Easter en Provence

When it comes to Easter, the mere thought of trading London's bi-polar weather for a sun-filled long weekend in the south of France with two girlfriends, endless glasses of rose, the scent of lavender and a bit of good old fashioned 'down time' really is a no-brainer and certainly a massive perk of European living. So, I packed the 'overnighter' and hopped a flight to Marseille. As one does. At the airport, after enjoying one our client's bespoke airport lounges at Gatwick, I made my way to the gate and was greeted by none other than the entire Harlequins rugby team. In uniform. Yes, that would be short rugby shorts before noon. The lads, many (but not all!) rocking the cauliflower-ear/Mike Tindall nose look, took up 3/4 of our BA flight, prompting the hosties to 'joke' that the plane may not have enough fuel to carry us to France- ummm not really appropriate ladies! But it did, that is after this porker from NZ had to literally be 'squeezed' into his seat with the help of his fellow team-mates. The French au pair sitting next to me couldn't keep an eye on her 5 kids under 9 because of the sheer mass of rugby talent (and flesh!) surrounding us. Tough job but some one's gotta do it right? After surviving the 1.5h flight down south, myself and my Kiwi mate were the only two non-EU passports so we made it out into a much warmer climate in no time so I jumped aboard the local bus and headed into Aix en Provence to kick off our version of Eat, Pray, Love AKA... Eat, Drink, Eat. And that we did!

The B&B we stayed at in Aix was absolutely amazing and could only be topped off by our lovely hostess Caroline - a New Yorker who was born in Brussels and one who has lived all over from London to Sydney to Texas and now in Provence and speaks four languages. Fluently. Her French husband, the very unassuming Hubert was a bit quieter yet did a great job at bringing out the complimentary wine for us each night at 7 sharp (we learnt that the hard way after waiting patiently from 6pm one night...) We lived for the aperitif each night and the breakfast every morning. Oh the breakfasts! Endless, flakey croissants straight out of the oven, four types of homemade jam including a 'courgette and apple' one, fruit, yoghurt, a hot dish (think crepes au chocolat or homemade scrambled eggs with herbs from the garden) and of course, the bread - as if we needed any more carbs! We literally created a new meaning for 'seconds' and 'thirds' until we were ready to roll out and embrace the region! We did so with the 'aid' of our little car that could - a silver Renault 'Twingo' and the very temperamental, English-speaking TomTom. Needless to say, with Jen behind the wheel (and the only one of us who could drive manual, what a trooper!) we were in very safe hands. Thank god Lauren spoke French and has a sense of direction because between me and the defunct TomTom, we could still be circling Le Rotonde in Centre Ville! Jen and I quickly learnt the meaning of Toutes Directions, and a good thing we did because on narrow, windy French roads canvassing mountains (ok maybe they were big hills...) and without any white lines on the road to guide you, it wasn't a quiet drive in the countryside. Motorbikes rared towards us, Winnebago's took up 3/4 of the road and some early Tour de France enthusiasts tried to race us. But, we survived and visited the gorgeous areas of Manosque, Cassis and the L'Occitane factory/gift shop - even though it is sold in 119 countries around the world, we made the most of the 'en Provence' bit and the fact that we had the wheels to take us there! After suitably burning off some of that breakfast by each evening, we'd made room for delightful dinners from canard to boeuf to creme brulee avec lavande! Oh and the vin. Red, white, rose, champagne! A separate food group altogether. Meanwhile, the Easter eggs were on hand (flown in from the UK and trained down from Paris) just in case we were flagging during those intensive tourist/photo taking moments. Speaking of, one particularly 'balmy' evening as Jen and I enjoyed our aperitifs, we kindly asked Hubert to take a picture of us. Ever obliging, he wandered over to the opposite side of where we were sitting to, we assume, make sure there was plenty of greenery to complete this special Provencal moment. So much so, a bush completely covered Jen's face while I had a rosemary shrub coming off the top of my head. Hubert was pretty pleased with his efforts. We just pissed ourselves. Other quality Kodak moments included our trip to Cassis on what must have been one of the windiest days any of us has ever experienced and when we opted for a 'cliffside' pose atop Manosque. Not as windy up there thankfully but my sense of balance after winding up those hills nearly send me over the edge. The four days just flew by. Intoxicated with the scent of lavender (we may have bought 10 sachets between us), bulging suitcases, waistlines and topped up with a much-needed dose of Vitamin D - it was time to head home.

As London pelts it down with rain, thunderstorms and blistering winds this week, I know I'll be back again and the sooner the better! In the meantime, Provence, please don't change a thing. Especially not the Huberts of this world!

FeBRRRRuary

We were oh-so cocky back in December as we sauntered through "the warmest winter in 15 years", November, Christmas and New Year's came and went with temps hovering around the mid-teens and outdoor ice rinks even melting under the pressure. Thinking we were home and hosed, you can imagine our utter disbelief as we became collateral damage this month when someone turned down the temps across Europe. So here is my list of First World Problems when it comes to the real winter in London.

Snow, ice, -5 degrees and choosing which knitted headgear goes with which outfit each morning may all be superficial.com but they're important, they take time and are now part of our morning routine. That is if we even get out of bed! It's nearly midday and I'm still curled up under the doona (or duvet as I'm now meant to say) rocking the sexy flannie PJs look, cradling a hot water bottle and wishing I had fingerless gloves to type this. And yes, I have the central heating cranked up. I know it's like -30 in Romania and in Amsterdam they're ice skating on their canals, but anything below -4 really doesn't sit well with me. Don't get me wrong, the novelty of snow in London still hasn't worn off (two bucket-loads of it in a week!) and there are some super-cute coats on sale at the moment but really, it is now mid-February. Call me naive but is it meant to be this cold now? I thought this was when all the flowers start to come back out (although many peaked too soon around Christmas because they were so confused by the practically tropical weather) and isn't spring like, just around the corner? Last night I was so cold waiting for a bus my fingers froze through leather gloves. I'm literally going to have to start wearing those thick skiiing ones from now on, which make fumbling for an Oyster card so much easier. Fluffy hot pink bed socks are flying off the shelves at Primani, and as mentioned earlier the humble hot water bottle is back on the must-have list because as I've discovered, it is incredbily underrated. Once you're suitably toasty and on the morning commute, you've then got the germs to contend with. Disgusting, snotty sniffles and coughs that you'd expect from someone suffering emphysema are everywhere, red noses, miserable faces, aggressive bankers on the Tube who wouldn't know chivalry if it bit them on their fat behinds are a dime a dozen. It's too cold to walk, much less hop on a frozen Boris bike (yes I know I probably need to 'man up') so I've had to contend with an incubus of gross sickies every morning, nearly stacked it twice on the platform due to melting snow on boots and have just generally had to put up with miserable passengers who look like they're in the middle of a nuclear war, not winter. However, touch wood, I have so far avoided the dreaded lurgy and do hope it stays that way. Although being curled up in bed with a hot water bottle for a whole day is quite appealing at the moment too...

Falling for autumn

I've always been on Team Summer. Give me 35+ degrees, a glass of rosé with an ice cube in it and a bottle of aloe vera gel at the ready for when my 'summer glow' resembles that of a lobster. But since trading in my Seafollys for Uggs over here I have to say autumn is fast becoming my season of choice. After London's pleasant little Indian Summer a few weeks ago (10 days of 25+ degrees), we were all in for a shock when temps plummeted to more 'normal' October weather of around 6 degrees in the morning. Gone were the strappy sandals and Soho pubs spilling out into the late afternoon sun, last winter's boots were truly dusted off and the layering officially began! As per usual I was grossly unprepared for what 'autumn' really meant over here and almost went to Belgium the other week sans coat and with just a flimsy cardigan and a couple of scarves for warmth! Oh how naive I was. However I have since decided to embrace even the crispest of autumnal weather, rock the flushed-cheek look and somehow make static hair work!

Here are a few things I've Fall-en for this season:

• Orange. It is everywhere. From the crunchy leaves underfoot and the burnt orange leaves dotted above pristine white townhouses to the bright orange pumpkins on sale at local delis ready to be carved up for Halloween (yes, a 'holiday' the Brits seems to have embraced wholeheartedly over here. Don't get me started!)
• Autumn sunshine. Finding that perfect spot in a park, at a cafe or at the pub where you're instantly defrosted. It pretty much warms the soul.
• Faux fur. Still keeps you snug and it comes without the risk of an angry PETA supporter tossing red paint at you.
• Autumn cheeks. Forget blusher, cycle into work and you're red-y to go!
• Pretty scarves. Is there anything better?
• Hot cross buns. Yes they are available all year round in London and I like mine in October!
• Red wine. Hello lover.
• A city break to Bordeaux. See above.
• And most of all, that it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Bring it on!

On yer bike

I might be a bit slow on the uptake but I've recently 'caught up with the bicycle'. For those non-Londoners out there, this is the tagline for the Barclay 'Boris Bike' hire scheme that was rolled out here just over a year ago. Jokingly named after our Mayor with the Hair Boris Johnson (pictured, and no that's not me behind him!), these bulky 3-gear bikes are dotted all over the city and cost just a measly £1 for a 24h hire. So last week I jumped on the bandwagon/bike and gave it a go! My friend Stella kindly lent me a helmet (hardly anyone wears them here, unheard of back home!) and we hit the road. I was a bit wobbly to start off with, one rather good looking motorist called out 'easy there' as I nearly scraped his BMW. Yikes. But how hard can it be? Needless to say I safely made it to our brunch destination St. Ali and after calming my nerves with some proper coffee and a divine serving of poached eggs, I was ready to tackle the rest of our planned Saturday route. We headed back up Clerkenwell Road (much quieter than the peak hour I experienced on Monday, more on that later) and headed east to Broadway Market where we locked the bikes up and wandered around taking in gastronomic delights, organic produce and a sneaky macaroon. The moment we got back on the bikes, the heavens opened! Thunder, lightening and torrential rain and we peddled like mad down Hackney Road. Rocking the 'drowned rat' look and getting strange looks from people in cars we managed to stay on the bikes, hands slipping off the handle bars and rain coming at us from all directions. Talk about a baptism of fire! So after arriving back at the bike dock across the road from my place, I returned my ride for the day and Stella headed back to her place.

On Monday night, I thought I'd give cycling home from work in peak hour a go. It is just one straight road all the way to my place. Can't be too hard right? Well let's just say about a minute and 30 seconds into my ride up New Oxford Street I lost a ballerina flat. For a fleeting moment as the Number 55 bus roared behind me I thought about leaving it and cycling home one-shoed. But, no I propped the bike on a lamp-post, hopped over, grabbed it, probably risking my life, and got back on my bike and joined the throngs of other, much more experienced cyclists as we peddled east. The thing with bikes in London is that they almost take over the roads now. The cars, cabs, buses and 'lorries' sort of have to give way to you (although I am not taking this as gospel) and I find grouping with the 'big kids' on bikes is a nice buffer too. But boy was it a workout! In between trying to keep both my shoes on, the constant stopping and starting and generally just being scared sh**less I peddled my little heart out. Needless to say, as I approached the notoriously dangerous Old Street roundabout I didn't risk it, hopped off, returned my Boris bike to its dock and called it a day. Bike riding like a true Londoner. Sort of. But I kinda like it and think I might just do it again tomorrow morning... sans the ballet flats.

The price is riot

We can blame bad parenting, slack teachers, greedy bankers, pop videos, social media, celebrity culture, MP's expenses and even Simon Cowell but nothing excuses the senseless acts of thuggery and rioting that held London and much of the UK hostage this past week. I was lucky/smart enough not to put myself in a situation where a brick could easily be hurled at my head or my bus torched yet at the same time I felt like a sitting duck, tucked up at home in bed as all my local shops were boarded up, watching it all unfold on the BBC. Would our apartment be attacked next? Where are the police? Do we go to work tomorrow? As Monday night's mayhem spiraled out of control and I watched my beloved London go up in flames I felt really sad. What on earth has the world come to? I've seen less violence and destruction in an Iraqi war zone. Why is that 11 year old skinhead laying into sports store with a brick so he can make off with a £40 pair of trainers? Why are Adidas tracksuit-clad 14 year old girls swigging from a (stolen) bottle of rosé at 11 in the morning as they boast to an undercover reporter that "it's about our taxes innit?". So as anarchy ruled in my borough of Hackney and my friends and family woke up to the news I touched base with a few colleagues back home and before I knew it I was on Sunrise and the Today Show. Despite the lack of obvious action around me (I certainly wasn't going to go find it in my Peter Alexander pjs) I painted a picture for Kochie and the gang on Sunrise and then for Georgie and Karl on Today. 5 live phoners in 2 hours. Full-on to say the least! Then Today asked me if I could come back the next night to speak for the tens of thousands of Aussies living in the UK, but this time they wanted me on-camera. In Tottenham (where the riots started no less). Much to my mother's many "darling can't you just do another phoner from the safety of your own bedroom?" requests I had to put the old journo hat back on and get in amongst it. Much to my surprise it wasn't as scary as I had feared. There was a car to take me to and from the location and at least 8 police officers standing next to me as I spoke down the barrel. A few locals gathered around to watch (they were all harmless and if anything furious that their community was attacked at the hands of senseless yobs) and before I knew it I was over and out! That night order was somewhat restored to a bruised and bleeding UK. More than 16,000 police were on the beat that night alone and as luck would have it, many of the yobs were either hiding their plasmas (and themselves) before being dragged by the scruffs of their necks into court the next morning. As these courts ran for 24 hours just to get through the backlog of riot arrests (more than 1000 at last count) many Londoners and UK residents rallied together and helped communities pick up the pieces. Social media is both the villain and the hero in all of this because while rioters chose to mobilise through the secretive BlackBerry messenger it was Twitter and Facebook that were the platforms for movements like #riotcleanup #letsdosomethingniceforashraf and #OperationCupofTea all of which helped get locals and small businesses back on their feet and restore our faith in humanity. We're not out of the woods yet and as Saturday night falls across the city, it is anyone's guess whether the violence will continue. Back home, friends and family (and even news anchors) asked me how I was feeling as the riots raged and I found myself looking to the title of this blog because really, even in its darkest hour it is still the UK who best knows how to Keep Calm and Carry On.

Rain rain go away

I have officially become one of those people that live in England and whine about the weather. But seriously, can you blame me? After 3 days of sweltering high-twenties... (high-twenties people!) the weekend has been a total washout with tops of around 16 degrees, rain, wind and picnic cancellations. And this is all in the "height" of summer. Hilarious I know if you are reading this on a beach somewhere in Australia where is it still WINTER and you can boast about how warm it is compared to our fair isle. But as I have come to learn, the weather dictates almost everything here. It is front page news when a beach in Bournemouth runs out of ice-cream because the mercury nudged 24 degrees on Wednesday, the mood of your local barista is generally brighter when the sun is out and oh you know to avoid the Tube if you prefer not to have your face shoved in the sweaty armpit of a City banker in 40 degree heat underground. Oh and there's nowhere to cool down on those 5 hot days a year because a) they usually occur during the working week (just to twist the knife) and b) entry to one of the few local pools or 'lidos' as they're called here cost around £5 and that's if you can even get in at all. Thankfully gelato in the workplace is highly tolerated over here and extra fans were bought at the last minute. So when the weather clouds my thoughts, dampens my spirits and just blows me away (triple pun intended) I have to remind myself of why I traded Sydney beaches, bars and BFFs for London. And so the list goes:

-Travel: It takes longer to get from London to Liverpool than to Paris. I rest my case.

-Dining scene: I have no qualms in paying for an entree that may cost the same as a weekly Tube ticket just because this week this particular restaurant is the hottest ticket in town.

-Shopping. High street, high end whatever you fancy there is always something you just can't live without.

-Parks. Because we don't have beaches nearby they pump a lot of money into making them pretty. They're great for picnics too especially when it isn't raining.

-Bikes. I'm yet to jump on the bandwagon but they seem to be the only way to go. Just add a wicker basket, heels and a flowy skirt and boy she can take on the world!

-Culture. There's always a new exhibition or play opening here almost every week and as a bonus they're usually indoors! Somehow I don't think I'll be rushing to see 'Singin in the Rain' anytime soon. It is already regular feature on the streets of London pretty much every day. Minus the singing.

Let's hope the sun comes out tomorrow!

Game. Set. Match

This week I ticked something rather special off my bucket list. Wimbledon. Although I'm hardly a sporting enthusiast (be it playing, watching or debating it) Wimbledon is the creme de la creme of the tennis calendar and takes place every June in my new hometown. I'd be mad to miss it. And speaking of cream, the strawberries and Pimms also added to the appeal. So on Thursday, we clocked off a tad early and hit the road to SW19 as guests of the WTA. Nice huh? We were ushered into our VIP spots on Centre Court and settled in for a fabulous day of tennis. First up was my fellow Aussie Lleyton Hewitt. Can you say bandwagon? Even though Lleyton was the one sportsperon who always drove me mad back home with his arrogance and the fact that he called his kid Cruz and of course those annoying C'mons I thought I had better just cheer for him much to the amusement of every English person in my vicinity and our Kiwi mate from the WTA. His other half Bec was there in the family box as was Pat Rafter. Lleyts put up a good fight but after few hours and the odd c'mon he lost out to the Swede. Forgot his name. Good match though. Next up, the girls. China's Li Na and a recently injured German player called Sabine Lisicki. After recently winning Roland Garros (see how it helped having an expert sitting with us?) we all expected a quick Li Na win, not so. Sabine hit back and it was arguably the upset of the day. She was so overwhelmed she burst into tears and really lapped up her 5 minutes of fame on the court post match. It was actually really sweet. Li Na didn't hang around though and I guess you can hardly blame her. By then we were ready for another Pimms. The thing with Wimby is, unlike pretty much any other sporting arena in the world, there are no refreshments inside, you cannot stand up and go to the loo or the bar until the players score and/or swap sides (this is as far as my tennis knowledge goes really!) Then it is a refined rush to duck out in those 15 odd seconds (note: heels make this manouver a bit tricky). By the time we got out the gate we started chatting about the day so far and bear in mind we were well outside the court but I must have even been too loud for that! A stern guard shushed me! More than once. So had to tune it down a tad and get back into 'the zone'. After all, this is Wimbledon darling. Last up on Centre Court was Roger Federer. You know, that Swiss guy? Well he hit the court up against a French hottie, Adrian someone. Not a bad day at the office! Kept my eye out for celebs but sadly to no avail. Apparently there was a famous footballer in front of us at one point (he had all his hair so couldn't have been my mate Rooney) and some guy from Hollyoaks but I was on the scout for A-listers and Bec and Pat just didn't cut it for me. I was looking for a Middleton or Anna Wintour or even a Harry Potter kid. Sadly to no avail, even borrowing binoculars off the American guy next to us didn't help. So after a quick visit to the gift shop (surprisingly I passed on the £800 Ralph Lauren blazer) we called it a day and a darn nice one at that, even if I had to be quiet, please.