lazy day, the biting outdoor temperatures felt only for a trip to the supermarket and a big walk around Finsbury Park.

I also received my first Christmas present from a colleague at work, a wonderful chocolate assortment, and even got a Christmas-centric postcard from One Directions Harry, through the form of a certain redhead.

Something for the wall to keep the spirit alive in the ever decreasing temperatures. Dreamyyyyy.

Men are from MARS (and Brazil...)

Oxford Street is a shopping haven and today I set out to try and get some of this lingering Christmas to-do list out of the way. As usual, gifts for others took a back seat and before I knew it size 7's were slipping themselves onto my frosty feet. Barely 5 seconds after my toes were cushioned like only a 'never-worn-before' boot can do, and one of those attentive/annoying shop assistants who are employed to pummel you with questions and leave you exiting the shop considerably less likely to afford dinner, sidled up to me.

This was a guy, and he was dancing like a heavily sedated 50 year old who only just discovered the use of his limbs. Worse still, it was One Direction playing.

Asking me about the fit, he assured me that if it be too big/too small, it was merely the texture/design/fabric of the shoe and it would loosen/fatten just as I wanted it to. And all for just £25.

I put the shoe back, pleading my ending lunch hour was approaching. He proceeded to compare the flat brown boot I had just tried on and headed to the bright red, lace up heel (which I'm fairly sure the trans-gender prostitute is still looking for..) and advised me of their popularity and practicality.

I told him, while a very nice shoe, I was terrible in heels, and made to leave. Polite, yet subtle? Not so.

This prompted a personal story from his dusty vault (it started with "when I was 12..") in which I learnt the very first time he drove his Dad's car around the back field, he had hit the washing line pole and completely totalled the vehicle. His Dad was furious but understood that it had merely happened because he was only learning (umm, or because he was TWELVE! But what do I know..) So his father had bought him a little Suzuki and taught him in that instead.

Story ends. I am none the wiser about why it was shared, but I'm never going to knock a stranger that shares unnecessary details. Mainly because it casts considerable doubt over their mental stability that you don't want to make worse.

As I felt my cue to leave had arrived (please let that be my cue to leave), he instead thought it was the perfect time to ask me for a drink when he finished work at 8, inviting me to return and accompany him to Winter Wonderland (which he called a "fun fair" and is simply too easy to chastize.)

For some reason, despite the so-called 'romance' of France which translates to frightningly confident Frenchmen, I still haven't quite mastered the 'no'. So as far as this over-zealous shop assistant is aware, I "may be" returning tonight to go on the "spinnies" and eat "handy floss".

What can I say, I was charmed.

Stalking Our Queen.

Ready for an escape from London, we couldn't resist the lure of Windsor. Heading out on a lovely, albeit bone chilling Saturday, it took us longer to get to Windsor's departing station (Piccadilly) from Finsbury Park than it did for us to actually get to Windsor.

Arriving into Windsor you would think the entrance was designed for the arrival of the 90 year old herself. Upmarket shops with shiny windows and glamorous interiors, cobblestone pavements cleaned to perfection, it's quite something. We arrived right into a parade down the centre streets, complete with a full brass band, including uniform, and even young children trailing behind waving flags of, not England, but the latest play to open at the local theatre, Jack and the Beanstalk. I guess even the Royal family have caught onto the benefits of advertising.

We paid our entrance fee to enter the Queen's abode (because why wouldn't you charge people to enter your home when you can do whatever you want?) and passed the security checks with our contraband items securely hidden.

Despite getting closer to hypothermia, we were able to enter the chapel, the state apartments and tour the ginormous grounds, unfortunately missing out on the Queen's dollhouse. (Again, she can do whatever she wants..)

The grounds are so huge and everything is so elaborate, ornate and lavish, much like Versailles. It's not hard to imagine past King's and Queen's traipsing around, ordering statesmen and making grand decisions, like who next to behead. It was crazy to see the tombs of King Charles VIII and Jane Seymour in the chapel. We also got shown the perch from which Katharine of Aragon watched the church proceedings. It's hard to work out whether it all seems familiar, or totally far fetched, when you're standing in the very same position of people you get told and read about (thank you Phillippa Gregory).

We strolled around the town, in awe at how well kept the town is. It's small and quaint, hard to believe you're so close to London. It has such an awesome feel to it.

We returned to London, en masse, on the smallest train, squashing ourselves into the doors, feeling like the peasants we are.

Back to reality.

Tasks Of A Receptionist.

Through My Eyes.

This weekend..

One Month Till XMAS.

Another weekend gone in the land of corgies, relentless rain and the infamous "oopsy daisy" (thank you Hugh Grant.)

Friday arrived bright and early, minus the bright. I arrived at work before the sun had risen and caught a quick glimpse of light during my 10 minute lunch dash. The rest of the day was spent inside catering to fancy men in important suits. Or important men in fancy suits... By the time 5.30pm rolled around it felt like midnight and sleeping in the office definitely ran through my mind. I almost fell asleep on the bus (again, this is getting to be a problem. I'm one of those people now) and went to bed not long after I got home.

Saturday I moved into my new apartment! Hurrah! I no longer have to worry about putting things out of reach of young children, hiding food or tripping over scattered toys. I'm also sad to not have shouting/crying/laughing wake up calls, nightly games of hide and seek and indoor football (shh, don't tell) and never being able to watch TV without being used as some form of jungle gym equipment.

Closing the door behind me and turning my back on what will always be my first memories in London, the jaunt from one corner of London to another was made infinitely easier by an extra pair of hands. Rara took the suitcase. I took my backpack. Good deal.

It was raining and we needed two tubes, but somehow we were at my wonderful new neighbourhood before I could complain that my shoulders were burning, my legs felt weak and I was never, ever doing this again. A quick bit of unpacking (read: everything in washing machine. Deal with at later date) and we were blasting Florence and the Machine and heading all the way off to Balham.

And you know what they say, what happens in Balham, stays in Balham. I think they're right too, most of the population there seemed borderline alcoholic and sleeping on the street by midnight. Unfortunately, timing is not our best attribute and the last tube we "promised" to get home, left without us. Two buses, two hours later and we were home, weary.

Sunday may have started slowly, but led to Camden markets where we joined the throngs of Sunday revellers, people of every age, colour, country and style conversing on one small stretch of street, a tangle of dreads, studs, flares, tattoos and piercings. Obligatory 4 pound mix and match at the wonderful Thai stall (order: everything. Ask and you shall receive. Never knew rice, noodles, teriyaki, green curry, fried chicken mash would taste quite so appetizing.)

As the sun slid away and the rain drops began to fall, we walked to Mornington Crescent tube and caught it all the way to Embankment, a small stroll to Southbank, currently home to a wonderful Christmas market. Feeling transported back to France, we were overcome with vin chaud, crepes, waffles, gingerbread and Christmas knick knacks of everything you've ever wanted and never needed.

What Christmas is really all about.

We left, dragging our feet home, Big Ben glowing beautifully next to the London Eye, which watches over its city with a view second only to Thy Big Man, and 'Christmas Is All Around Us' ringing blissfully in our ears.

The Joys of Public Transport.

Dark at 2.30.

Snowflake shower at 6 (or was it fake? So confused.)

Now on bus with possibly the loudest human on the planet. Next to me. Talking on his cellphone. Whatever language he is speaking, I think he is trying to reach them in their home country.

On the plus side, today I got paid to go shopping. Aaaand the shopping paid for. Boom!

Jobs rock.

Boots on the way home wowed with me with this beautiful display of Christmas decorations. Accompany with carols and you have a warm fuzzy Christmas feeling. It's juuuust around the corner.

Drabble.

I have a new uniform, a new email address and a seat in an office. I catch the tube as the sun is rising and then again long after it has set. I miss most of daylight, bar an hour shoved somewhere in the middle. I spend my mornings rushing, and my evenings dawdling.

I spend long hours in front of a computer, sending emails that have my name attached to a staple signature at the bottom. My morning and afternoon tea breaks are two of the best parts of my day. I talk of letter heading, the practicality of MO and the weather.

I read the morning newspaper on the tube and listen to the nightly news on the radio. I walk with purpose, and often, a scowl. Oxford Street is so damn busy. Can't people dangle their Christmas packages and new purchases with money from a seemingly endless and work-free place, somewhere else.

I have somewhere to be.

I have a real job.

(And I love it. But there's something about London where you have to be begrudging to truly fit in. The angry faces on the suited-up types whizzing by? They're trying to show that they belong.)

Feeling Festive.

An English speaking country and they still can't get my name right...

Today Millie and I treated ourselves to one of Starbucks Christmas specialties! I got a delicious Gingerbread Latte.

Now it's almost painful to sit still. I can practically feel the caffeine buzzing me.

Wandering By.

After a day of mayhem yesterday which involved running 10 blocks in the space of 9 minutes (with maths that's like, around, something under a block a minute..right?) during my lunch hour to make an interview, then running 10 blocks back with about 17 minutes, while eating a sandwich and a banana (thank God I didn't choose to take soup or a salad that day), today was a little more relaxing. 

Law firm temping over for another week. Even managed to score myself an invite to a colleague's tennis team on the last day! Racquet not included. (OCD attack with that word. Racket? Racqet? Ahhh..)

Today I rose late and wandered downstairs, on the last flight, halfway down, I got one of the bigger frights I have ever had. In fact, I could still feel my heart beating out of my chest about 20 minutes later and I was a couple of deep breaths away from reaching for the nearest brown paper bag (because what happens in movies is what you should do in real life). Scaring the metaphorical shit out of me, was the alarm. Yes, I knew it was there. Yes, I knew it was active. But no, I did not think it would be on. I was pretty confident that it was common knowledge I was home. A 5, nor a 3 year old can turn an alarm on, so the only person that was left definitely knew I was home. It appeared that slipped from consciousness (and I later received an apology text "Sorry, I think I might have put the alarm on". Yes, you fucking did. Seven hours late there, and my heart is still beating like a ticking time bomb moments from explosion.)

Luckily, panic did not take over all memory cognition and I was able to remember the alarm code, remember where the alarm was, and turn it off asap. Hanna: 1. Emergency services: 0. 

The rest of the day was not so fright-inducing. An interview at 3 took me all the way along the Circle line to the other side of town, a mere Pope's wander from St Paul's. I didn't get lost and I wasn't late. Success. One half of the interviewing panel was even Kiwi! Always nice to hear that accent among those posh Brit tones. We always sound like we're from the paddock round the corner. With Jaffa's stuck in our cheeks. 

The offices were beautiful, bright and modern, a sensible mix for an architecture firm, but something I probably wouldn't see much of if I got the job as I would probably be answering phones, entering data and re-organizing spreadsheets as the lowliest of the low. But I could wear heels to work and see St Paul's daily. Hope I get it!

I decided to enjoy the beginning of the setting sun on a beautiful day (don't judge, it's almost 3.30pm and still light!) and meander my way towards Trafalgar Square and onto Regent Street to check out the Christmas lights (trying to broaden my range as I have become mildly obsessed with Oxford Street's display). This is one of those amazing things that everyone should be lucky enough to experience: the historic buildings of a London street teeming with people, the gleaming sun shining through against the blue sky, casting an incredible light only interrupted by the red double decker delights. 

Ending the day with 'Dr Horton Hears A Who', a cup of tea and smothered by a Pirate and a Princess. Not long till Christmas. 

Bon Appetit!

Today was like being back in France. With the constant chitter-chatter of French behind my every move, a cupboard full of Speculoos and Bonne Madame jam, having 'raclette' for lunch seemed only appropriate.

Having never experienced the tradition that is raclette, I was about to enjoy the wonder that is losing your raclette virginity, the home cooked way. It is a tradition that emanates from the mountains, a meal fit for the aftermath of skiing, hiking and hunting but has since winded its way down the mountain tops and can be found almost anywhere. But tasting my first mouthfuls as cooked by someone who spent some time near the high rocky regions of France, I don't think I could lower my standards to the standardized versions available in Paris and the Cote d'Azur. My tastebuds only accept quality.

 It reminded me of fondue, and I was told the two are often joined together (which scares me to think about, given the amount of cheese in the two individually, let alone combined... Can I smell a heart attack?) It involves a machine that looks like a sandwich press, but instead of having a flat inner surface, there are little squares all across the inside which allows for the little trays to slot into, the handle poking out the end. When your potato is hot and boiled (mashed: optional), the ham/salami/proscuitto or meat of any kind is laid out, ready to be devoured and the gherkins are fresh, you pop a slice of cheese onto the little tray and place it into the slot of the sandwich press-like contraption. Soon enough, the cheese is heated and melted so out comes the tray and you use a little mini wooden spatula to drizzle the melted cheese onto the top of the potato. Add some meat, some gherkin and 'hey presto', yumminess!

I have to admit I was pretty excited about a meal involving these ingredients, while pre-France Hanna may have been concerned, post-France Hanna was inhibition free (which perhaps explains the post-France Hanna ballooning). I had every step of the process explained to me by a confident 5 year old and his eagerness to inform me led to a carefully watched first mouthful. Talk about pressure.

But it was delicious!

I can see why it is held so dear by the mountain-folk, it would be divine after a day's hard work done high in the ranges. Hot, filling and rather heavy, the drizzled cheese dries onto the potato and adding ham or gherkin is vital to balance the palette. It adds a wonderful fresh, cool taste. I can't believe I didn't get to try it in France, but I'm also quite glad. If I had tasted it there and had ample opportunity to eat it again, post-France Hanna may also be Type 2 Hanna. Though a new goal to add to the (empty) list is eating the real 'raclette' in its place of origin. I'm thinking a trip to the French Alps or Pyrenees is on the cards.

Saturday Strolling.

What do you get when you mix horses, men in uniform, empty streets and a lot of important people? No, that's the not the blurb of 'Fifty Shades of Grey'.

Today I went to the Lord Mayor Procession and from a bird's eye, that's the image you'd be met with. The parade dates back to 1535 (pretty sure they still use all the exact same stuff, including the men) and is supposed to symbolize that the Lord Mayor was once one of the most prominent offices in England.

Today, it commemorates the role of horse shit cleaners.

It's such an important, historic procession to the people of England and it felt pretty cool being among it. We began at Holborn station and followed it all the way along the River Thames until it hit Fleet Street, where the men all stop and have a cup of tea and rest their weary bones. Ok, this isn't entirely true, nor at all, but the procession gets a bit wayward towards the end and I have a hunch that half the people have ditched and gone home for a cuppa or a pint at the local pub. There's a lot of music, waving and apparently the Parish of London have sponsoring rights as their signs seemed to pop up everywhere.

 After following it for awhile and feeling like we got the most out of it (including a photo with a very friendly costumed pensioner) we headed to Tesco's for a 3 pound meal deal lunch, choosing to eat it near the prestigious steps of King's College.

I got a little guided tour of the equally prestigious London School of Economics (or LSE to those in the know, or like me, those who know those who are in the know) and was intimidated tout de suite.

Something about people spending their Saturday's at the library, boys who are younger than me wearing suits and ties, and walking past a conversation involving "the dichotomy of England's politics and the critical role of Oliver Cromwell". Seriously.

I actually had to come home and watch 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' to get back to my IQ level.

Thinking of which, I kind of, like, might've, sorta, seen them today. I did. They were a block from where I live, chilling at the giant mall that is Westfield Shepherd's Bush. The crowds around them were huge and clearly Obama went without security for the day, because I could spot about 20 guards just from my viewpoint. I didn't get to meet them or have anything signed (cue violins) but I did get to stare, scream and cry. "Ohhh myyyy gaaawwwddd, it's actually the Kardashiaaannnsss", 13 year old girl swoons.

They didn't actually do much. Signed some stuff, shook some hands and did a brief Q and A where I could barely hear answers or anything over the "we love you"'s. I do have an added respect for their willingness to stay and greet everyone and sign whatever they had brought along. People say they're famous for nothing, which isn't true. They must have fantastic penmanship.

After a long day and a persistent, resilient sickness, I'm chilling it easy tonight. Me, Rowntree's Randoms, Company and a francais Video Ezy imitation piled high.

Guy Fawkes.

New Brighton's best effort of a fireworks display was brutally put to shame during the real Guy Fawkes, here in the place of its birth.

Obviously not actually in Westminister Abbey, but darn near close, in Roundwood Park. Which I'm 50 percent sure is part of London's ghetto.

Darting out of work as quickly as possible, I took my usual route which leads me through Oxford Street in the direction of the Bond Street Tube Station. This time I was met by a street full of people. They were everywhere. With big screens lining the street and that melancholic voice of "Angels" booming out, it was pretty evident that I had walked straight into the switching on of the Oxford Street Christmas Lights, the key switch-flicking duty in the trust worthy hands of the Rock DJ himself, Robbie Williams. He was helped by Leona Lewis (who seemed either incredibly nervous, or incredibly cold, or both) and none other than the Spice Girl herself, Baby, now known as Emma Bunton. Presumably being named 'Baby' can really limit your future prospects.

Missing all the umming and ahhing and the inevitable annoying delay techniques, I arrived at the beginning of the countdown. Nothing like counting down to turning some lights on to really get your blood pumping. Unfortunately, from what I could see, the electrician behind the beamers was a few bulbs short of a street full of Christmas lights. A couple managed to flick on, and thankfully that included the ones nearest Robbie. However most of the rest of the street was still dim. If this was the signal to begin Christmas, it's sure going to be a bleak one. But having been back since, the lights are quite amazing. Although apparently they've been the same for about 20 years ("Oh god, not the umbrella's still" was overheard), they added a few new touches, including an amazing feature of dangling lights on the Debenham's storefront. I can't wait to walk down the street with snow on the ground and Christmas presents on the mind. The bona fide Love Actually. Minus Hugh Grant as PM. (Though the way David Cameron is being seen, that could actually be an improvement.)

I rolled with the hundreds through to the tube and managed (just) to avoid being pushed through to the tracks. I caught the tube all the way out to Richmond in Zone 4 to meet Millie and her flatmates who were finding a spot to watch the fireworks that Millie seemed adamant were Monday, and not the previous night as I had told her. Unfortunately, Millie got stuck in 2011. So followed the tube back to North London to make it to another display in Roundwood Park at 20.30. On top of this, I had encouraged other people to meet us there and then ran out of battery on my phone. Remarkably, we ended up finding each other. This is also my excuse for having no photos or videos of the incredible sights I saw that night. The fireworks were, without any doubt, the most amazing ones I've ever seen. New Brighton? Hell, no. Paris' Bastille Day? Nah-uh. These fireworks were unreal, and at times, slightly terrifying.

They were accompanied by a soundtrack that now ties up a chunk of my London memories, perfectly seamed into the movement of my English life.

We did a quick tour of the fair before I legitimately thought my fingers or toes might no longer be part of my body and frostbite had taken over, and then trekked back to the overground to catch it home. When I got off at Shepherd's Bush I had an enthusiastic gentleman keep me company, mostly by staring at me and telling me he would "like one of me". I told him I was currently on special at the Hammersmith PoundLand. He seemed to misunderstand and asked me if I spoke French. I told him 'no'. But I have to say I wasn't surprised. If I had to guess the nationality of this random male, it sure wasn't going to be British.

And people say the French have a 'je ne sais quoi'. I think I'd prefer that 'je ne sais pas'.

Life As I Know It.

First temp job completed. Wasn't fired.

First UK bank account up and running. Card in mail.

Tesco's club card.

Boots club card.

National Insurance number.

First job interview in a building over looking Soho Square. London is beautiful, when you know where to look.

Feeling like a real British citizen.

With my first temp job over and completed, I was pretty excited for a sleep in, but I had an interview this morning that put that hope to bed (... yep, it's a day for Dad puns) for a large UK based group.

They had bowls of lollies and chocolate in their offices. I want that job. Shame I probably won't get it. Second interviews next week? Some people clearly need to stop applying for my jobs.

Regardless, I got biscuits.

Lovely Oprah lookalike at Lloyds bank set me up with a wonderful trio of bank accounts of which I failed to tell her, living in London, I will probably never fill. It was the easiest process and made all the rules and regulations of other banks coddleswallop! Proof of address? Nope. Your fault if you give me the wrong one and some random gets hold of your card and pin. Big girl now. I have documents and information packs for miles. If homeless people had foresight, they would sign up for bank accounts just before the start of brutal winter, lovely set of bedding in all that paper. If only homeless people had an address...

Had lunch at the mall to go over my bank documents and get all my tax and income forms scanned. Received a phone call that my temp job actually seemed to think I was pleasant enough to ask back. Have been asked back for more days! They thought they'd seen the end of me..

The Real World.

Second day at work was, remarkably, more successful than the first. I still have the job. No one yet has outwardly confessed they hate me. I haven't given any confidential files to the wrong person. And I wasn't twenty minutes late because the Central tube decided to get stuck in a tunnel, my Oyster card decided to be empty once I had pushed my way onto the 94 (London bus' best impression of those dodgy Indian over loaded trains) and I got the address of my prospective employer's wrong.

Success.

I have also worked out how to consciously speak slower, and am consistently working on sounding less Kiwi.

It is warm, the people are friendly, and I practically only miss 5 hours of daylight. Thanks 4pm sunset.

I love riding the tube and the bus like I'm employed. The morning tube air is tense with weary eyes and a silence only brought about before a long day of work. That unmistakable despair about a looming day behind a desk, answering calls, and tending to needy documents and long clients.

The 6pm part is my favourite. The clock ticks over and I'm free to go. I love walking down Oxford Street, watching the night time shoppers stroll the streets and getting to walk through them as if I've been tending to an important office job all day.

The streets are alive at 6pm, especially on a Thursday night. Restaurants beam warm and welcoming, the sweet wafts of food sweeping out the swinging door. Workers still in suits, blazers, high heels and office clothes hang round bar tables and next to braziers. The un-lit Christmas decorations hang above the street, the imminent festive season ever-present.

I love riding the bus home, laughing couples, reunited families and the reflective look of relief on everyone's face. The day of work is over.

Here are some snaps of touristing London on my less employed days for your viewing pleasure.