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.