One thing that’s pretty awesome about the UK is the fact that they really like their holiday time*.  Included in my 12 month contract are 29 days of paid holiday. I’ve used 17 so far (2 weeks back home, a long weekend in Paris, and 1 week in Morocco). I’ve had my 12 remaining days approved and I cannot wait for the holidays to begin. The first five are being used for a trip to Italy with my parents, where we will be flying into here:


and then heading here for a couple days:


And ending the holiday at this beautiful spot:

Cinque Terre

In May I’ll be comparing the Turkish Bath with my experience in a Moroccan Hammam with my sister, Nicole:


And a couple weeks before that, Martin and I will be taking a mini break to either here:


or here:


I’m feeling a little partial to Venice, but it’s probably because I’ve chosen a more romantic photo.

I’m trying to focus on these holidays instead of the 13th of June when my 2 year visa expires. Everything after that point seems super scary and I’m trying to avoid the stressful reality of the many questions that will need to be anwered when I am forced to return to Canada. I don’t have the answers yet. I’m hoping that they will reveal themselves to me at some point in the next few months, but what I do know is that no matter what happens, the choices I make will be very hard. So for now, I have Italy, Turkey and possibly Spain to look forward to.

*perhaps not so much as certain other countries in the EU, like, ahem, Italy, or France



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Hm…something about milk, and a cow, and not buying it?

Six months ago, while on a weekend trip to Martin’s hometown of Wigan, he asked me a question. We were enjoying our main course on a meal out with a bottle of red wine, when he took my hand and said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something”.  We had been dating for almost 10 months, and our relationship was going very well. We had said our ‘I love yous’ over and over again, and we both really meant it. At this point, I knew his question would not be the ‘big one’, so I nodded my head and waited for whatever was coming next.  He said that he really enjoyed spending time with me and that when Sunday came around and I made the journey back to my side of London he missed me a lot and was wanting to know if I would like to move in with him.

It didn’t come as a surprise, but it felt very sudden. I said that I would love to, but that we both needed some time. I felt as though I had just gotten myself into a pleasant routine, having moved into my current accommodation (which I adored) less than a year ago. My new work contract had started just 3 months prior and for the first time since moving to London, I felt settled, and happy, and more than reluctant to inviting change into my life (especially a new daily commute which would involve a TRAIN and a tube journey and getting up 20 minutes earlier than my usual 5:55 a.m. wake up time). So we decided to give it a couple months.

Until Autumn*.

But Autumn* quickly came and it still felt too soon.  So I proposed the new year instead. This would give Martin time to clear out the spare room, and his wardrobe and make space for me in his home and it would give me time to emotionally let go of my large (always warm) room, with space for all of my shoes, and my clothes, with a little tv by my bed, which was my companion on so many lazy Saturday mornings (and afternoons and evenings).  

2011 rolled around.

Martin began the arduous task of sifting through 10 years worth of accumulated paperwork, books, magazines, clothing, shoes, etc.  Last Tuesday I gave my landlord notice that I would be moving out (in 5 weeks).

OMG! We’re actually shacking up for reals. Please pass me a paper bag. Like, now!

Don’t worry, I’m only kidding…

*I really mean Fall

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Looking back

“More often in life, we end up regretting the chances in life that we had, but didn’t take them, than those chances that we took and wished we hadn’t.”

2010 was a wonderful year.

The year I let myself fall in love again…

The year I watched my longest and one of my closest girlfriends marry her high school sweetheart in Cuba…
And the year that my sister, Alayne, said ‘I do’ to her Prince Charming.
The year I grew out my bangs…
and grew a moustache.
The year I was a passenger on so many roadtrips…
to Blackpool:
and The Lake District:
The beaches of Brighton:
and beautiful Bath:

The year I missed my family…

A lot.

The year we said good-bye to Nonno…


and Uncle Bill.

The year I faced so many personal fears and traveled alone to Morocco:

Where I met some camels…

and learned how to tie a headscarf.

I stayed in a beautiful traditional Dar…

And got lost in the Medina countless times.

I met some fantastic people…and some pretty cool creatures as well.

Unfortunately some of them made my very ill…

But perhaps it was due to my own adventurous stupidity.

The year ended with the return of my sister…

 and a cozy Christmas spent with Martin.

Good-bye 2010…

Hello 2011!




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I don’t write for over 8 months and this is the story I come back with…

I joined a yoga studio last Tuesday.

 Following a year of minimal physical activity, save the 7 minute morning and evening walk to and from North Acton station, I decided it was about time I traded my soft self in  for something a little more ‘toned’. I toiled between two options: Gym membership? Or Yoga membership? And even though an unlimited monthly yoga membership is £50 MORE each month than a Virgin Active membership, I decided to go with the yoga since I would definitely enjoy it more, and hence go more, and hopefully get my money’s worth and a nice toned bootay too.  

After some research on the Internets I decided to go with a studio in Notting Hill. Basically the mid-point between my new job in Mayfair and my new house in North Acton. I was a little concerned about fitting in, like, should I buy a whole new yoga outfit? Should I get a mat? Should I stop shaving my legs and armpit hair and start using natural deodorants? I was scared and unsure.  My workmates joked to me that the classes would be full of yummy mummies, which didn’t make me feel any more confident about the situation. However, I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at my first class to see a variety of body shapes, ages, and abilities. Everyone was friendly and very welcoming and there were only a couple yummy mummies.

I chose a spot near the back of the class and focused on my breathing. It was a level 1-2 Ashtanga style class. I was feeling good; breathing, stretching, feeling the open space I was creating and only once while in down dog position (for what felt like the 50th time) did I feel like it might be a little too much to handle for my severely out of shape body.

We then started to slow things down. I was feeling energized and confident. The instructor told us we were going to go into the shoulder stand position now. I copied the person next to me. Lifting my legs up into the air and using my shoulders to brace myself while bringing my elbows in under my back. We then inverted our legs down behind our heads. 10 deep, balanced breaths, then slowly back down into a seated position.

And then it happened.

 I varted.

Or quiffed.

Or flatus vaginalised.

Or, for those of your who still don’t know what I’m talking about…I farted from my vagina.

Oh yes, not once, but TWICE.

Queue gut wrenching, soul defeating MORTIFICATION. However, I put on my best poker face and just pretended like nothing happened and if it did happen and people around me heard it, it sure as hell did not come from me (or rather, my vajayjay).

I’ve since been to 6 more classes and I’m happy to report that it appears to have been a onetime occurrence.

Oh, right, so in case you were wondering, I obviously still live in London, have moved to an awesome new house, have a great new job, am growing out my bangs, and have fallen in love with an English man. Okay… I think we’re up to speed now.


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I’ve been busy…

Actually, my current temp placement doesn’t let me on WordPress 😛

In case you were wondering what I’ve been up to, apparently, I can’t say ‘no’ to a man with a video camera.  Enjoy my awkwardness…


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Bangs, also good for…

Hiding a puffy left, top eyelid.

Yeah, not sure what’s going on there but I noticed that I had an extra puffy ‘fold’ in my left eyelid before bed last night, which is still present today. It’s kind of itchy and feels…weird (it’s not a bump, like a sty, but just a general puffiness and pinkness). I might drop into the clinic tomorrow since I don’t start work until 1:00. Here’s hoping it just goes away on its own accord, although I have a feeling this won’t happen because, apparently, the universe is out of bones to throw at me at the moment. I feel as though I must also mention that as well as the puffy eyelid, I woke up with a scratchy, sore throat, two nasty zits (that my bangs cannot hide ’cause they’re on my freaking chin), and a bad attitude.


This calls for a hot shower, flannel pjs, and an early night to bed. Tomorrow will be better.

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Wait a second…

Last night my sister, Alayne, and I went to go see 500 Days of Summer. It was interesting and funny and sad and full of colourful things to entertain the eye. And I recommend it, but I’m not really a movie reviewing type of person,  so I’ll just let you go see it for yourself. 


Before the movie started, I decided to go to the loo because about 8 months earlier I had a traumatic cinema experience where I almost peed my pants. I’m not sure why I didn’t just take a toilet break during the movie, it wasn’t even good (Yes Man), but I sat there in agony waiting for the credits to roll. Since then, I’ve had a pee before every movie policy, even if I already went before I left the house.

So I exited the theatre and quickly found the sign for the toilets, I entered the toilets and picked my stall: the second one from the left.  I thought it was a little odd that the toilet seat was in the up position, but  I just put it down and did my business. I also wondered why the bathroom stank so strongly of urine, but again, I dismissed this as just another gross public toilet occurence. I did up my zipper and made my way to the sinks. As I’m washing my hands, I noticed something strange behind me in the reflection of the mirror. Heh? What are those strangely familiar looking porcelain things? . . . GAH! Urinals! I quickly realised that I was in the men’s toilets! The horror! I hurriedly dried my hands and got out of there, luckily, without being detected.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. I think it’s time I book an optomitrist appointment.

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