No Queen In Sight

I hate travelling. I hate looking for flights, I hate looking for accommodation I can afford. I especially hate trying to pack for a trip. I hate the way I try to take the bare essentials because I hate lugging a heavy bag around, and I hate myself more for realising that something I considered a luxury while packing is actually something necessary when I’m already at my destination.

I hate sitting in a plane for hours, I hate the fact that I might develop a blood clot in my leg that could kill me (this one’s a bit of drama; I’m so short that any economy class seat on any airline feels like I’ve got business class leg room) and most of all, I HATE the way I look rubbish in all my holiday photos because I lacked the essentials that I considered too luxurious to pack.

I love being in new places, though. I love sightseeing and taking pictures of stuff, captions all formed in my head. I love observing people do what they do best and I love gobbling down local cuisine.

This winter hols, I decided to get off my wobbly butt and leave Moscow for a week. My friends chose all sorts of exotic places where you’d need visas and a phrasebook. I’m a lazy git, so I chose London.

Well, that’s only half true. I chose to go to London during my final winter break because I wanted to be around people who speak a language I know well and I wanted to see people I’d been dying to meet, like my cousin who I’d not seen for almost 11 years and friends from Twitterland.

I could do the whole day-by-day thing and bore you to death, but I’m nice so I’ll write stuff worth mentioning. And you’ll be happy about it because if I write everything I remember, you might get fired for spending your entire work day reading a shitty blog post about a place so many people have been to before.

Best Place I Visited

Hands down, this was the ZSL London Zoo. Okay, I admit I have a great fondness for animals and to be perfectly honest, the zoo was the only place I really planned on visiting. You could throw me any map of London and I’d be able to spot it.

It was worth all that anticipation. I spent four hours gaping at all the animals and taking crappy pictures. The crappiest of the lot was a picture of a cockroach which cemented once and for all that not even a glass enclosure was going to calm my feeble katsaridaphobic heart. Look:

The Best Picture I Could Take With Shaky Hands

And this is a picture of a tarantula I took right after:

The Insect I Wouldn't Even Mind As A Pet

 

To top it all off, the weather was great and I managed to take a nice long walk through Regent’s Park and saw a squirrel making friends/ harassing a baby in a stroller.

Best Purchase

The closest to a souvenir from London that I bought is probably the fridge magnet and postcard from, yup, you guessed it, the zoo.

Of course, if you knew me well enough, you’d know that I’m in heaven when surrounded by books. I attacked bookstores with a passion and probably would’ve bought enough books to wipe out a rain forest if I didn’t have a tiny-ass bag. I may have bought a gorgeous evening dress, Jamaican cock flavoured soup mix and a hairbrush in London, but this book is the BEST thing I own at the moment:

Source Of Joy

I was so excited about this book that I started on it even before I was done with Cat’s Cradle. The only reason I stopped reading it was because people at the airport were looking at me funny when I kept laughing out loud.

Strangest Thing Heard In Public

“Shut up, you fucking Christian whore!”

This was on a bus, said by a guy who bumped into a woman with groceries. Why was this strange to me, you ask? Fine, you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

I have no fucking idea.

When The Uterus Drops

If I were to translate the topic I’m supposed to be reading now, it would be something along the lines of, “Incorrect Position of Sexual Organs”. The textbook has no pictures, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, because my imagination tends to run with reckless abandon.

Imagination or no imagination, I’m inclined to do a little bit of random blogging because this chapter is only nine pages long. Quite a treat, I would say.

1. I realized that I never blogged about my trip to Myanmar, and that’s just sinful. No credit cards, no mobile network coverage, dodgy “unofficial” money changers and a 2km walk uphill to Shwe Dagon Pagoda in the rain where there’s no proper sidewalks. I can’t believe that slipped my mind.

That's where we were headed to on foot. My idea, naturally.

2. I am such a sellout. I’m pretty sure about two years ago, I was ranting on and on about finding Twitter and the need for people to tweet every bloody thing they do utterly ridiculous. Now, I have a Twitter account and I’m on it more than I am on Facebook. My cousin Hera called me a “conformer to society” but completely understood when I said I was following sex-bloggers. Sometimes I wonder what sort of impression I leave on that 17- year old. Truth be told, I’m having lots of fun on Twitter because I’ve made it a point not to follow anyone I know from my uni or school. Part of the quarter life crisis nonsense I’ve mentioned before. Wait, I seem to have lost the plot. All I wanted to say was I’ve been following some really interesting people, especially bloggers (erotic and otherwise) and I’m pleased to say that I have a swamp of good blogs to read nowadays.

3. I am seriously considering going somewhere for my next winter holidays. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’ve been in Moscow for almost 6 years and I’ve never gone anywhere besides home. The problem mainly lies in the fact that I like being in places, I loathe getting there. I must be such a disgrace to my Nanna, the woman traveled around Europe alone at the age of 65. At 25, I’m sitting on my wobbly ass complaining about wanting to go places and not actually going. I’ve been leaning towards visiting London, but we’ll see where my bank balance takes me.

Okay. The remaining five pages are giving me dirty looks. Till the next short, visually disturbing chapter.

The Reason I Will Die Alone With 28 Dogs Waiting to Devour Me

I’m not trying to be pessimistic or anything. I’m quite convinced that if I made a conscious effort, I could get laid. The problem is, a conscious effort is too much work.

I wasn’t really planning to dedicate a whole post to this topic, because we both know it deserves a three-volume book, but this is funny and I really owe Cheryl a post. After all, the woman is nice enough to visit everyday. 🙂

Here’s the thing.

I was travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Moscow last week, with a 5-hour stopover at Dubai International Airport. Seeing that I didn’t get much sleep on the way there, as soon as I disembarked the plane, I went to my usual spot where not many people sit, turned my laptop bag into a makeshift pillow and knocked out. Glorious, glorious sleep…

After about three hours, I woke up realizing that due to being so tired, I had slept with my mouth WIDE open. Eyes still closed, I was silently cursing at my utter lame-ness. I should have kept my eyes closed. I opened them to find a very attractive guy sitting next to me. Thankfully, we were a chair apart, but my face was towards him and I did not know how long he had been sitting there. For all I know, I had been showing him my wisdom teeth for the past hour. To any other person, it would have looked something like this:

A Non-artist's impression

Once I had attempted to gracefully sit in the chair and revive my almost dead right arm, I noticed that the cutie was working on a presentation about Turner’s Syndrome. Oh dear Lord, don’t tell me he’s smart, too?! I couldn’t even PRETEND  to be clever, all I had was my diary and a novel called “Llama Parlour”. Thankfully, my misery and mental self-abuse was halted by him getting up to board his flight to Dusseldorf.

Why couldn’t I be the kind of chick whose blouse opens up to reveal a super sexy bra as she sleeps, instead of ME?