I panic. We panic. I swear a lot. It’s basically what you’d expect a scene with two Aussie girls in a little Italian town to look like. There are impatient Italian drivers yelling and gesturing furiously, an old man watching as he smokes from his balcony, horns bleating, lots of nervous sweat, a dog.
What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
You know you’ve done it right when the waitress eyes off the table speculatively and then has to strategically remove the sugar bowl to accomodate all of your food.
At one point the Kangaroo brings chocolate strudel — which the doctor bans. It’s the thought that counts I suppose …but I bloody well wanted that strudel.
After two days of skiing, it’s easier to name the parts of me that don’t hurt. My fingers. My forearms. My neck.
I’ll give you a clue. In grade one, she taught me how to make really good, firm, round mudballs. Another? In grade 5, she and I surreptitiously looked up the mysterious F-word we’d heard on the playground in my children’s dictionary (no joy). We’ve unwittingly matched our outfits many times in the 28 years we’ve been friends — we shared a love for denim overalls. We’ve been netball team co-founders, pen-pals, joint amateur theatre producers at the tender age of 10. Still no?
Bucolic prettiness at its showy, British best.
Today I bring you my list of Weird Things I’ve Discovered That Brits Love.
I glance down. My boots are Timberland, fashioned of sturdy leather. However, they are apparently still embarrassing city-slicker footwear.
‘Oh… these are fine!’
‘You will get muddy. We will go other way.’
The seatback ads on the Icelandair air flight from London Heathrow to Keflavik, Reykjavik set the mood for the country you’re about to visit.
An unsettlingly big place 