If I were a bunny rabbit, I'd have my own epic movie.

We went to G's family for Christmas. They're all the way on the west side of London, and they invited us to stay the night because 'trains can be a pain at this time of year'. Plus, there was a tube strike planned, and we didn't want to get caught in it so we graciously accepted and made our way westwards for the festivities. I had (still have!) a terrible cold which has rendered me pretty much useless, but we had a wonderful time filled with delicious treats, family movies and festive fun. It wasn't too Christmassy, and we were very, very comfortable. Come Sunday, we were ready to face the empty boxes awaiting us at home as we prepare to move in to our new flat next week. Yes! We're leaving Baker Court; it's the end of an era. More on that later.

The journey from West London to East London would typically take just under an hour, trains permitting. So imagine our surprise when we arrived, packed and ready, at the train station on Sunday afternoon to learn that the trains had been cancelled due to strike action. What now?

We caught the only bus running from Ruislip to Harrow. Then, at Harrow, we changed onto the 'special service' metropolitan train that took us to Baker Street. From Baker Street we took a bus to Oxford Circus. There we were convinced that we'd find a bus home - or near to home, at least.

















We were wrong.

We stumbled upon the worst event in London History - the Boxing Day Sales. People were pushing, shoving and fighting to get into the stores on Oxford Street. You know that age-old comic skit where two women fight over a sale item? It's not a joke - that actually happens here. The photo above is not to illustrate how busy the road was (and it was busy) but rather to show you how many people are waiting at the bus stop for our bus home. Our Bus. 


We watched a few buses go by before we both threw our arms up in despair, gave up, and went to go find our favourite Italian restaurant nestled behind Oxford Circus station. After a quick refuel, we headed back out.. only to find that the queues had doubled and there was no chance of us getting home anytime soon. So, we started walking.

We stopped every now and then to find a bus stop that was facing the right direction, but the buses were always too full or going the wrong way. Eventually, a little after St Paul's Cathedral, we saw the magical bus number 25 which was pulling up at a bus stop a few metres in front of us - so we ran. And we got on.

There was much heckling on the bus; people were pushing and shoving and listening to really loud music. It wasn't pleasant. But, bus = fewer blisters and less tiredness. It took us all the way to Stratford where we were able to catch another bus home. The whole trip took us just over 6.5 hours. Here, I've illustrated it for you so that you can see at a glance how difficult the whole process was:










New year's resolutions?
- Avoid Central London Shopping at all costs
- make excellent use of online shopping facilities with coffee in-hand
- sight-see during the day-time for better photographs
- don't make jokes about Fleet Street Butchers/Barbers when there is nobody else around, the street is cold and empty, and there is an odd whoooooing wind noise
- always wear walking boots when travelling further than 20 minutes away from home
- carry a compass at all times.

... You start to navigate locations using landmarks like "the festive house". Also, when you realise that you are walking home from work at 7pm on a Sunday because you had to work extra days to keep up with the Christmas rush. Bag humbug.

It was Gray's birthday a few weekends ago, and we had such great plans to spend it in the West End at a comedy show followed by dinner with friends. Such great plans. If you notice my disdain and attempted textual sarcasm, it's only because I ended up working slightly late and finally arrived at the pub only to find him with Chris and Stewart completely shattered after a full-day of celebration (and beer).






















Look at how pleased and drunk he is! He's glad to be sitting on the couch at the Pepper. He's glad to be sipping the last few sips of his 7th (8th? 9th?) pint of beer. He's glad that I've finally arrived to take him home.






















And he's not alone either! Here's Chris, equally unable to finish his last drink and delightfully bemused.






















And finally, Stewart, who dragged them out to the pub at 12-noon instead of leaving them in the office to finish their work. *sigh*

Luckily, more is nog 'n dag and indeed it was as we trekked into central London for a night of fireworks at the Lord Mayor of London's festival!






















It was a spectacular display, with more fireworks and swirling flame lights that I have ever seen before! These were particularly beautiful fireworks that were like live catherine wheels that rocketed in spirals around the sky.






















Every time you thought that the fireworks were going to be finished, they escalated even further up into the sky and exploded exponentially into millions and millions more bursts of colour! Things were going up and up, off to the sides, around the back and through the middle too. I think the whole display lasted a good fifteen-to-twenty minutes with the audience (a massive gathering on Southwark bank) oohing and aaahing at all of the appropriate moments.

I haven't been posting because I've been working. I've been working, and worrying about work, and worrying about worrying about work. And so, it took a force majeure to bring everything to a stop; the powder sugar-dusting, glittery frosting that coated the world in coldness!


It's been snowing for about three days now. It started off with teeny, tiny powdery flakes that drift downwards. They swirl around as the winds pick them up, and float easily together to form chunky clusters that gather weight. When these clusters land, they glitter spectacularly on everything and give it that beautiful newly-dusted cake appearance.





















The cars, having slept out overnight, are typically covered in a thick layer of chunky snow that ices up over the windows and bonnets. As you can see in the picture above, the sidewalk blends into the side-gardens, which is easy to confuse with pavement... it's only a few steps away from waking up in the morning and losing your car under the thick ice blanket!





















This is a restaurant near work, El Faro. The restaurant is seldom open but it's a lovely building. I really like the way that the whole building has been lightly dusted with sugar coating. Mm.





















And here's the Pepper, one of our favourite pubs in London. I love how rugged and typically 'Docklands' it looks here. The whole place lights up in an array of greens and yellows when the night falls, and the interior is delightfully decorated to look like a chic sitting room or games room. (You can see the interior in photographs in this post.)

It snows so much, and G and I both delight in jumping in giant mountains of powdery dust which explodes up and crunches underfoot as it compacts together. It's only the children who don't look at us like we're mad.

It's beautiful in London at the moment. Everything is very misty and cold, and there's a general frosted haze across the world that seems so lazy and sleepy. It's so nice to be out and about on a Sunday morning, instead of sitting behind an office desk packaging parcels to send out to customers. Ho-hum. Look, in the photo above you can see that Autumn is coming to an end...






















It looks like it's a bright and misty morning, but it's actually midday in central London (that's the 'Gherkin' building in the background). Aren't the bunnies a lovely addition to the mise-en-scene? We had a walk around Oxford Street yesterday, and the whole thing is a giant Christmas Theme-park with performers, balloons, singers, jugglers, displays, flashing lights, giant Christmas trees, elves and millions upon millions of Londoners doing their Christmas shopping. It was the kind of thing that one could watch from afar, but that it would be best to avoid as a rule during the frantic Christmas period. I think that's why the serene scene above appealed so much to me that I had to get out my phone and capture the moment!


















We had a quick walk around the Spitalfields Market (where I bought the most amazing scarf that comes complete with a hood and pockets - yes! pockets!). Anyway, there were some really beautiful flowers on display: I like the autumnal shades which come together so beautifully in the bunches below. Ridiculously expensive, but equally ridiculously beautiful.

It takes me about an hour to get to work. The good thing about this is that G & I (we travel together) have discovered the most efficient way of getting to the office which also almost always secures us a seat on the DLR. It's good. We catch up on the local news (a la Metro), listen to London gossip, plan the weekends away ... and we read.

Right now, I'm reading one of the most hilarious books I've ever set my hands on. I don't think the author is intentionally being side-splittingly funny, but I've found myself reading it out aloud to my colleagues as I wander in the door in the mornings, or thumbing back pages to find that quote which I can't get out of my head; and I haven't done that in ages. I'm not sure yet what I'm laughing about, but I'm enjoying it thoroughly.

The book is In the Devil's Garden by Stewart Lee Allen (available here). He investigates the history of food-and-taboo, "forbidden foods", through an analysis of food's relationship with the decidedly Christian concept of the seven deadly sins. It's really very loosely-based on historical accuracy, and more solidly founded in Allen's own empirical investigation. He intersperses historical accounts with his micro-fictional narratives (real or not; it's not clear, but I don't think it matters) as well as recipes for the outlandish, sinful dishes he describes. He also substantiates much of what he says by referencing "a contemporary poet" or "conventional wisdom" - amongst other vague and insubstantial sources - but therein lies the pure delight of his extravagant construction: it's just that. It is presented as a history, but if you read it as a novel, or approach it rather as a work of delightful fiction, it's rather charming.

He is enthusiastic and involved in his narrative investigation of his problematique, and transforms his writing style to mimic the cardinal sin or mind-set he is unravelling. He argues that the 'forbidden fruit' of the Garden of Eden is not an apple, but the tomato, the "slut-red fruit oozing lugubrious juices and exploding with electric flavours" (2003:18). Should you doubt him, his colourful language and emphatic writing style might convince you otherwise.

In the introduction to the chapter on Pride, he writes:

What I found surprising while researching the sin of pride was how wrong I was. I mean, I'm usually right about everything. The idea of my being wrong is absurd. I am always right and invariably superior in every way to my peers, above whom I reign in a cloud of jasmine-scented perfection constantly flickering with the lightning flashes of my creativity. (2003: 81)

What I particularly love about this extract is the epiphanic moment when I realised that Allen was being facetious and not merely the Californian journalist-cum-novelist-cum-grape-picker. Yes, that really is almost believable given the construction of his narrative voice.

I'm about half-way now, so I won't rant or praise or frivolously nit-pick through his story just yet. I'll leave you with a delightful quote that made me laugh out loud on the train. Remember, this is not a novel, but a history.

Some people like to grow flowers. Some like cacti. I grow herbs. Right now I'm looking at my little basil bush. It stands only about six inches tall, but smells divine - sweet and deep and green. I water it carefully, and, when I pluck a few leaves for my tagliatelle, I make sure to scream obscenities at its fuzzy little head just like the Italians used to. (2003: 24)

I've just finished reading Scarlett Thomas's The End of Mr Y.





Here are my observations:
- First, aesthetics. I particularly enjoy looking at the warm hues of the cover accentuated by gold and black embossing, and, as always, the black-edged pages look rather nice on my  bookshelf. I have become awful at  judging impulse-purchases on the eye-catchiness of their covers. That's how Scarlett Thomas grabbed my attention initially.

- there are some very interesting sciencey bits which are actually moderately accurate. Actually, that's not fair: it's dealt with very well considering this is not a treatise on popular science but a novel about a PhD student who is interested in quantum physics, and who has a remarkable ability to condense complicated theories into clever anecdotes that make the theories very easy to understand and translate in real-world examples.

- there are some interesting literary theory references which are very accurate.

- the protagonist, Ariel, is remarkably similar to Meg, the protagonist from Our Tragic Universe. I can't help but wonder if this is auto-biographical? I shall have to read the rest of the novels to determine whether the protagonists are all just variations or mirror images of the same entity. I guess this ties in nicely with Thomas's analysis of the multiverse and the infinite doppelgänger.

Here are my opinions:
- it's terribly post-modern, and I'm very aware of it.

For example, it's a novel about a missing book that is supposedly cursed. As the protagonist finds the book and begins to read it, so the first chapters are reproduced in the book you're holding, and you begin to read it to. Are you involved in this double curse? The book is also titled exactly the same as the cursed book, so which book is cursed? The one the reader is holding, or the one the reader inside the book is holding? It's like looking into a mirror that is placed directly opposite to another mirror, and seeing your reflection look back at yourself an infinite number of times (the infinite doppelgänger, again).

And so, furthermore, the author of the missing book is a man who discovers how to transport himself into a state of pure consciousness through a medicinal liquid. He then writes a book about a man who discovers how to transport himself into a state of pure consciousness, and includes the recipe for the medicinal liquid. The main character is writing a thesis about this never-before-read book when she finally discovers it, reads it, and discovers the recipe. She makes the liquid, and learns how to transport herself into a state of pure consciousness. There are a number of other people who also read the recipe, make it, drink it, and transport their minds to the consciousness of the troposphere. As the character reads the book, so does the reader read the book containing chapters of the missing book. We learn the recipe. How many people, real people, are going to follow suit and make the medicinal liquid to attempt to transport to a realm of pure consciousness?

- I hate the ending. Don't read the last chapter. Same goes for Our Tragic Universe. Actually, this might just be my issues because I generally dislike the way most books end and I'm so often tempted to rewrite them that I think this might be a very good group-writing project to embark upon.

- I hate the lab-rat chapter; but I think that's largely because it's so powerful and so well-written that I actually had a physical response to the writings and I had to stop reading it for a moment.

- Thomas does some really nice things with two concepts I'm particularly interested in: (1) the multi-verse and (2) collective consciousness. Oh, and language, of course. The question you're particularly left with at the end of the novel is this: what is there before language? Is there existence? Consciousness? Do we think things into being through language? If anything else, she's inspired me to read more Heidegger, Einstein and Baudrillard. See more Scarlett Thomas here.

Right this very moment I've sent off an email to request a wedding venue booking for the 26th of November 2010. *breathe*

Here are some ideas, after spending the morning on Google.










































































































This button bouquet is from Etsy Seller Jillianns.

We couldn't leave without a bit more Banana Jamming, so we went for happy hour cocktails and met up with everyone who could make it on time.

And so the saddest part of leaving home finally came: saying goodbye to my dearest friends. My first goodbye began with Isa and Shihaam. I already miss you both, and I know you'll appreciate that I'm going to reproduce just two photographs here (the others I'll email to you soonest, promise).






















Here's Isa, looking lovely as she poses for her "academic" pose. Calm, cool and collected.






















... and here's Isa, doing the "bedroom eyes" as inspired by the other various departmental photographs that are currently being uploaded to the English Department Website! This was hilarious and we ended up rolling around in hysterical fits of laughter. I think we were all very relieved that it was lunch-time at the doors were very firmly bolted shut.






















Here's the view from Isa's window, overlooking the Maths building on UCT campus. It looks rather lovely, doesn't it? Although that's just a teeny tiny bit of the never-ending stair-case that stretches from Jameson Hall to Athlone, just about.






















Here's Shihaam looking happy and radiant after a whole year of missing me (I hope!). I was very envious of her dress which was a sort of rust-and-gold peacock design on brown fabric; awfully becoming.






















More bedroom eyes! I wish oh wish that these could be uploaded to the departmental website instead of the traditional boring ones that we typically have to submit! I love this pose, Shihaam!

Dearest Operation Chamomile! Ah. Before leaving, we had to schedule one last visit to High Tea, the delightful tea shop in Constantia, Cape Town.

















They have a new bicycle, used for nearby deliveries of emergency chocolate cakes and coffee.



The location is still as beautiful as ever. This is rather a beautiful picture in the original, I am half tempted to re-upload the original version just so that you, oh Londoners, can feast your eyes and day-dream about sunny South Africa instead of the reality of ice-cold winds, grey clouds and sneezing tube-goers who are affronting our senses as of late.

















Glennnnnn and Rebecca, looking lovely as ever. I really enjoy that they have matching sunglasses in different colours :)






















... and beautiful Bekah, enjoying the morning sun.

















This is the Savoury Muffin that we travelled a million miles for: spinach, tomatoes and cheese served with tomato-chilli jam, butter and cheese. Yum.






















I rather liked that one of the garden workers lovingly folded up his clothes and stored them neatly on top of the statue's head. It half makes you feel insanely guilty that your clothes are lying on the floor (as indeed they are, where I haven't bothered to unpack them properly from my bags that we emptied in a rush to clear space) and half makes you smirk at the snub to (or oblivion of?) the classes that insist of decorative stone sculptures in their gardens for purely aesthetic purposes when the raw materials may have been used for something far more functional elsewhere.

Edit to add: I re-uploaded the original High Tea image :)

And so we're back in the land of the grey cloud, the persistent drizzle and the dry humour. Oh England, have you missed us?

Just before we left SA I had a measles scare - we were at the Waterfront and suddenly I turned spotty (with purple spots, no less!). G and Marc were both very polite and sat through lunch with me looking like spotty mcspot, and then we hurriedly went to the chemist who advise immediate citirisine. Long story short, I had all the symptoms of German Measles, but they went away fairly quickly and effortlessly on the day we had to fly. Ho-hum.

We had a very teary day at the airport and I wasn't much in the mood for taking photographs. Thank you all who came to see us (and the 'planes) off. For once, G slept for a good six hours, and I didn't get a wink in before breakfast. I did watch two very silly movies - Ramona and Beezus and Get Smart. I managed to vent my tear ducts all through the first film, after a dinner of roasted chicken breast and stir-fried vegetables, then somewhere again before breakfast of chicken sausage and scrambled eggs. We landed at 6ish am, had some coffee at Costa, and then began our Great Trek home which took us almost three hours because most of the lines were down (thanks TFL!).

On the upside, stress and general disdain always sends me into a baking frenzy so I googled a fancy-pants recipe and decided on Salted Macadamia Millionaire Shortbread. I've included the link to the recipe on the Waitrose website, but just in case it doesn't work or something happens to the site, I'll reproduce it in full below.

Let me just say, I'm very pleased that I stumbled upon these. They are life-changing and delicious and fool-proof and whaddya doing still reading this and not baking?

Salted Macadamia Millionaire Shortbread - yum!

I haven't driven down Blouberg Beach front in a very long time, so you can imagine my surprise when we happened upon a brand new development exploding with new restaurants, bars and night-life.

Also, there is a bizarre, abandoned and rusted ship just off the beach front:

















It just sits there, waiting to be salvaged, or to become a relic in the pages of Cape Town history.

















Here's Table Mountain just before the sun sets. Isn't it lovely? How does that Counting Crows song go?
"Don't it always seem to go/ that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone."


G took full advantage of the beach setting in his shorts (which have got extremely good use this holiday!) and his polarising filter for the camera. Pictures to follow.

















Sunset! That's Robben Island in the distance.






















Can you guess what this is? Lauriane was suggesting that we ought to say it is a person's leg after being attacked by some incurable leprosy variation while stuck in deepest, darkest Africa. It's actually just the side of a rusted lamp-post. Everything on the beach rusts.

















After much ambling we went to Moyo where we were due to meet up with Richard, Aaron and Villi.

Moyo has a branch in Spier, out Stellenbosch way. This branch is beach-themed:


















This is the bar area (a photo I took earlier, it's not magically midday again inside Moyo). In case you can't see it clearly, those are surfboard chairs and surfboard tables, and, when  you sit on the surfboard, you are obliged to dip your toes into Moyo's moat and sip your cocktails.






















Everything is super rustic and Kenyan-inspired. This is the front cover of the heavy steel-bound menu. Naaaaice.






















While I was admiring the very pretty table decor, a group of four talented men arrived at our table and said, "We're not here to sing to you; we're here to thank you for not cooking." And then they sang the most incredible variation of the Lion King song (the Circle of Life) but in acoustic version. Imaginationalise that! They were all playing the various parts of the acoustic orchestra, complete with percussions, those knobbly African instruments where you draw a wooden dowel across a frog's bumpy wooden back, and bird noises. Oh yes.






















Aaaaaaand then they came around and painted our faces. I'm not even joking: it was such an African Theme Park! Here's Lauriane getting very pretty flowers across her nose.

















Me, highly amused that I got floral detailing.






















... Richard's tribal detailing...






















... G was up next. The lady painting our faces was very, very nice and I think she was having a good time doing it as well :)






















Here's G's tribal detailing. It suits him, methinks.

















The "table bread" they served was a cumin, coriander and onion flat bread with lemon and olive oil. It was exceptionally tasty.






















The daquiris were good too!

















This was my steak; I'll happily hand it the "Best Steak in Cape Town" Award, hands down. Even better than Squire's! It's a flamed fillet, medium rare, with a cream and green peppercorn sauce. It's stuffed with spinach, peppadews, onion and something else I can't remember right now. Mushrooms, yes, mushrooms.

















This is Lauriane's food. It's lamb and apricot kebabs with steamed (I think) vegetables and chips.

















G's mussels.
















Did I mention that they give you blankets too? Just in case you get cold. Aaron was hiding underneath a blanket, and, just as I clicked the button on the camera that sets the flash off, he popped out from under his blanket-hood and surprised us all. I really like this picture.






















After dinner we ate dessert which was yucky (I had the orange blossom and pistachio baklava), bleh, and decided to make it all better by sitting on the beach for a while. You can't see, but in that photograph above, there's a whole lot of Blouberg beach and sea behind us.

















Here's Villi and G.






















... I thought it would be a good idea for us to all be in a photo together. Ho hum.

















We were finally photographed together (most of us, anyway) - it was freeeeeeeezing cold and windy and we all couldn't wait to get back to the cars!