Holy moly, I am so looking forward to this. The Rum Diary was one of Book Club For Drunk’s best reads ever - daiquiris ahoy. I really recommend you read the book first if you haven’t already. It was (supposedly) written when Hunter S. Thompson was only 22!
The typography is rather smashing too, don’t you think?
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London so far: Polish beer and lipstick / free information, stacked high on the street for commuters to pluck / museums, museums, museums / summer fruits / wise advice in Shoreditch / a pint or three at the Ten Bells (Jack the Ripper’s stalking ground) / riding a (double-decker) bus home from Sean’s Smashday party in Bethnal Green…
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Wishing, waiting, saving? These Trip Fund glasses made by the ever-clever Olivia Coote/Lily’s Make Believe are just the ticket.
One thing I have observed since moving to England is that there is SO MANY COINS. 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, 50 pence, 1 pound, 2 pound. Every time I buy something I’m given a small treasury in change. I find it especially strange coming from New Zealand, where we make most of our purchases on plastic. Here I have a purse full of shrapnel. I think a Trip Fund jar is definitely in order!
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I made a trip to London’s Natural History Museum. I love looking at rocks and minerals.
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Repeat after me:
It’s football, not soccer.
It’s football, not soccer.
It’s football, not soccer.
It’s football, not soccer.
It’s football, not soccer.
The game was football, Chelsea versus West Brom at Stamford Bridge. Security and hopes were high. A first I didn’t really know what was going on, but thanks to the man behind me, who had the crackled voice of a market seller, I kept up with the plays. And the players, as he graciously named every one – “COME ON DROGZ!”
The final score was 2-1 to Chelsea. Everyone in blue went home happy, and I must remember to always call it football.
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Finally home. Which is what I’ll be calling London for the foreseeable future. Right now I am crashing at my brother’s house in Surrey Quays – until next week when I move East into a cute little house with a warm kitchen, a back garden, and a tube stop.
Above is the view from one of the said quays; the buildings are far beyond on the other side of the Thames. And if you walk a little further, you’ll get to a boat called the Wibbly Wobbly – it’s a floating pub!
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Marsh Gibbon aka Swamp Monkey is a tiny village nestled in the English countryside somewhere close to Oxford. I oohed at thatched roof cottages, played pétanque, wandered through a churchyard, got to make friends with several nice ponies, ate at some cozy pubs, and whiled away the summer days…
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I am now safely ensconced in the land of tea and biscuits (or in my case ginger crunch – it keeps magically appearing in the kitchen). In a dream world, I’d have one of these Scrabble mugs to drink out of. Or maybe 5 – my name is not very high scoring!
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A bit of holiday consumerism. I bought the Diana Mini from the Lomo store in Le Marais, post-lover’s bridge, and pre-falafel feast. I also purchased some black and white film which I am very much looking forward to developing. The paper bag is from Merci, and contains a little Liberty x Merci trinket. Also from Merci, but not pictured – a wonderful travel notebook with large vellum pockets for storing leaves from Canal St Martin, used metro tickets, and hand drawn maps.
Oh and some $$$. I find foreign-to-me currency mesmerizing.
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Food, food and more glorious food at a market in Bastille, Paris. It was very early in the morning (thanks jet-lag) and we got there just as all the vendors were setting up. There was nothing to do but buy a nutella crêpe and perch on a bench waiting for them to open. It was the first time I tried nutella. Or ‘noooo-tella’ as the girl making it said. (As she I couldn’t help but think of Amélie, imagining records being made with a crêpe rake.)
Eventually the market jolted to life, and we bought as much cheese, bread and fruit as we could carry. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the intoxicating scent of fresh yellow pears, stacked high to the stall roof.
Bastille Market - Sundays
Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, Bastille, Paris.
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