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To the End

Well, can you believe it? It is the 21st anniversary of the release of Blur's debut album, Leisure.

Blur, in case you didn't know, are an English alternative rock band comprising of Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James, and Dave Rowntree. They burst onto the scene in 1989, christened Seymour, but as the Blur we all know and love, have remained at the top of their game ever since. To mark 21 years of Blur, Blur 21: The Box was released in July on Parlophone featuring the band’s fine body of work compiled and gathered together. In addition, Blur 21: The Exhibition documents their career as one of the most influential and successful bands of the past two decades.

These commemorations roused two different emotions within me. First, utter joy. What a band! How do I buy it / when can I go? Followed abruptly by heel-skidding shock. Whaaat? 21 years you say? How did that happen? When did I get so old?!

Unquestionably, Blur rocked the music world but they did more than just rock my world - they heavily influenced my formative years and provided a social and musical commentary that was the soundtrack of my 1990s.

Leisurely Listening (1991)

I was thirteen when Leisure was released back in 1991 and can remember feeling spellbound on first hearing She's So High. It's haunting melody and strangely beautiful lyrics spoke to me in a way that I couldn't really understand at the time. I was intrigued, but not fully committed - this was the Grunge era after all and I was into a certain band from Seattle who had a tortured lead singer and a very nice drummer named Dave.

A mildly petulant and experimental teenager, I wore dreadful long, flowery skirts with all-the-way-down buttons, shapeless cardigans and heavy black boots. I sighed a lot and hang out at the local youth club, listening to Nirvana and trying to make sense of the world as my hormones raged on madly and I thought modern life was rubbish. I went to the obligatory teenage parties and tried hard to impress the boys I liked by head-banging to metal and grunge, resulting in the unfortunate predicament of only being able to move my head with the aid of a sharp burst of Deep Heat.

I listened to There's No Other Way and prayed for something interesting to happen. My Mum prayed I wouldn't get a nose ring.

Modern Life is Conflicting (1993)

My fifteen-year old self crawled out of bed, sat up and started to pay a little more attention. I liked the celebration of British heritage, the absorbing but cheeky lyrics and the attire that screamed posh-geezer. I was enamoured by Damon's face and had a penchant for Graham's glasses. Yet, it was the music that was transfixing me. It was melodic and lush, intertwined with punk rock, frazzled guitars and fast drums. I listened to Chemical World on repeat; that recurring guitar rift and Damon's hypnotic voice.

My eyes and ears loved Blur but the sounds of my streets spoke of something else – I had begun to go out to ‘night clubs’. Yet, I’d stagger home and listen to Chemical World in my headphones until the early hours of the morning. It gave me what I needed; effervescence; a little sparkle.

Then Parklife was released and it was obvious that nothing would ever really be the same again.

Brit-Popscene (1994)

Quite simply, Parklife contains two of my all time favourite songs. To The End is one of the most powerful love-songs ever written.

End of a Century is 2 minutes, 45 seconds of pure genius. The opening lyrics 'She said there's ants in the carpet. Dirty little monsters. Eating all the morsels. Picking up the rubbish' still gives me goose bumps.

Walking through London with this song coming out of my headphones, something strange happens. The landscape around me starts to slowly slide away. It collapses and morphs and suddenly I am enveloped in the red, white and blue of 1990s Great Britain. I am eighteen again, in blue jeans paired with my trusty blue Adidas Gazelles. I am proudly sporting a white and blue knitted zip-up cardigan, in an attempt to emulate the casual sportswear look of my heroes. My old pink Fiesta is parked in the drive and I am studying for my A ‘Levels, working two jobs and bursting with boundless energy.

It feels like I am part of something revolutionary and very important, and although me and my fellow teens are drinking far too much and infatuated only with ourselves, it's all OK. We are part of the Cool Britannia movement and with its huge cultural significance that is enough for me. It is irresistible.

Showtime (1994 - 1995)

I didn’t see Blur live at Alexandra Palace in 1994 (although I did buy the now chunky looking VHS) but I did make it to the gig at Wembley Stadium with my sister Michelle and our friends. We worked our way right to the front to get a suitable view of Damon and the boys.

The crowd was rowdy and preparing to mosh, the noise was deafening. The heat, the power, the intensity was all-consuming - girls around us started to faint and others waved frantically at the security guards in need of a great escape. Michelle said she was off and was helped over my head, followed by both of our friends in quick succession. For a while that left only me in that slamming, pulsating crowd. Soon, the heat became too much (I blame the cardigan) and so I dejectedly waved for help to the burly security man. Strangers' hands lifted me along the crowd to safety, but all I could do was stare transfixed at the stage.

Momentarily, it was perfectly silent. Just me floating up in the air, watching the instruments move and Damon's mouth opening and closing but no noise coming out. It was hypnotic. Suddenly the music was intensely loud again and I was thrust back into reality and directed to an empty seat in the stands. I was alone for the remainder of that gig but it remains one of the best I've ever seen.

Modern Life is very good actually… Blur are back

Tonight sees Blur headlining a special concert to mark the Closing Ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics and if their headlining gig in Glastonbury in 2009 is anything to go by, it is bound to be a fitting farewell to the greatest Games the world has ever seen from arguably the greatest Band the world has ever seen.

Blur are the perfect choice to play to the country's current state of beautifully frenzied patriotism. It's almost like being back in red, white and blue 1990s Britpop. It really, really has happened.

I would never claim to be the biggest fan; I wasn't there in the mud on that historic Sunday night at Glastonbury and although I desperately wish I could be there tonight, I'll have to make do with listening to and watching the euphoria live instead.

Despite this, I will probably follow them until the end. (Jusqu'a la fin).

Whenever that may be.

Rejection and a (near) brush with fame...

Rejection - it's an appalling word isn't it. Defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as 'the dismissing or refusal of a proposal, idea', the proposal / idea being dismissed and refused in this sad case is me.

In my search to find a suitable new role I have sent off countless applications, networked tirelessly and Tweeted, Linked In'd and Facebooked ferociously. For my efforts, I have been rewarded with unanswered calls, broken promises, and worse still, the dreaded rejection email which can feel like a perfectly timed blow to the stomach rather than simply an addition to your inbox.

Its par for the course in our current economic climate and I am certain I am not alone, but sometimes even with the strongest will, rejection can leave you languishing in self pity, moping around eating peanut butter out of the jar and resisting the urge to go back to bed with a back catalogue of Stylist magazine. It can also render you unable to cope with day to day situations that usually you would find hilarious.

Weird mug shot

While standing at Liverpool Street station last week waiting to meet friends, I was approached by a man with a clipboard and a camera; as a non-moving target I was an easy aim. I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously, assuming he was part of a flash mob assembly or wanted to sell me a mobile phone. 'Hello,' he said in a smooth-as-silk voice. 'Have you heard of Dove?'

'Yes, thank you,' I said dismissively as he handed me a white leaflet adorned with the familiar columbiforme logo. 'We are casting non-models for our new skincare advertising campaign. Would you be interested?’ he said. I could have sworn he placed a heavy emphasis on the 'non-models' part of that sentence as I darted my eyes about looking for a hidden camera. 'Dove uses real women NOT MODELS in their campaigns' he said, stressing once again the non-model point. 'They also pay well'.

I am not ashamed to say that my ears pricked up at this point; after all I was unemployed and in search of any form of legal income to settle a rather large debt accumulated on the South Island of New Zealand a few months before. The week's rejection was hanging over my head like a black cloud so acting on impulse, I agreed - I try to live by the mantra that life throws all sorts of things at you and you had to try your hardest to catch.

Without delay, the man positioned his camera and took my photograph in one of London's busiest stations, a two-part portrait with a front-view (yuck) and side-view (double yuck), while I held a clipboard with my personal details scrawled across in it bold black marker pen. Effectively taking part in my own bizarre mug shot, with a nervous smile frozen across my face, people stared. I didn't blame them.

On my way home that evening, and in a wine-induced haze, I reflected on my experience and wondered if maybe I'd been a little aloof. The next day I contacted the casting agent who understood my trepidation and suggested that I emailed her some more photos, which I did. I waited patiently and genuinely didn’t expect to hear back from Dove anytime soon – things like this just didn't happen to me, especially with this mug (and that mug shot no doubt) and a lack of the necessary self confidence that the campaign embodied. Yet, late one evening that week I had a text from an unknown number that read 'Sorry for the delay Nicola, it's a YES! I'll be in touch to confirm'.

For the first time in weeks, I felt an enormous surge of energy. Ok, so it is not an every day occurrence to be cast in an advert for a popular skin care range and the thought of it actually made me shaky with fear (what did it involve exactly, would I have to be naked?! etc). However, it was an interesting opportunity, a paid one at that, and after weeks of rejection, a well-needed boost. I waited until the next day and with newfound courage, responded to the text saying it was great news and I looked forward to hearing more. I informed my husband excitedly, I rang my Mum who noted I sounded brighter for the first time in weeks, and even allowed myself a fleeting moment to dream about how I'd spend my earnings.

Reality bites

Leaving my iPhone unattended to grab a drink, I returned to a missed call and a voicemail. How prompt, I thought chirpily as I listened to the message. 'Hi Nicola, it's Shernhall Methodist Church. Just to confirm you're all booked in for the car-boot sale on Saturday morning. See you then’.

Erm, not quite the message I was expecting. It seemed my high street modelling career was over before it had even begun. Much to my chagrin it wasn't a casting confirmation for one of the world's biggest brands after all, but a courtesy call from Ken from our local church confirming the trestle table I'd requested for the weekend's forthcoming car boot. It was back to the drudgery of job applications and selling unwanted household items at a reduced rate at an ungodly hour on a weekend.

My pride was wounded but I had no choice but to see the funny side – what else could I do? It was that or head weeping to the peanut butter jar. I'm yet to hear from Dove, so not only have I been rejected for roles relating to my professional career, I have also been rejected as a non-model-model.

Reject the rejection

It's difficult to pick yourself up again after yet another brush-off but if anyone out there is also feeling the pain of rejection, please try to remember that it is temporary and it will pass. Rejection can happen to the best of them. When Arianna Huffington, founder of the Huffington Post, was in her twenties and trying to find a publisher for her second book she was rejected - 25 times. She is now president and editor-in-chief of the Huffington Post Media Group and author of no less than 11 books amongst other things. She said in a recent interview '...don't be afraid of failure... Nobody who's succeeded has not failed along the way' and I’m feeling inspired by her words of wisdom.



So with that in mind, I'll carry on. Tomorrow, I'll wedge in another job application in my lunch break. I'll go for a coffee with a former colleague and I'll go all Out on LinkedIn.

Failing that, I've heard Go Compare is casting....

 

Posted with Blogsy

Delicious words served on paper...

Oscar and Friends Booksellers, 35/277-285 Crown Street, Surry Hills, NSW 2010, Australia

I am completely addicted to reading all kinds of literature. I am also rather partial to a bit of technology and depend on my range of i-Gadgets to survive the perils of modern life. However, I have not introduced two of my greatest passions to each other and they remain as two separate love affairs. In other words, I am yet to fall for the beguiling charms of the eBook reader.

Call me old-fashioned. Label me out of touch. Go on, hit with me with your best insult, I can take it. I remain defiant in my love of real-life books and I refuse to budge. You won't find a Kindle nestled in the depths of my handbag, or a Kobo peeking out of my clutch. I'm devoted to paper.

Ampersand Cafe and Bookstore, 78 Oxford Street, Paddington, NSW 2021, Australia

Admittedly, e-Readers provide some urgently needed extra room in fit-to-bursting handbags and spare a few blushes on the tube when reading Fifty Shades of Grey. They are sleek, chic, and store a magnitude of McEwan, heaps of Hemingway and acres of Allende. But, despite the benefits, I still prefer delicious words served on paper rather than on a screen and I'm concerned that the beautiful book will soon be in danger of extinction.

Book-love, I just can't get over it. Books feel comforting in your hand with their just-printed intoxicating scent and the crisp sound the pages make as you turn the page is inimitable. They have beautiful, embossed covers that tempt you like new clothes on a rail, and create an orchestra of colour and height when lined up on a bookcase. Books are very personal; they can be adorned with a carefully crafted note to complete a gift, a simply scribbled date that automatically marks a place in history, or even by the style in which they are read. Are you a front page folder-over? Or does the mere sight of such destruction make you want to cry out in protest? Maybe you have a special bookmark, postcard, or old photograph that you use to keep your page and transport it from book to book, author to author. In comparison, all e-Readers look identical.

Pegasus Books, Shop 204a Left Bank Cuba Mall, Te Aro, Wellington 6011, New Zealand

Then there are the bookshops themselves; whether polished stores selling the latest new releases, second-hand havens packed to the rafters with historic gems, or a fantastic combination of the two. In my opinion, nothing beats exploring the hidden treasures in a bookshop and finding rediscovered novels from centuries gone by, that new best seller that everyone is talking about or even better, stumbling across a book with a mysterious note on its inside cover. On my recent travels, I picked up a deliciously battered old copy of Stephen King's classic 'IT' in Endeavour Books in Kaikoura, New Zealand. It is literally falling apart; the cracked spine hanging on to the contents for dear life and the pages yellowing at the edges from years of exposure to light. The note reads:

'Dear Shelvin. Thought you might appreciate this book to add to your horror collection. Good luck with your future plans. I await to hear the stories of your trips to Egypt. Enjoy Auckland. You have shown much personal growth this year. Remember - life doesn't put things in front of you that you are unable to handle. Go well, Ms Mallinder.'

I am haunted by that note and itching to know who the devil Ms Mallinder is, how Shelvin fared in Egypt and Auckland and if he continued to grow personally. (For those who have read the book, I am also haunted by that terrifying clown brought to life by King's extraordinary storytelling).

Endeavour Books, 8 West End, Kaikoura 7300, Canterbury, New Zealand

We all need a place to indulge our passion for paperbacks, somewhere peaceful and just that little bit special. So, to add some weight to my evidence in the case of Humble Book vs Gargantuan e-Reader, I've handpicked some of the unique bookshops I love where you can while the hours away over a good book...

A dress from another time...

Sports Luxe, Florals, Mirror-Prints, Printed Pants, Neon. Modern fashion can be exciting, bold and fierce as it fizzles and crackles off the pages of glossy magazines.

Yet, just like many things in this progressive world we inhabit, sometimes don't you just want to go back? There's no time like the past and demure, fifties-inspired fashion is having a fashion moment right now. This week's Grazia reports that 'from the red carpets of Cannes to the bars of Dalston, ankle dusters, high collars and long sleeves are everywhere'. Which is welcome news for a girl like me, a passionate lover of retro-inspired clothing and accessories. Vintage has had quite a renaissance over the last few years with elegant festivals and pop up fairs, not to mention an influx of vintage emporiums, and it is coveted the world over. Sometimes it can be hard to seperate the Westwood from the Cassini; it seems everyone is jumping on the vintage bandwagon and taking advantage of our obsession with nostalgia.

So I was delighted to recently discover a sparkling treasure trove in the heart of the Suffolk countryside, in the pretty market town of Halesworth.

Bluebird Vintage is a clothing and accessories boutique specialising in vintage clothing for ladies and gentlemen. Perfectly housed in what was formerly The Hawk Inn pub, it truly is a feast for the eyes, generously full of vintage goodies from the 1920s through the 1980s. Clothes, shoes, hats, jewellery, gloves and bags adorn every beautiful space like delicious treats in a sweet shop. It is very easy to walk in and lose yourself for hours but it's decidedly tricky to leave empty handed.

On my visit to Bluebird Vintage I met Laura Churchill, the glamorous owner who smiled at me welcomingly from behind a vintage desk. Laura allowed me to look around what was in effect an art gallery of clothes in my own time, uninterrupted, as I perused the delicacies from an era of elegance. These were sumptuous pieces that didn't shout loudly, but instead whispered flirtatiously to me like movie stars from days gone by. As I glanced around at the unique one-offs I honestly believed I was immune to the glamour, that I could easily walk away with, admittedly, an empty heart but a full purse and some space in my wardrobe. Silly, silly me.

I had seen it. Or maybe it saw me first? The dress hanging delicately on the rail. I tried to avert my eyes, but it was too late; I was snared in its twinkling trap. As my eyes brushed over the dress again from afar, I could see it was a vanilla ice cream colour with gold trim glistening in the light. I tried to resist, but it murmured at me 'take a closer look. Go on, what's the harm? Try me on!'.

I approached the rail to inspect it more closely. It was a sleeveless cocktail dress with a high collar trimmed in gold and a very demure hemline. The top half was covered in a delicate cover of sheer, flowered gold lace and under the waist, also trimmed with gold, cascaded a swath of cream chiffon. It was the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. The label informed me in swirly letters that it's creator was Marcel Fenez, designed by Roland Klein. It was a little piece of fashion history.

French-born Roland Klein, first worked at Christian Dior from 1960-1962. He then went on to work for the legendary Karl Lagerfeld as an assistant at Jean Patou. Klein moved to London to learn English in 1965, and he worked at Marcel Fenez, where the ready-to-wear line of Madame Carven was made. In 1973 he was made the director of the house, and was given his own label, going on to open his own design business in 1979 in Chelsea. In the 1980s, Roland set up in London and established his own label.

Klein's innovation had completely won me over. I guess you could say I was hypnotised as I tried the dress on in the quaint changing room at the back of the boutique. Ok, so it was a little snug across my back and restricted not only my movement but my breathing for a short while until I moulded into its shape. I knew I would be terrified to eat or drink anything that wasn't transculent whilst wearing in fear of tainting that perfect cream colour, but it was so beautiful I knew I had to have it; this dress was simply too special to part from.

The Klein creation had its first outing in March this year, the night before my sister's wedding in Sydney, Australia and I felt proud to tell enquiring guests that it was Roland Klein vintage, from a stunning little boutique in England.

In today's world of over-styling and mass production, vintage pieces are a timeless investment. They were beautifully hand-made to last. To buy vintage is to acquire an item with a story from days gone by and showcase a long-forgotten design. To wear it is magical.

If you are ever passing through Halesworth, which I highly recommend, take a wander down the Thoroughfare, and step through the ornate door into Laura's beautiful vintage emporium. I promise that you won't be disappointed and you may just walk away with your own little piece of history. If you're the lucky one, I defy you not to smile as you float out of the door, happily lost in another time...

Bluebird Vintage, The Hawk Inn, Bridge Street, Halesworth, Suffolk, IP19 8AD

info@bluebirdvintage.co.uk 01986 875325

@BluebirdVintage

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important....everything.

It's eight days since I returned to the UK from Australia/New Zealand and already I've failed miserably on two of my post-holiday resolutions: 1. Be on time. 2. Don't try to do everything in one day.

 

My husband and friends unanimously agree that I am shockingly and unfailingly late for pretty much everything. Alex says I run on NMT (Nicola-Mean-Time) a kind of inferior alternative to GMT if you like. Usually I would contest such blatant character defamation, but to be honest I have lost count of the amount of times I have been late for him. The worst case was when he flew 24 hours around the world to see me in Australia and I turned up at Sydney airport a whopping 45 minutes late. 'Where was my welcome?!' he always reminds me with a sad and disbelieving expression on his face. Guilty as charged. My excuse, genuinely, was that I didn't have a clue what to wear. I'd been up for 2 panic-stricken hours trying on, whisking off, throwing in the corner, trying on, trying not to panic, panicking. Style-indecision, plus a taxi drive in rush hour traffic, equalled no open arms to greet the man of my dreams, and I've never forgiven myself.

 

Other instances have included keeping friends waiting outside tube stations, in busy restaurants and bars, even being late for my own birthday celebrations. One of my good friends once kept me holding on for 45 minutes outside Covent Garden tube station where it is physically impossible to stand still without getting squished, handed an unwanted flyer or becoming an unsuspecting victim of somebody painted completely silver. She apologised but said this one instance had completely cancelled out the last six times I'd been late. She had a point.

 

I do not wish to appear flippant or nonchalant about my tardiness. In fact, I detest this terrible trait. There is, however, an explanation for my unpunctuality - it is simply caused by trying to squeeze too much in. If I haven't wedged a million and three things into a single day, I am not happy. If my to-do list isn't bulging, something's up.

 

Nothing too ambitious mind, just the usual. This week, I had an afternoon appointment in town so I filled the morning with stuff. Put a quick load of washing on, browsed some job sites, pinged off some emails and drafted a blog that had been clattering around loudly in my head. A quick peek at the time and I concluded there was just enough time to do One. More. Thing.

 

However, this was NMT I was operating on, not real time. Before I knew it, I was 45 minutes behind schedule and haring around wildly - a blast in the shower, a weird head-upside-down blow dry, and a spoon of peanut butter out of the jar for lunch as I darted out the door.

 

It really is quite unnecessary to be so frantic - it makes for a stressful journey when you inwardly will the tube driver to bypass all stations and floor it to Victoria ignoring all other passengers and their selfish travel needs. That afternoon, I found myself running wildly for my train, wanting to smack slow people in the back of the head for making me late (yes, it is their fault) and sliding through the train doors just as they beeped shut behind me. I fell exhausted into a chair, perspiring and cursing myself for all the commotion.

 

It's not a good way to be. I blame technology which allows us to multi task and encourages us with our fancy gadgets to achieve miracles and rearrange our finances all before breakfast. Every time I'm rushing to make an appointment or panting in a heap on a just-caught train, I vow to change. I will make clear, achievable lists. I will not over-plan. I will keep to time. In fact I will leave 15 minutes earlier than I actually need to - being, gasp, early. Ha ha, that'll show em!

 

Argh....must go. I've still got a wash to put out, a job to apply for and exactly 13 minutes to get my train.

 

It's the small things...

I don't get the opportunity to devour the weekend papers any more these days, usually still rifling through them on the subsequent Wednesday but this past Saturday, I did.

I read the The Times Magazine back to back and finished my tea and toast with Robert Crampton's 'Beta Male' column. It was a brilliant, witty and unpretentious piece on the simple things in life that he takes great pleasure from. My interpretation was that as you get older, it's the little things that really matter and make you happy.

Inspired by Robert here's my list, in no apparent order. By no means exhaustive, it's a start.

Getting a seat on the tube on a journey that lasts longer than five minutes. Drinking deep, dark rum in an old atmospheric pub and telling the same joke that I feel like a pirate. Pouring all the words that swarm around in my head into my blog and having at least one other person liking it, not counting my amazing Mum. Laughing with friends so hard that you get a pain in your stomach and you say through tears 'stop, please, no more' even though you don’t really want to stop, ever.

Finding an Evening Standard distributor on a Friday night with an ES Magazine and reading it all the way home or, even better, on Saturday morning in bed. Running outside with the wind in my face, music in my ears and feeling as free as a bird (and flipping the bird at men who think it’s hilarious to honk their horns at women exercising). Pretty much anything by Jack Johnson, despite people saying his music is blithe, soft rock and writing unenthusiastic reviews, especially the line in Flake that goes I know she loves the sunrise. No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes which reminds me of endless journeys across New Zealand and filling pages of travel diaries. Big glossy, hot-off-the-press fashion magazines with style and substance that take hours to pore over.

Goats cheese, preferably warm and assembled with roasted vegetables, although a smattering of beetroot is also a winner. When you witness a comedy trip or slip in the street, not one that causes the person an injury, but rather one where the person carries on regardless and you bite your cheeks to stop giggling. Face painting. Aubergines. The smell of paint and just-lit matches.

Random conversations with strangers on the tube that make you proud to be a Londoner, like the one I had with a lady on the Victoria Line last weekend after we both witnessed a grown man openly picking his nose and examining his findings. 'I see men do it all the time, the worst are the wipers' she said with eyes rolled to heaven as we chatted all the way up the escalators and out the station and said goodbye and I got a really nice warm feeling inside and wondered, why can’t we all just get along?

Being by the British seaside. The first and last page of a new book and that incredible, evocative scent. People watching around Redchurch Street, E2 - shorts, a My Little Pony jumper, brogues and a bow tie? Why ever not. Singing loudly, with Mariah Carey patented hand gestures despite not possessing a decent singing voice to accompany them. Being with my nephew Freddie, especially when he looks at me pensively with those big blue eyes, holds my hand, and laughs when I sing I Wanna be Like You from The Jungle Book for the thirteenth time.

Football on a Monday, Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday; on the TV, coming out of the radio and in my newspaper. Football chants such as 'is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill...' directed at opposing fans who sneak out early when they're a few goals down. Rhubarb and Custard, in real life and boiled sweet form.

Staring at Van Gogh’s The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum and getting lost in the starry background and dreaming of drinking red wine in Arles. Getting uninterrupted sleep and exclaiming 'over 8 hours sleep...yeah!' in an I'm really approaching my mid-30s manner. Gravelly, hearty London accents. Walking for hours. The coast and the countryside. Friday post-work drinks - alcohol before 6pm, a fusion of departments and when 'I'm just having 1' turns into 8. Saturday morning, Saturday lunchtime, Saturday night.

The Specsavers advert when the couple mistake a nice comfy bench for a roller coaster, due to insufficient eye wear. Silly, but it's the faces when the photo is taken that gets me every time and reminds me of having your photo taken on the log flume at Chessington World of Adventures and having it made into a keyring for your Mum. Choreographed dance routines in music videos - dramatic hand and head movements, fancy footwork and showing off, alongside a pulsating beat. Reference: Gaga. Going out for dinner - either posh restaurant or the Turkish Okabasi on Bethnal Green Road whose name I won't reveal so you won't take my table.

Receiving handwritten letters, cards, and invitations through the post which you can keep in a big trunk of stuff rather than forward, reply or delete. Getting all dressed up. A rare black cab. Tea brewed in a tea pot, drank from a proper big mug of tea. My parent's house. The cab drivers from Central Cabs in Walthamstow who always wait till you're safely inside and Mick the controller at base who reminds me of my beloved Granddad. Making a list just to take pleasure from crossing things off it. Comedy tube drivers that announce the stations in a song-song way, or wish you a really good day and deserve a medal for services to disgruntled commuters who have lost the will to continue onto Finsbury Park. Saying thank you, and getting a heartfelt 'you're welcome' back.

Teenagers giving up their seats for older people. 2-4-1 face wipes and £5 off Boots No 7 vouchers, providing an opportunity to purchase superfluous mascara which creates Extreme Length and Extravagant Lashes. Coconut, vanilla and cocoa butter scented body lotion. Essentially smelling like a cake, but a happy cake. Being on my own in the house - pottering, eating cereal out of the packet, and listening to obscure playlists on Spotify (Five Star, the soundtrack to Oliver! and Madonna's White Heat - Get up, stand tall. Put your back up against the wall. 'Cause my love is dangerous. This is a bust). Being with Alex in the house.

An open weekend with no plans. Poached eggs and avocado, together. Watching the last two Sex and the City episodes, An American Girl in Paris (partes un et deux) with that beautiful dusty grey Versace Couture dress, the 'I am someone who is looking for love. Real Love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live without-each-other love' line and the Carrie/Big trip in the hotel corridor. Lunchtime drinking. Green and yellow fields flashing by from a train window.

Holidays and weekends away, particularly Day 2 when you're finally detached from your iPhone, Pad and Pod, London is detoxed from your system and time has no concept. Prints. Art postcards. Free Museums. Too many rings at the same time. Swearing. Cider, just 1 pint for me please oh go on then, 2 but that’s it. Reading on the sofa, wrapped up in a warm blanket. Silence. Very loud music (especially when it’s your own and you have chosen it).

A clean-pyjamas-clean-sheet-combo on a Sunday night. A big, enveloping hug that lasts for ages especially if the person is someone you love and smells nice. Being with a bunch of friends and looking around thinking, bloody hell these people are amazing. My husband, always.

A dolphin encounter of the calamitous kind

Last week I sustained a mild but unfortunate injury after a freak accident involving a Lonely Planet New Zealand.

As I flopped into bed and pulled the duvet cover over my tired body, I failed to realise that the hefty guide book was on top of the covers and inadvertently managed to flip it up into my face, where its hard spine met my right eye with a thump.

Fortunately, I've never been punched in the face before but I can imagine that is what it feels like. I cried a bit, applied a cold compress and then woke up the next morning with a lump that has been cleverly concealed with makeup.

Another bizarre injury to add to the list.

You see, travel and calamity always seem to go hand in hand with me, as a flick through one of my travel diaries in 2006 reminded me…

Monday 23 October 2006

Riverview Lodge, Christchurch, New Zealand

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8am

What an awesome start to the day! Slept well here in the Riverview Lodge as the bed is soft and comfy with a gorgeous verdant throw and huge fluffy pillows. The owner Ernst (great name) had prepared a breakfast of fruit salad and a big bowl of granola and said I was Queen Nicola. Hmm, should I be worried, is that weird? Anyway, I can see the sleepy River Avon out of the view from my window and I have grown quite attached to Christchurch with its old-English feel.

I’m now on my way to Kaikoura for whale watching and the booked-in-advance Kaikoura Swim with Dolphins, something I have always wanted to do since I was a child. It’s just me and two very pretty Japanese girls so far. Due to a mild fear of being in the water, I am feeling a little nervous but very excited. I’m sure everything will be absolutely fine.

11pm

Oh God, how is it humanly possible to still feel sick. I now remember exactly why I am not, and never will be, a water baby..

Travel to the town of Kaikoura was fantastic. It was snug and warm on the coach as we travelled along the coastal route and I caught sight of its incredible vista – the captivating mountain range provided some dramatic scenery and the peninsula that jutted out towards the Pacific Ocean was majestic. It created an incredible back drop to our view of the humpback whales lifting out of the water and crashing back down again with a graceful thud.

We had an hour to look around the small settlement of Kaikoura, the base for our dolphin swimming, so I made use of some perusing time on the Esplanade, and bought some very nice Roxy jeans. I have absolutely no idea where I’ll wear them in good old Blighty in fear of looking like an extra from Home and Away, but while in Australasia, do as the Australasian’s do. I met a very nice American couple, Sharon and Dean, who I sat next to during the pre-swim educational video. I paid attention to every single word of that video, wanting not only to know everything I could about these amazing marine mammals in their natural habitat but also to be fully prepared for a full blown aquatic disaster.

When we were told that we needed to be ‘confident in the open ocean and 'it is an advantage to have had previous snorkeling experience’ I nodded along confidently with everyone else, not wanting to share my fears with Sharon that I still hadn’t quite got over a traumatic experience in the Lazy River at The Water Palace, Croydon, in 1991 and if the truth be told I didn’t really like to get my hair wet.

We took a small bus to our boat, Delphinidae, a charming white and blue vessel. The sight of it bobbing up and down on the water encouraged my stomach to do a very small but noticeable flip, but I overcame the flip and boarded the boat ready for my adventure.

Safety checks complete, wet suits zipped up tightly and snorkeling equipment distributed, we set off on our open ocean experience, across the choppy Pacific. Our instructor – British, very tall, with floppy Hugh Grant-esque hair and bags of enthusiasm - loved the sea, unlike me. 'Jeez it’s a bit rough today!' he said enthusiastically with a mildly irritating inflection suggesting he'd been out of the UK for a while. ‘You’re not kidding, Hugh’ I thought as the waves crashed against the boat and sprayed the back of my head with sea foam. He repeated the very important instructions we'd heard in the video that I tried desperately to listen to as the bumpy ocean threw me from side to side, up and down off my seat and nearly over the edge. 'When you hear the siren that's your cue to go in the water slowly. Don't get too close to the dolphins, and if you need assistance just put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama. Enjoy!’ shouted Hugh. Loudly.

Was it me or were the waves getting larger and more powerful? The open ocean experience was making me feel a little unnerved. That jutting peninsula was nowhere in sight and all I could see was miles and miles of ocean. A quick peek around at my fellow wetsuits revealed no other panicked faces so I tried to push to the back of my mind that I was feeling a bit crook. The Swedish girls looked tanned and blond, the epitome of ocean chic. The Aussies looked completely relaxed in their wetsuits, as if they were wearing a second skin. I was so pale I was translucent, but at least I could be used as a makeshift buoy in case anyone needed something to hang onto in the water to attract attention. The wailing shriek of siren was our cue that Flipper and friends were here to play, so I flipped on over in my flippers and pulled the slightly too-tight mask over my head, creating a very interesting bouffant.

We headed excitedly to the edge of the boat and I prepared to lower myself down the boat's ladder into the water. All was going well until a wave of nausea rose up inside me, without warning. I desperately clambered back up the ladder and past the others as quickly as is humanly possible in big, wide fins where I proceeded to throw up in the nearest bucket. 4 times. Yep, 4.

It is quite possible that I have never been so ill, or so embarrassed in my life, as my fellow crew members splashed gaily around in the sea with the acrobatic dusky dolphins and I puked in a bucket as the boat bobbed up and down relentlessly and Hugh patted me on the back.

I like dolphins. I don’t eat tuna, but if I did, you can bet your life it would be dolphin-friendly. When I was a child I adopted a dolphin, Sundance, for Christmas (for life of course, not just for Christmas. Well until I was at least 9). Being a slightly less naive and far more cynical adult, I now realise of course that me and 500 other kids had the same certificate, but in my eyes my £2 per month gave me sole ownership of Sundance. I have always dreamed of swimming with dolphins, so why oh why did my sea legs decide to wobble on this day?

The vomiting eventually ceased and I stood up slowly on wobbly legs, looking out to the ocean. I talked to myself inwardly, a little motivational talk if you like. Nicola, your trip to NZ is going to be over soon, this may be your last chance to do this. Hold your head high, put a mask on it and shove that snorkel in your mouth. Get in that water!'. So I staggered determinedly to the sea, reassuring a concerned Hugh that I was indeed ok.

I lowered myself in and tried to put the sickness episode behind me. The ocean was cold and tasted salty in my parched mouth and I was finding it hard to kick my weak legs to stay afloat. Then it happened. A dolphin swam towards me and momentarily stopped; its sleek body just about visible under the wavy water. It looked at me, I looked at it and then it leaped above the water and started to swim away so I followed, remembering not to get too close. I swam alongside it, just for a couple of minutes but it was a perfect moment of solitude. I couldn't hear anything around me and I felt very at peace, like time had literally stopped. I was the dreamy nine-year old girl again, swimming alongside what may just have been my beloved adoptee. Then it was gone.

In its place my nausea returned to taunt me. I quickly realised I was far, far out to sea and I couldn't touch the bottom. The cold water shocked my body back to the present and I could feel the sickness rising up again to make yet another appearance. Hugh’s words resounded echoingly in my head 'put your hand in the air and I'll come help you, no drama'. So I waved my hand in the air frantically as I swam to the boats edge. Realising there was in fact a drama, I was ungracefully pulled onto the boat by one of the other instructors like a slippery, wet fish head first. I lifted my face, distorted by the huge snorkel mask, and whispered 'please can I have the bucket' before flopping back down again defeatedly.

For the next five minutes, Hugh had the unfortunate task of emptying the bucket ready for the next onslaught, whilst simultaneously making small talk and congratulating me on my short but successful swim. He gently suggested I remove my wetsuit, as we both knew I was done for the day and we had at least another hour to go before being back on land. I was so ashamed, surely it couldn't get any worse than this.

So I attempted to get undressed as the boat continued to sway and I gulped down deep breaths of oxygen to overcome what was surely the undefeated world record for seasickness. I tried to get my fins off, but one big flipper refused to pop off my foot despite me ungracefully bending over and pulling on the bugger for dear life. I gave up and started instead to pull down the zip on the top half of my wet suit, when I heaved once more and signalled frantically for the bucket. As I threw up, I noticed that my bikini top had unhelpfully slipped off to one side, exposing my naked chest to Hugh, the crew and the poor dolphins. Hugh held my hair back while I freed myself not only of my breakfast but any last remnants of dignity that I may have one had. Where were my girlfriends when I needed them?

Boob flashing aside, and in an attempt to see the positive, the trip back to land was great. I was wrapped in a blanket and given some sweet tea and chocolate as I watched the land finally coming to view in the distance. I lived my dolphin encounter vicariously through my group and listened to their excited chatter as I got waited on hand and flipper and had some photos taken for me. I really did feel like Queen Nicola - Ernst would have been proud of me, although maybe not so much the exposure part.

Back safely on land, I slept on the coach home and made it back to Christchurch early evening. I checked my emails, replied to Lauren who I met in Peru and the girls back home who hopefully will see the funny side of today's goings on. I'm now in my room, with my backpack stuffed with clothes, and I'm shattered and trying to forget that I still feel like I'm on a boat. Bleurgh. I am meeting Ernst at 6.50 am for another royal breakfast and then have a taxi booked to take me to Columbo Street to meet my fellow travellers for our trip to Mount Cook Trip. Excited, and relieved that I'll be trekking around a mountain and not swimming with a mammal.

Goodnight xx

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So, it was a day to remember but unfortunately for all the wrong reasons. In May this year I am travelling to New Zealand for 5 weeks with Alex. Any encounters with dolphins, unless accidental, are not part of our itinerary.

Nor is wearing a wet suit.