Although he's nothing in the scheme of my years

Okay I have fine-tuned my Christmas holiday route and here is it in all its glory:


Day one: train to Madrid and overnight train to Paris.

Day two/three: Paris

Day four: Paris to Brussels

Day five: Brussels

Day six: Brussels to Bruges

Day seven/eight: Bruges

Day nine: Bruges to Amsterdam

Day ten/eleven/twelve: Amsterdam

Day thirteen: fly to Madrid



Hells yeah! If you have been to any of these places and want to offer some advice about things to do/see...even if you haven't been there but would like me to go somewhere/do something and then blog about it...you can suggest it. I'm not sure how I feel about going to Paris, I was 18 the last time I was there and I had such a perfect week - the best company, weather and overall luck. I don't want to taint my memory of the city if it's not as pefect this time around. It will be very cold though and hopefully not very touristy at that time of year. Maybe I will even spot some of these glam Frenchies I see on style blogs. Very excited about Bruges (which I didn't know existed before In Bruges, I'm ashamed to admit) and staying in a houseboat in Amsterdam with my oldest friend; she's my oldest friend in terms of how long we've known eachother, rather than her personal age of course, is there a clearer way of saying 'oldest friend'? 'childhood friend'?

Now I'm going to plan my Easter holidays....shit, I just missed my chance to get in the shower. Better go run the hot tap and flush the toilet a few times until my flatmate gives up....kidding...coughcough.




Photo: Anna Rosa Krau

Love is a dress that you made, long to hide your knees.

This weekend I have: listened to and downloaded lots of Iron and Wine ; Skyped with my parents; cleaned my room; put pink butterfly sheets and an ugly cover on the spare bed, then jumped on it with Ly; bought halloween stickers for my students; done cartwheels down the street; cried; drawn pointless pictures; taken photobooth pictures; created a 'kiss chart' with my flatmate for shits and giggles.

...oh, and eaten out both days. Today's lunch was expensive but so worth it:

By body won't tell my mind what I've been thinking, before it's out of my mouth

My project is coming along nicely. I had marzipan for dinner AND breakfast. I only have to work for 3 hours today. If you're happy and you know it...

Now hang me up to dry, you wrung me out too many times

Photo: Timothy Barnes

Dear douchebagjerkfacefucktardknobhead,

You no longer have an effect on me. I no longer over analyse. I am no longer mad when you don't email. Can't you just stay away? I would like to continue going through life believing I have a heart of stone. I'm rather proud of the fact that more than one person says that Jet's 'Cold Hard Bitch' reminds them of me. Don't ask me who these people are, you don't know them.

Please stop liking me (or whatever it is you're doing), it's pathetic and you do it really badly.

Te

PS: I despise you even more for inspiring this post. Twat.

Please remember me, at Halloween, making fools of all the neighbours

Photo: Tim Barnes

I'm starting a project. The idea is that I mail something every single day. Postcards, letters, gifts...every day! I have been compiling friends' addresses like nobody's business. The project is to make sure each day differs from the one before, lately life seems like a groundhog day...with the exception of the occasions when a student says something hilarious or my flatmates scream at eachother. So if you'd like something from Spain in the mail you can email me your address. I'm not a stalker, but...I'm sure stalkers always say that so I wouldn't ask you to take my word for it, and let's face it...I'm not willing to give anyone my address, so...

On a different note, I've realised lately that the world would be a better place if there were some drug that would put all 14 year old girls in a coma until they reached 15. Where the hell do they get all their 'bitchy' from? Certainly not the same place that sells tact, consideration, respect or objectivity. You can't even say to them 'hey! you're acting like a douchebag, grow up' because they think they're fucking awesome and they won't realise you were right for another 6 years and in 6 years time they probably won't remeber the time when their teacher called them a douchebag. It makes me rather concerned about what I will think about my 22 year old self when I'm 30. Ah, it's all experience - let's get drunk.

I have a couple of friends coming to visit over the next few weeks. I plan on pretty-ing up the spare room with the frilly pink throw over and pretty pink flower sheets which were in the flat when we arrived. Boys love that stuff, right?

Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives

I may be too busy living life to properly blog about it. I have a Spanish bank card and a DVD store membership. We have a local. We have a bar we can't go back to (free drinks + a Mexican). The Scottish and Australians drink like no others...well, maybe we just need an Irish friend. We're living for the weekends. Don't live to work. In two months I am heading on an awesome train adventure including Barcelona, Lyon, Brussels and Bruges and ending in a houseboat in Amsterdam. I can't wait for Winter. My jeans smell like cigarette smoke, yuck. We're meeting up with our first friends here today, American boys. We haven't worked out whether they're a couple yet though...

I miss my dog. Bloody hell. Oh and you can now stalk me via bloglovin' and for some reason my blog is registered twice and there are 2 followers on the one that I swear I didn't register for, I have tried every single email/password combination I can think of...

Photo: Tim Barnes

These are dreams old men dream

Walking on a dream, how can I explain?

Photo: Fergus Padel

So I've had a home, a job, and a town of residence for three weeks now. Dude, I'm bored. The world is calling. Life is mundane. As mundane as it can be living somewhere that you don't speak the language and front door handles are just for show. Don't feel too sorry for me stuck in Southern Spain working my curls off, though. There are still trips to Morocco and Portugal in the pipeline. Also, to keep myself sane I have started planning my Christmas/New Years holiday- hello Amsterdam! I'm going on a train adventure from Andalucía all the way up to the Netherlands and meeting a friend in Amsterdam. I will be back in Spain for New Years Eve though, wouldn't miss out on the chance of choking on grapes.

So, for my train adventure I'm thinking...a bit of Southern France, some Switzerland, un poco Germany, Belgium for Christmas and then the Netherlands.

It's so hot. It's October; it's 33 degrees. It's a long weekend.

Is there anything I can do for you dear, is there anyone I could call?

I am currently feeling the downside to independence. I'm sick and I just want a cuddle from my mummy. My boss insists it is self-inflicted sun stroke. I'm not sure when phlem-tastic coughing became one of the symptoms of sun stroke, but there you have it. After having to cry at work to convince my boss I was genuinely sick I returned home and slept for 20 hours straight. Oh, guess what the Spanish miracle cure for everything is: Paracetamol. Tired? take a paracetamol. Fever? take a paracetamol. Sore throat? take a paracetamol. Headache? take a paracetamol. Depressed? take 10 packets of paracetamol...

So it is a vicious cycle: I can't be sick because I have to work, I have to work to pay the rent, I have to pay the rent because I have signed a contract, I signed a contract because I need somewhere to live. Welcome to the real world. I've realised that I haven't really been 'home sick' as such, more 'moment sick'. I miss listening to my ipod on the train on my way to uni; it was my favourite thinking time. Am I saying I miss Melbourne public transport? Wow, I really am sick.

Photo: Tim Barnes

That's right, put in work, eat your salad - no dessert.

The day after, the day after, the night before (tequila is now banned from our house).

My photos of Málaga:

Tequila shots!