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.
By now it’s dark and I’ve begun to imagine what my new life in a Chinese refugee camp will be like. Will I learn the language? Might I fall in love? Will I finally learn to cook rice?
This post is essentially my confession: confessions of a fortnight misspent in Melbourne’s dens of iniquity and raw fish.
It’s the last day of my 20s. The title of this blog has been unashamedly borrowed from Douglas Adams and here I’m going to borrow another of his deliciously pithy phrases: Don’t Panic.
The day starts properly when Chandler, goofing around, cuts his face on the salt of his giant pretzel and bleeds on it. The first injury of the day — and there will be many.
That’s right, it’s almost October so it’s time for…
I have lots of gunk –both the emotional type and the more sputum-like — in my body to get out and that’s what brings me back to Qua’an’s House of Pain, otherwise known as Li’s Torture Palace, otherwise known as my local Thai massage parlour.
There is something macabre about the name, ill-suited to this sprawling country family home.
Say what you like about wealthy Moroccan nightclub-managing, boat-owning party boys, but their hosting etiquette does their mothers proud.
An unsettlingly big place 