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.

Sprung.

Lunchtime work break in the park.

Peaceful.

Till the hail.