2010.

2010 (if we're doing it like this again) has been a year of travelling; of foreign cities and moving trains and picnic lunches with cheese and bread. In 2010 I came back to London in the snow, booked a trip to Paris, made up with friends, hung out in Manchester and Cambridge and Lincoln, rode on the Eurostar, climbed the Eiffel Tower, got into politics, revised and wrote essays, ran the Race for Life, moved house, travelled Europe on a shoestring, made fortune tellers and ran around in playgrounds with children on playscheme, pub quizzed my way around Conwy, climbed Snowdon, went to Bratislava, Budapest and Vienna with the fam, moved back to London, turned twenty-one, had major birthday celebrations, dressed up, broke up and went to Krakow. In 2010 there were cameras and city maps, mosquito bites and birthday cakes, swing sets and sunflowers, bunk beds and felt tip pens. There were tears and laughter and squiggly nerves as well, but you know what, there always will be, so what the hell. Stop mentioning it, Jess.

You'd better look out below.

Miraculously, I made my way to Victoria coach station without fuss on Saturday morning (although I did have a mini meltdown when the tube stopped at Westminster for more than ten minutes). Delighted that for once I had made the right bus at the right time, I was content to sit back quietly and read my book all the way to Manchester. Sadly it was not to be. Somehow, I had not banked on the alternative megabus conundrum: the uncooperative neighbour. My travel companion for the five and a bit hours that ensued was a boy from Pakistan, who was studying English in Manchester. He seemed nice enough and for a while I was perfectly happy to talk (with inexperience) about football and Lollywood movies and the places I had visited when I was in Pakistan five years ago. That was all very well and good. However, when the conversation turned persistently to co-founding an import-export business together and marital visas and running away to Paris in the Spring, Shudehill bus station could not come about quick enough.

After an hour of disorientation and a Christmas Market vs. heavy bag debacle, my family found me crouched on a wall, eating Swiss macaroni with a plastic spork. We ate a hasty pizza dinner before heading to the GMEX to watch two hours of Devandra Banhart (♥ "hey there little snapping turtle, snapping at at shell") and Arcade Fire (expecting every next song to be Wake Up). I am amazed that in a crowd predominately made up of eighteen-thirty year olds, I was knocked over time and time again by a group of middle-aged bald men, attempting to start a mosh pit. Oh the youth grown ups of today.

I don't want a lot for Christmas.

Just a couple of cross stitch kits and a camera and a super awesome teacake cushion and some dvds and some very hungry caterpillar cupcake cases and and and...

Peter Pantomime.

Where on earth did 8th week come from? One moment it's November and it's Bonfire Night and I'm off to Poland and the next thing I know it's December and we're decking the halls (we have a Christmas tree and his name is Barney ♥) and singing along to Christmas songs and I am off to Oxford for Charlotte's annual Christmas play.

I left London in the middle of a snowstorm and went on a festive bus ride through the Chilterns, arriving in Oxford full of winter cheer. At the park and ride I met up with my auntie and we went for lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Jericho. It was colourful and delicious and extra wonderful because the waiter sat us down at a table next to the (warm, warm) radiator. After pitta bread and moutabel we went to the Ashmolean to see the 'Pre-Raphaelites and Italy' exhibition (because what would a trip to Oxford be without a healthy dose of Rossetti, Holman-Hunt and co.?), then I went to Mansfield to meet up with Charlotte.

We went to the Peter Pan rehearsal, while I waited for David and we had a massive Harry Potter outburst ("Hi, this is my husband Bill", "Hi, I'm Ron's brother", "He likes his steaks raw now, hohoho", "Oh my husband Remus, the joker" = SUMMED UP) and folded programmes. David popped up eventually and we went for tea at the Eagle and Child (tradition much). Then it was play time and as usual the (Peter) Pantomime was witty and fun and Charlotte played her part of Alfred ("I'm Dave...") the pirate with particular finesse.

In the evening we lay on Charlotte's big new bed in her big new room and we watched our favourites on youtube (plus the David Tennant look-alike and a disturbing Argentinian dance competition (shudder)). In the morning we had a lie-in and I went a-shopping and in the afternoon I went home again and that was that. Lovely.

Santa Claws.

SO TRUE.

Dzień dobry.

Well Poland, you've done it again (dispelled our weather-related stereotypes that is; no terrifying milk bar experiences this time around, thank god). I didn't go quite as far as Harry - to declare the need for gloves and scarves in the middle of July - but I did go armed with three woolly jumpers and a small hot water bottle. I mean, it's November and it's Krakow; temperatures are going to be Siberian, right? Hmm. Wrong again. Let it just be said that our trip to Auschwitz was warm and sunny to an inappropriate degree and I walked round Birkenau without my coat.

It was weird but wonderful to get away with just my mum and dad for a couple of days (in fact, had I not dreamt that my brother was all alone and posting forlorn, 'where are my family when I need them?' statuses on facebook, it would have been perfect). On Saturday we wandered around the Old Town (original UNESCO listing, don't you know), up and down Wawel Hill, in and out of the cathedral and across the river to Oskar Schindler's factory (now an amazing museum). On Sunday we went on a coach trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where we were escorted by an incredibly passionate and highly interesting tour-guide. The day was harrowing and surreal and insightful all at the same time - certainly an experience that defies words on a blog post. On Monday we went on a day trip to Wieliczka Salt Mine (another original UNESCO listing, don't you know), which - it goes without saying - differed greatly from the previous day's excursion. It was however, just as riveting and twice as fun; who knew there was so much to learn and to love about salt? Highlights included Da Vinci's Last Supper in sodium chloride, a large salty chapel and a fantastic tour-guide named Sebastian. After that we flagged a little; there was a nasty case of the cheese dumplings and a postcard hunt and before we knew it we were hemmed into our Ryanair seats and jetting back to cold, dark and windy London, where three times woolly jumpers and a small hot water bottle were undoubtedly called for.

Mr Postman.

The other day my Art of the Novel tutor told the class that the epistolary novel would no longer work in this day and age, because "nobody writes letters anymore". Well Mr Parnell, I am here to prove you wrong! One of my favourite university past-times is snail mail; writing letters, receiving letters, hell! even ordering course books and catalogues online, simply so I can appreciate the sound of something falling through my letterbox on a weekday morning. In my first year I had more books of stamps than I had hot dinners and even now I have a whole drawer dedicated to (read: overflowing with) writing paper and notecards. You've got to love the written word, particularly when it comes through the post on sushinery stationery. So, here's to you Mr Postman; thank you for a lovely letterbox week.

Scantastic.

Today I spent £15 developing film. Here's a quick photographic glimpse into 'Summer 010: the Lost Months'. Adrian Mole, eat your heart out:

Nightmare on Evelyn Street.

Frankly, Halloween did not live up to my abnormally high standards this year. There were no parties, no spontaneous trips to Venice and nor was there a single pumpkin to be had in the days leading up to all hallows eve. For a very short while Jenny and I contemplated going on a ghost walk around Peckham, but decided that our lives would be in safer hands if we declined. Still, I made the most of a bad situation and spent a fine evening at home, hiding behind a pillow so Jen could watch horror movies, wearing my Max costume, drinking orange hot chocolate and baking/eating festive cupcakes with pumpkins on top. Here have a recipe:

Ginger Cupcakes:
200g unsalted butter, diced, at room temperature
175g dark soft brown sugar
3 tablespoons black treacle
150ml semi-skimmed milk, at room temperature
4 pieces of stem ginger, drained and chopped
2 large eggs, beaten
300g self-raising flour, sifted
1 tablespoon ground ginger
Pinch of salt

• Preheat the oven to 160°C (fan)/180°C/350°F/gas mark 4 and line two 12-hole muffin trays with the appropriate size and number of cupcake cases.
• Melt the butter, sugar and treacle in a saucepan over a low heat. Cool briefly and then stir in the milk.
• Add the chopped ginger to the beaten eggs and then beat into the butter mixture. Sift the flour, ground ginger and salt and add to the warm mixture. Combine thoroughly.
• Carefully spoon the mixture into the cupcake cases, filling them to about two-thirds fill. Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes. To check they are cooked, insert a skewer in the centre of one of the cakes - it should come out clean.

Ginger Fudge Icing:
140g unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
4 tablespoons ginger syrup, drained from a jar of stem ginger
300g icing sugar, sifted

• In a large mixing bowl beat the butter for a few minutes until really smooth, then add the remaining ingredients and beat again until the icing is smooth and creamy.
• Enjoy.

N/A.

I don't know what to say. Clearly some things can't be put into words and clearly (sometimes) it's best not to try. Right now I think the best thing to do is eat birthday cake and make lists/fun/the best of a bad situation/do and mend.

Megafuss.

Oh the witty transport puns. They just keep on coming.

It's just my luck (or lack thereof) that the greatest stories I have to tell, revolve around my rocky relationship with public transport and with that great "money-saver", Megabus (one part wonderful, two parts evil) in particular. Yesterday, we went to Cardiff for Emily's birthday. I had a lovely time; we ate at Old Orleans, drank sweet and sour cocktails and went to Glam. Emotions were high; I sat baffled and consoling in the bathroom and on the pavement and eventually we finished the night in KFC. A very nice/cold/standard night out. This morning we walked back into the centre of Cardiff and made a Nando's stop, so that Amber and Cat could tend their hangovers with chicken and perinaise. Then, following the quickest shopping spree ever I set off for the bus station and the 3:45 coach to London.

But wait. Did you say bus station? WRONG. Logical though it may seem, the megabus does not depart from Cardiff bus station. National Express? Sure. Twenty plus local services to Merthyr Tydfil? Why not! Megabus? NOOO. Thus it was, with fifteen minutes to go until ETD and nothing but the rough directions of a friendly Welsh bus conducter to go by, I found myself running down the road in the direction of the castle. With five minutes to spare I reached the castle, realised I had no idea where to go next and gave up. Ish. Rather than conceding and catching the train, I decided to walk about a bit and see whether I could find the megabus stop under my own steam (or indeed any bus-stop for that matter) and catch the next coach instead. I walked down one road, stopped a group of students (surely they travel on £1.50 buses) and was immediately pointed in the opposite direction. Walked down another road and the same thing happened again. Eventually, I found myself sitting on a wall, all but ready to cry and contemplating the next step. I looked around for some sort of divine intervention and realised that I was sitting on no other than the wall opposite Glam, where I had spent much of the previous night. Oh how the mighty have fallen. So, I rang Gaz and asked him to help me.

The story as followed involved shuffling into the Hilton Hotel, armed with rucksack, sleeping bag and Primark bag and looking like the dictionary definition of student; a clean-cut receptionist stepping out from behind his desk and directing me to a previously undiscovered bus-stop around the corner; sitting in Starbucks for two+ hours, wasting money on frappacinos and wi-fi cards, in order to access the tempremental megabus website, buy a new bus ticket and make it back to the bus-stop a couple of minutes before departure. Then there was the bus journey itself; four hours and a jaunt through Bristol, one-hundred-and-fifty pages of Don Quixote and when I arrived at London Victoria? Well, nothing says "Welcome to London" like a burning car on an empty back-street. What a day.

Disease-free and light.

I need to see this film. Not since the great Scooby Doo incident of '02 ("I'm gonna grind your bones to dust") have I laughed so long or so hard in the cinema ("They came in so fast, I didn't know where to go").

Also, Charlotte and I had great fun pointing out the Salzburg fortress every time it appeared on screen and telling anyone within hearing range, "we've been there". I don't know that they enjoyed our over-excited whispering quite so much.

Trailer trash.

Admittedly I haven't slept in a caravan since I was three (bar a couple of nights in Lincoln, which don't count because the house was only a couple of feet away). I'm sure there's much to be said against them, what with the great British weather and the jarring proximity of bed to toilet. Even so, I am a little bit taken with caravans right now. They keep popping up this summer - in a book in Shrewsbury and on the Mereseyrail to Liverpool. I want to rent one. Somebody come to Whitby with me? One condition though, caravans must look like this:

Warsaw & Poznan.

Catching up on some postcard-writing on the (nearly missed) train to Warsaw; your average-sized beer mug in Poland; Harry's "it'll be cold in Poland, mark my words" prophecies fail to materialise and the floor melts; the dreaded milk bar; reminders of Communism at the Warsaw Rising museum; our last supper (much to Harry's distaste); a quick jaunt in Poznan, preceding seven hours at the airport; pożegnanie Poznan, bye Europe:



WIĘCEJ.