Eight Days a Week

Wednesday February 26/2014

A week has passed since stepping foot on British soil. I, Chelsea Beamish, am a resident of London, England. I sit here now, typing away on my own bed, in my own room, with my own laundry hanging to dry, my own UK cell phone charging next to my own bedside table ridden with photographs, goodbye cards, and all types of sentimental crap I couldn't bare to part with. I look out my window into the window across from mine at a man in a red sweater (sorry, 'Jumper') smelling lettuce and talking on the phone. And I think to myself, if one were to look into my window, I'd just be another british bird punching away at her computer and sipping a cider. What a lovely thought. But this is only day one of putting ownership on the contents of my rented room in a flat in South London that I share with an endearing bloke by the name of Dan. Dan is the man. 

My first week in London was spent in the East side, an area called Hackney, with Angela's sister Bernie, her husband Brian, and their ridiculously adorable 6 month old Bobby. Seriously, I don't generally like children, but this kid might as well be on prozac for how happy and easy going he is. I might just be in love with him. The moment after setting my bags down in their uber trendy flat reconstructed from an old iron mill, I was out the door and off to meet my brother, Josh, in central London for a night of exploration. Shockingly without fail, I managed to make my way through tube station after tube station, overground and underground, southbound, westbound. I typically get lost in a grocery store so this is an incredible feat for me. And finally I am in the heart of London, and my heart wants to leap from my chest and explode over every cobblestone street, double decker, adorably european cafe, and flashing billboard. People are everywhere but I see nothing but what I already knew I would. I see my home. This is where I have always dreamt I would be, where I should be. My heart beats faster with every corner we turn. The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, Les Miserable, the seven dials, my brain is on overload but craves for more. I live here. What madness. We find ourselves at a tiny Italian restaurant Josh had eaten at previously and fell in love with, and I could see why. The intimately small dining room, the authentic and fetching italian servers with their broken english and delightful red aprons. The endless jars of pickled this and packed in oil that filling the walls and making waiting for your food feel like an absolute eternity. All of these things made me want to move in to this gem of a restaurant, sleep in a broom closet and never ever leave. I hadn't even tasted the food. Let me assure you, upon tasting the first bite, I was seriously contemplating how this would all be possible. I'm sure I could arrange some kind of work to live situation, and with the pleasant company of the sicilian servers, I'd really have all a girl could need. We ordered a cheese and meat plate that came with the most delicious bread, sundried tomatoes, and… pickles. I have already started mentally unpacking my things in the closet. Next was a flatbread with roasted tomatoes and more meat, all while sipping on a glass of red wine. I have found my heaven and it is glorious. On the way home I couldn't help but skip my way down the narrow streets of "trashy-trendy" Hackney. Not only had I arrived, but I was navigating my way back to the triple B's without an ounce of hesitation as to where I was going. The streets were empty. It was just me, the Beatles, and London. Alone together at last. The previous 'swallowed bowling ball' sensation has now morphed into borderline psychopathic laughter. Every time the thought surfaces that I live in London, I instantly burst out in billowing laughter. It's just funny. It's so real that it's just hilarious. It's hilarious. I live in London. 

Every night to follow was filled with tube treks to new and marvellous areas of London. Each one being just as amazing and perfect as the last. Brixton food market for a full english breakfast and maple bacon pancakes (gotta keep some Canadian in me alive). Movie nights at the cinema equipped with WINE and peanut butter popcorn. Venn street market for fine cheese, fresh vegetables, apple cider donuts, and cookies that could easily be mistaken for frisbees. Yup, still fat. Back to Brixton market for the best pizza I've ever put in my mouth. But what could quite possibly be the most shocking and oddly entertaining evening of my life, let alone my time in London, is where I will go into great detail. Angela and I decided to have a laid back evening involving a laid back bar in Hackney, The Crate. I'm not even sure it could be classified as a bar. Nestled beside a little channel deep in the hipster chic industrial regions. this place reminded me much of Granville Island in Vancouver. Cool, easy, wooden, and humble. Not generally a target of bar fights, one would say. Alas, enter Chelsea. We are on our first round, alone at the bar with maybe 10 others occupying a few tables. A woman approaches the bar, hammered as all hell would be a great understatement. She has a glass of red wine in her hand, that in moments is bound to hit the floor. She sits on a stool beside Angela and with every ounce of willpower, raises her eyelids just enough to look at us and smile. Now the following conversation is my best efforts to decipher whatever it was this mad woman was trying to say. It went something like this:

Mad woman: "I am sooooo drunk. I think I'm drunk."

Chelsea: "Yes, you may very well be by the looks of things."

Mad woman: (swaying side to side, and bobble heading) Mumble, mumble, mumble, something about red wine. Mumble, drools on face, too much wine. Mumble. Too much. 

Chelsea: "Yes, your teeth practically match your hair. Best you take it easy."

Mad woman looks up at Chelsea, mumbles something about Chelsea's smile. Continues to repeat, "Your smile, your smile" as she walks past Angela. She approaches Chelsea with open hands, stretched towards her face. Naturally, Chelsea assumes this mad woman is now a horny mad woman and is about to attempt to kiss her. That thought vanishes swiftly upon A PUNCH IN THE FACE. 

Yes. I was punched in the face by a wine tooth ridden, burgundy headed, sloshed as shit, whack of a woman. Not once, but twice. Bam! Swipe to the right cheek. Bam! Jab to the left. I didn't even have time to process what the fuck was happening to me before the second fist struck. I mean I get the whole turn the other cheek thing, but Jesus, this was too literal. Instantly, all three bartenders were creating a barrier between me and this crazy ass bitch who was still swatting at me while being restrained by two large men. She was yelling at me, in what I can only assume was some kind of demonic language, as I've come to conclude she was heavily possessed. They finally managed to get the Exorcist Part 3 to vacate the premise and I just sat there, in completely disbelief, laughing uncontrollably. Because what else can you do? You get sucker punched, you laugh about it. 

So there you have it. Chelsea goes to london and gets bitch slapped. But just to put the icing on the cake, because that can never be all there is, before and after my public beating, I was having a pleasantly flirty exchange with one of the cute, trashy-trendy bartenders. Feeling like no one will turn down a girl who could possibly wake up with a black eye or two, I attempted to ask him out. 

"My girlfriend lives an hour from here."

Awesome. 

Kick me when I'm down, friend. And spit a little too, just for shits and giggles. 

But it's ok. Hackney is past me and hopefully here in Clapham, I will avoid future run ins with satanic red heads and their Tyson like fists. 

My Kind of Craic

Monday February 17/2014

Jesus Mary and Joseph, I did it. I slept through the night. Well almost. Basically. My theory that I am immune to jet lag proved completely inaccurate at about 4:00pm on Saturday when I decided to have a short nap before we stepped out for another booze soaked evening in Dublin. This "short nap" had me in a deep coma until 10:30pm. Based on this, I chose to be a responsible adult and stay home to rest. Alone with an untouched pan of tirimasu, I had brilliant plans of mind numbing television, followed by an undisturbed evening of comatose. By 6:30am, I'm still wide awake. Shit. And unfortunately it wasn't until 6:30am when I realized I had packed some old Tylenol 3's I had stashed from when I had my wisdom teeth removed. Knocked me out instantly, but also kept me in that state until 2pm the following day. Whoops. So much for my final day in Dublin. Meh, I came, I saw, I drank, I was imprisoned. I'm good. 

After some pick me up bacon, and eggs covered in spaghetti hoops, we were ready for our road trip to Mayo. Well almost ready. There was the mandatory Malteaser stock up, THEN we were road trip ready. A three hour ride through the irish countryside, bound for the Mulrooney residence, also known as Angela's parents house, and our recovery centre. Let me just say, I would take the country over the city in a heart beat here. So incredibly beautiful. The giant houses, built on giant lots of land. The emerald hills, the flooded lakes, the stone walls. Tiny roads that lead to tiny towns with tiny stores. I loved it. This was the Ireland I imagined. Sorry Dublin. We arrived at what had to be just the sweetest little home in all of Mayo. We drank two bottles of wine, discussed Canada, Ireland, and England with the parents then off to bed, where I would finally experience a full night's sleep. Mostly. I woke exactly 1.5 hours after I had fallen asleep, already celebrating thinking I had slept the entire night through. What disappointment to read it was merely 3am. Shit. But to my delight I fell back to sleep and stayed so until noon. Let us hope tonight will be an even greater unconscious success. Especially since tonight I didn't spend my last half hour awake eating left over candy from the Calgary airport/the rest of the heart shaped chocolates my mom tucked away in my going away card. Then again, I did just devour a bag of popcorn not long after sharing a fruit cake with Angela. Oh ya, I'm fat now. 

The next morning I awoke at the respectable hour of 12:30pm, changed from one pair of sweat pants to another, one which didn't smell (as bad) or was anywhere close to decaying on my body. Angela and myself had decided it was time we rejoined the human race and do something other than sit in a bar. So we went for a run. Ha. Sorry I can't even follow through with that one without cracking up. We walked. We walked along the seaside, and I did a cartwheel which was enough to qualify as the upper body portion of my workout. The smell of the ocean made me think of home. The constant roaring of the waves had to be the most calming sound I'd ever heard, and suddenly I found myself dreaming about yet another fantasy life. Grey skies, grey waves, calm green sand hills, and me, cozy in my quaint, stone house, nestled by the sea, after a day of leisurely surfing the coast. I could taste the salt on my lips and didn't want to ever leave. But it began to rain and we were hungry. Of course, following an intense workout, the body needs to be refuelled… with scones and cinnamon lattes. The remainder of the day was a blur of tea, food, more tea, even more food, and another failed attempt at sleeping before 5am. Not even Gossip Girl could put me to sleep. None the less, somehow I found myself in the land of slumber and awoke to the realization that I couldn't remember the last time I had showered. Which could very well mean I awoke to the pungent odour of… myself. I totally understand the tendency for world travellers to neglect all forms of hygiene. I willingly accept the title of a vagabond, with open and unshaved underarms. Well, I did, until I saw a mirror. Whoa.  Ok, Chelsea. It's time to reacquaint yourself with what is commonly known as soap. No bearded irishman will ever shag you if you look like the third man on the evolution timeline. 

Day two in the Irish countryside found us gals roaming a small town called Westport, my most favourite part of Ireland I've seen thus far. We stopped for coffee in, get this, a coffee/chocolate shop. I kid you not. You want a latte? How about a dozen house made chocolates. Oh and a delicious scone if you prefer as well. The highlight, however, was the infant child who took my order. He couldn't have been any more than 10 years old. I asked what an irish latte was and he looked at me like I was a total idiot. "It's a latte with Baileys in it." A blank, and almost pitiful look on his face. I'm sorry, but I'm at the equivalent to a Starbucks, ordering a coffee to go, before noon, and this child is judging me for not thinking to add alcohol to my caffeine. I was born in the wrong country. 

Angela's first destination for me was Mount Patrick (yes, it has something to do with St. Patrick. No, I don't have a clue what that something is. I think he died, or was burried up there or some shit). What I can only imagine was some kind of cruel joke, she said something along the lines of us climbing it. I gave her the dirtiest glare possible, and without a word marched right back into the car. Evil, little leprechaun she is. I took a photo of it from inside the volkswagon. That's plenty. Next was a castle which I was repeatedly told I could not enter or inhabit. What bullocks. Then finally we stopped at a quaint, bright pink I might add, seaside tavern for some muscles and wine. Muscles were delicious but in no way comparable to Vancouver's steroid sized ones. 

Later that night we found ourselves at the local bar where everybody knows your name, but in the most sober state would be too old to remember it moments later… key word being "sober state", which obviously not one of the 4 men in there was. We drank wine and chatted with the bar maid (us ladies have to stick together) while each man, between gulps of guinness, asked for Angela's father. In standard Angela Mulrooney fashion, she handed me the newspaper as she exited for a cigarette break, knowing fine well that I need to look importantly preoccupied at all times when alone at a bar, coffee shop, restaurant, street corner, subway station, park bench, my front lawn. And here is where the rest of our evening unfolded. I present to you, DATINGPOINT. Ireland's hottest personal ad section. And let me tell you, quite a night it became, all thanks to this wondrous single red page. Allow me to paint a picture:

Male: 56, shy, sincere, inexperienced, varied interests, seeks local, single, busty older female, 70 plus for discreet relationship and intimate times. 

Translation: I am a 56 year old virgin, horny as all hell, looking for an old ass woman who is too shrivelled up to care that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing since she is just as horny and alone as I am. But let's be hush, hush because my cats might get jealous. 

John: 50, likes sports, meals out, movies, seeking nice attractive female 25-50 to hang out with. 

Translation: I like watching sports because my hips don't allow me much more than a jont over to my mother's house where we will have our 'meals out' and watch the nature channel. I really only want a 25 year old, but to look like less of a perv I added the '-50'. If you're 50 don't bother. Also maybe don't tell my 25 year old daughter about us. 

(Note to John: If you're looking for a 25 year old, perhaps consider stating your income… just saying)

Single male: 47, likes most things, seeks local lady for texting fun

Translation: I'm ugly

Classy lady: 34, blonde hair, slim, seeks fun and texting

Translation: You've put yourself on a newspaper dating page and are requesting a text only relationship. Re-evaluate your definition of classy. 

And so was the evening. We completed said evening with a bottle of wine and Love, Actually. We both agreed we needed a little London inspiration as tomorrow we would officially be Londoners. Ha! What a strange and surreal thought. 

Dublin

Saturday February 15/2014

Ireland. Ireland, Ireland, Ireland. What can I say about Ireland? Well for starters, I am not nearly enough of a lush to survive here. Two days in Dublin and I feel like I've aged 50 years. It all started with my dear friend Angela, myself, and my first Guinness at an old man pub across from our hotel and continued long into the night, bringing us to an insufferable bar called Flannery's where the men were obnoxious and the woman had forgot to put on pants. Some things are consistent no matter what part of the world you're in. I was immediately bombarded by a man named Tony. And a Tony he was, indeed. Tony didn't understand personal space, or the fact that not everyone wants to be greeted with the ever enticing dance move known commonly as the "sprinkler". Go away Tony. This bar was making me angry at a very aggressive rate. Packed like sardines, we wiggled our way through the crowds of sweaty, half dressed woman and the even sweatier Tony's that pawed at them, until we found a place with a sufficient amount of oxygen and elbow space. Beside me was a young man, sorry, boy who looked to be enjoying himself as much as I was. "You should try pouting less." This would be my one attempt at putting effort into communication that evening. Tony had exhausted me with his three minute existence, and I had lost any ounce of interest in the human race. But this guy looked miserable and it mildly entertained me. He smiled, half heartedly and replied, "This place is god awful." This statement was enough to accept his offer to buy me a drink. Joey was his name, and unlike Tony, he was actually quite interesting. Joey loved films which kept us locked in deep conversation about how Gravity wasn't anything to rave about, and that Her was an astoundingly brilliant, and heartbreakingly beautiful film. It wasn't until 12 Years a Slave came up, that I started scanning the room, anxious to find Angela and vacate the premise. Don't tell me that Chiwetel Ejiofor over acted in the film and expect me to still find you interesting. So back to the hotel it was. A bottle of wine, a bag of candy, and a whole lot of drunken catch up talk, a perfect end to an evening neither Tony nor Joey could possibly have offered me. 

The next morning, I should have been completely knackered. 36 hours of consciousness, and not an ounce of jet lag. I decided this could only be chalked up to the immense amount of liquor I ingested upon arrival. Here's an interesting fact. A shot in Ireland is not the equivalent to a shot in Canada. So when ordering a double gin and soda, you're basically getting three shots worth of liquor. This information was not known to me at the time. Needless to say, even if I was jet lagged, it wasn't enough to override the immense hangover that inevitably followed my evening of 3 ounce pours. Regardless, it was time to be a tourist and with a jolt of espresso and a surprise croissant in bed from my darling Valentine, Angela, I was game for a full day of Dublin. We roamed the streets, braving the torrential rainfall and entering as many free buildings as possible. The ones we had to pay to see, we left immediately of course; the poorman's guide to some very stunning lobbies and entrances. Even the Church of Dublin expected you to pay an entrance fee. I doubt Jesus would be too pleased about such exploitation. The one place we did succumb to paid admission was the Kilmainham Gaol, a jail built in the 1700's that housed and executed like Irish revolutionaries or some shit (obviously this one hour educational tour was well worth our money) Nothing more romantic than spending Valentines Day in an old ass, haunted as shit jail. I couldn't have been any more creeped out. Until I entered one of the cells. Good god that was eerie. No. We're done now. Time to find a pub and drink heavily, in honour of those heroic lost souls, of course. I admire the pubs here in Ireland. Most don't even serve food. People here don't hide behind meals, pretending like they didn't come to a pub at three in the afternoon for a pint, or five. "No, no, I'm really only here for this tuna club sandwich. The beer is just to wash it down." Irishmen are honest with their alcoholic tendencies. "Fucking rights I'm here to drink, and there ain't a crumb of food in the joint to be bothered with." We went through three pubs before we found a place that would feed us (the croissant had worn off hours ago and we were dragging). After giving the bartender shit for not knowing what a caesar was, I settled for baileys and coffee. Though he did offer to pour a shot of vodka over my chicken wings. And this wasn't intended as a joke. He had the shot glass in hand and was reaching for the vodka. 

By the time we arrived at Colm's house (Angela's… boyfriend? and our host for the next two days) I was barely functioning. But we had a night out on the town ahead of us and I knew if I didn't stay upright I'd be done for. Three cups of tea and two glasses of wine later and I was feeling refreshed. We found ourselves at a three story pub with great craic, but not before our taxi driver accused me of being American. I sure showed him, with my copious knowledge of Canada's political history….. no. Several drinks and way too many laughs later we were at a new bar, and then another bar, and then not that bar because the cover was obscene, and then finally our last bar. All this time, Angela was determined to find me a beautiful bearded Irishman, without an ounce of luck I might add. Our final bar had me yawning more than anything and I was ready to throw in the towel. Enter Tim. A very cute, bearded, bartender, who happened to be an Aussie, and a red head, but I chose not to hold that against him. Tim has been in Ireland for five months, with one month remaining. He was funny, and kept my interest long enough for me to invite him to hang out with us the following day. However, how was I to predict I'd be bent over sideways with jet lagged exhaustion and unable to so much as step into a shower let alone go out in public. So Tim would remain just a bartender in my travel archives. But that's ok. He was short. 

It's not the destination, It's how you get there...

Day One - Wednesday February 12/2014

Every airplane should come equipped with complimentary tranquilizers. Especially those that allow children on board. It turns out that children have this telepathic interconnected domino-like super power where if one child begins to cry, every single child within at least a one hundred foot radius will also begin to cry. You might even go as far as to say, they will actually flock to said crying child, just to partake in the harmonious symphony of terrorizing shrieks. Luckily for me, I have record breaking procrastination skills and have spent the last 48 hours packing and organizing my entire life, a task that should have wisely been spread amongst weeks, so I instantly passed out. However, when I awoke, they were all still crying (I assumed the plane was a 70/30 ratio of demonic infant children based on the epic volume that their teeny vocal folds could reach. Turns out there were only three. Jesus Christ). When the incessant screeching finally seized, I was sure I had merely gone deaf. Until it started again, and I could only wish I had in fact gone deaf. And so begins the first leg of my travels. 

I can't exactly explain how I'm feeling about all of this. When the West Jet check in lady asked me what my destination was, I actually thought I was lying when I said Ireland. "Well, I'm actually just flying to Calgary." 

"Yes, but your final destination is Ireland, with a brief stop in London?"

"Yes, I suppose you are correct." 

If only that was all I had to wrap my brain around. An adventurous vacation to the heathered hills of Ireland. But no, West Jet check in lady, that's not all there is. I did not spend countless, emotionally draining hours attempting to pack my entire life into 2.5 suitcases simply for a holiday abroad. No. I am moving to Europe. London of all places. If I don't wind up selling my body for fish and chips, it will be a miracle from Jesus, himself. Even now, typing the fact, it just doesn't seem to compute. Everyone asks if I'm excited. Oh my god, you must be so insanely excited!!! I must be. I should be. I feel… nothing, really. Perhaps it's because I'm sitting in the Calgary airport, and will be for the next two hours. Maybe it's because everything just happened so fast, and for so long it was just a pipe dream. Or maybe I'm just so fucking exhausted that if the Queen herself were to welcome me to her city, I'd be all, "Meh, thanks Liz, but do you have a bed?". There are moments though. Moments where it hits me that I'm finally doing what I've been dreaming about for the last 6 years and it feels like I've swallowed a bowling ball (the 10 pin ones, not the 5 pin.) It comes on suddenly, and lasts only a second, until disbelief teams up with denial and I'm back to thinking I'm just on a plane to Calgary. And then there are thoughts like, "Well shit, I guess I can't use up the rest of my Tim Horton's card now. That sucks". And, "What about this $20 bill I'm carrying around? Fucking pounds." At some point I'm bound to be excited. It'll happen. But for now I am at a Chili's, drinking what could potentially be my last caesar for a painfully long time. It's no tranquilizer, but it will do. So will the second. And possibly the third. 

I may have mentioned this in my previous adventure to India, but it can't be said enough. Being attractive really only works in your favour. And I'm not trying to sound conceited in any way. I'm as humble as the next dimple faced, long lashed, well groomed 24 year old Native/Italian. However, without those dimples or lashes, I highly doubt I would have been able to lie my way through paying for a second bag. Or convince the kind hearted British Airways clerk to make a call to change my seat to a window, even though the computer said there were none available. I bat, he winks, and presto! I have a window seat, and $117 still in my pocket. Now if only I could find a poor, lonely rig pig at the bar to pay for these caesars. 

Eight hours into my nine hour flight to London and the bowling ball feelings are ever increasing. I maybe slept a cumulative of 3 hours, maybe. And these bloody cups of coffee they give you couldn't be any smaller. On a plus side, I have been able to catch up on my cinema. Although watching Gravity probably wasn't the most intelligent choice. Or maybe it was. Sitting there in my claustrophobic economy class plane seat, I bawled almost as much as the devilish infant children on my flight.. For like Sandra Bullock, I too, suddenly felt that I was drifting in space, alone, scared and without a single clue. And It finally hit me, much like the broken satellites that came crashing into Sandra and George, and that Indian fellow who dies. I am alone. For the first time in my life, I am an independent, single woman bound for a whole new world, all on my own. So naturally this made me spew an ocean worth of tears. Come to think of it, I may have been the cause of the third baby cry explosion. But it felt good. I needed to feel my fears, before I could feel excitement and confidence in what I was about to embark on. Just like Sandra had to almost commit suicide and hallucinate George Clooney before she had the courage to soar through Earth's burning atmosphere. Only instead of soaring through the atmosphere, I have to find my way from Heathrow to Gatwick airport, which is clearly so much worse. 

But my pilot sounds like Alan Rickman, so that helps to sooth my soul. 

Day two… I think - Thursday February 13th

I will never understand this time change non-sense. Should I be sleeping? Should I not be sleeping? If I've gone ahead 8 hours, have I really been up for as long as I think I have? I just don't comprehend. Maybe it's the 2 hours of sleep I've gotten in the past 24 hours that's making it impossible to understand. Or has it even been 24 hours? Should I be hungry? I am hungry, but it's 7:00am Canada time, and no one eats that early. No one is up that early. Chelsea isn't up this early. I miss peanut butter. I should have stocked up on individual packets before I left. 

Flying over London did it. This time it was a feeling of vomiting up all those previously ingested bowling balls. This surge of excitement consumed me as we passed in and out of the clouds, the city peaking through with every chance it could. It was incredible. Even the babies stopped crying. It's as if they knew not to fuck with me. I was having my moment. In complete silence. With every cloud we broke through, London become closer and closer. Millions of thoughts suddenly came rushing through my mind (in a poor attempt at a british accent no less. For as of now all my thoughts will automatically be thought in British dialect, so I've decided) "Who's the Prime minister? Is that a castle, or just a really big house? Where do I even begin? Should I play golf? Their golf courses look so much more inviting than ours. I wonder if they actually get all decked out in argyle and knee length pants when they play golf here. That is definitely a castle. That has to be a castle. I wonder if I'll drive when I'm here. That could be bad." I couldn't stop myself. Every single miniature structure fascinated me more than the last. And as we descended down, I immediately felt the urge to get off the plane as soon as humanly possible. Release me! Let me explore! Let me get lost in this wondrous city! Nope. Wait. I have to get to Gatwick. Don't let me get lost. Allow me an accurate and efficient journey to Gatwick, without fail. Please. 

To be honest, I don't even remember anything after landing. I raced through the terminal, anxious to breathe British air. I stood outside, awaiting the shuttle, which I found and paid for with ease. What an incredibly beautiful day. The sun was shining, clear blue skies, a cool breeze. Of course despite all this I was genuinely mortified by my own appearance. One of the most posh cities in the world and I arrive looking like I'd been shagged sideways, twice. Disgraceful. The shuttle was basically a tour of London's countryside. And a stunning one at that. I could have cried. Even without so much as seeing a city street, I knew this is where I belong. The rolling hills, the old manors nestled in the trees. And the sheep. The sheep. Sheep everywhere. Highway sides ridden with fluffy, white balls, grazing contently. Now what's the protocol on sheep? Can I pet them? Is feeding the sheep, let's say tea biscuits, prohibited? If so, what would be the penalty for doing so anyway? I want sheep. During this hour and fifteen minute bus ride, I planned out my entire British life. A few years in the city, then settle in a small town outside of London. A tiny cottage amongst the deep green hills and cosy trees. And these hills would be littered with sheep. Sheep everywhere. And I'd own a small dance studio. Just ballet. Sheep and ballet. And in my spare time I'd sit, looking out my window, out at the sheep, and the hills, and the setting sun. I'd sip my afternoon tea and punch away at my typewriter, warm from my little wood burning stove, kettle atop. Yes. But then I see what had to be the very peak of a castle. The closest I've been yet. And a new life entirely flashes before my eyes. One that involves a strange, but obviously very, very rich, man catching my eye at the humble pub I serve at. Every day for weeks he sits alone, drinking only one pint, but never taking his eyes off me. Finally after days and days of silent admiration he speaks (much like Hugh Grant, I imagine). "I'm going to marry you one day." A week passes and not a word. Until he says "I have a villa in Spain. Run away with me." I reply, "You don't have a villa in Spain, you are full of shit." "You are right, I don't. But I do have a cottage in a small village outside the city. Come with me, for just a weekend." "You sit here stalking me for weeks on end and expect me to run away with you to some cottage in the middle of nowhere? Where I come from we call that rape." "I have sheep.".... And we live happily ever after, between our 3 story flat in the city, and our countryside cottage. Yes. Either way you cut it, this is where I belong. 

But first, Ireland.