Oh, hey Blog. It's been awhile.

Well, I'd say nearly a year and a half is well enough of a break that I could probably start blogging again. If not for me, then for my dad who, every time I visit home, reminds me how much he likes to read my updates. The only thing really keeping me from blogging is that I can never really think of anything interesting enough to write about. My life is just interesting enough that I can fill the 140 character void on Twitter and maybe even come up with a snarky enough Facebook status to make people laugh. But an entire blog? Maybe I'll just ramble off topics that have recently been brought up in my life and see what I can come up with.
Growing up: Finally! At 25 (almost the dreaded 26, come summer)! I managed to put that off for quite awhile. Moving to England after college, working silly jobs when I got back. But now, I have a job that has no advancement whatsoever, where I get yelled at on a daily basis. But it's 9-5 five days a week and I have health insurance. I also have a boyfriend who actually takes me into consideration when planning the future. It's all big kid stuff, and I feel as though I've adjusted fairly well. But the change seems to really be taking effect within the next 5 weeks.
I've lived in Lawrence, KS since 2005 (with that small bout of the travel bug in 2008-2009 when I was in Europe for 7 months). Regardless, it's been a good 6 or so years in a college town that I can't seem to say 'goodbye' to.
When I say 'good', I really mean amazing, of course. It's the hometown of the Jayhawk, mostly, but I've also taken part in many of the city's eccentric activities. The Busker festival, where street performers line Massachusetts street and juggle fire balls, or shove knives down their throats, and twist and bend metal. They walk on glass, tear phone books in half, and make balloon animals for all the kids. And then there's the more classic townie happenings, like the Saturday morning flea markets, buying fresh bread from Harvest Bread Co., riding my bike along the trails out to Clinton Lake, celebrating amazing basketball seasons....oh. that last one? Really is something we get to do a lot.
I was born in 1986, and I've been a Jayhawk, not since birth, but since conception, which I realize is a gross thing to say. But I can hold my own in a conversation about Hawk basketball. I had a crush on Ryan Robertson before I even knew about Justin Timberlake. My high school crush was Nick Collison, who now plays for the OKC Thunder (more on him and a restraining order in my foreseeable future later). I cried harder over NCAA losses than breakups, and I used to watch a VHS of the '88 championship before bed when I was 10. When I was 14, I told a grown man that it wasn't Jauque Vaughn that played in '88, it was Scooter Barry. Idiot. I loathed Roy Williams for leaving, but loved Bill Self for taking over. When people try to tell me "wait until football season" I say, "Why? It's all about basketball....Idiot."
Now, back to Nick Collison. I will embarrassingly admit to making a build-a-bear in high school and naming him Nick-Nick. I will also admit that I've been the number 4 for almost every basketball team I've played on. I cried after Collison lost the NCAA finals to Syracuse in 2003. And I was overjoyed when his number was hung in the rafters in Allen Fieldhouse. But it's been quite a few years since I've really thought about my old crush (he's old. 31, I believe). Last year, my boyfriend Jake and I made it a point to watch OKC through the NBA finals and I was reminded how much I love him (Jake and Collison).
Jake, a future pharmacist of America, will be graduating in May, passing some tests (knock on wood), and getting hired on as a full-time pharmacist with the grocery store chain Dillon's. We found out a month ago that in Kansas, jobs near big cities are few and far between. So, Jake's destination? Ark City, KS! 10 miles (ish) from the Oklahoma border! However, the things we've heard about Ark City aren't super enticing, so we've managed to find a home to rent in nearby Winfield, KS. Jake asked me what I thought about moving with him. I, of course, emphasized a strong "I go where you go" reply without the cheesy "Titanic"-you-jump-I-jump-can-we-see-this-movie-in-3D?! feel to it. So, here we are. A mere 5 weeks from moving away from the city I've loved every day since I've been here. Maybe I haven't loved the jobs, but the fact that I can get a good marg, beer, or double tall gin and tonic, just about anywhere after a tough day as a lowly pharm tech, makes living here all the better.
So, I'll quit my job, pack my things, invest in a relationship, experience small-town life, and, hopefully, become a regular at a bar where everybody knows my name. I'll start to know what 'season' it is for farmers, be able to tell the difference between a tractor and--some other farm equipment, and I'll probably buy a gun of sorts. I'll find things to do, find a job (hopefully a career), oh, and probably drive an hour and a half to watch-yep- the OKC Thunder and my love Nick Collison. I never knew if I could fully get into NBA, but two Jayhawks (Collison and Aldrich) being on the same team will certainly grab my attention. It helps that they're good, too.
And every time I get scared to leave, this afternoon for example, Jake's there to reassure me we'll be just fine. We'll make our rental house a home, we'll have a washer and dryer, but no dishwasher, we'll unpack all our things-his video games, my guitars, we'll have two of everything and no matching dishes, and, yeah, we'll be just fine. AND he promised me a puppy one day. Actually, 2 puppies, because he wants a bulldog named Spike, and I need a mutt named Gromit to help me invent mechanical trousers and visit the moon for cheese (you know, like the movies "Wallace and Gromit"?). But the main point, my avid readers (dad), is that we'll be just fine.
......even better if we beat Kentucky tomorrow night. :) ROCK CHALK and JAYHAWK.

Only One Angelfish in the Sea

Way down in the deep blues of the warm, tropical portions of the Atlantic Ocean live French Angelfish. These fish are beautiful; a blue and black hue with specs of yellow all along their sides. They spend their days swimming along reefs near Florida, the Bahamas and on into the Gulf of Mexico. One of the most beautiful fish, and yet so dumb. Fish are dumb. Some fish only have 8 seconds of lasting memory. So, how can something so pretty be so stupid? I asked myself that very question after my last relationship. And I wasn't referring to the guy.
Humans aren't that romantic. Not any that aren't drawn up by Disney, anyway. I can look at the Angelfish, that stupid, stupid Angelfish and find more things beautiful about them than most people I've met. Angelfish mate for life. They can find one, special fish, who happens to look like all the other fish in the reef, spend every day of their lives with them, hunt for food, and travel the waters together. These "stupid" fish happen to be living the life I want. Who wouldn't want a life in the tropics? Maybe a cooler of Corona's at my side and being with someone I actually want to see on a daily basis. The next man that comes along that actually convinces me I need to see him everyday and talk with him and swim around the reefs with him and hunt for smaller fish to eat, that's the man that will convince me that maybe I'm not just another pretty, but stupid fish in the ocean.
If I ever meet the person that came up with the saying, "plenty of fish in the sea" I might slap him. Not only did my dad say that to me when I was crying in my bed after my 4th grade boyfriend broke my heart, but I also just hate the saying. I don't just think of myself as an ordinary pet goldfish or a trout or salmon on the grill with a slice of lemon. No. Not me. I am an Angelfish. And Angelfish don't mess around. Literally. They don't date around. They find their mate, stay by their side, and even after their spouse dies, they don't move on and date another fish. They swim the waters alone, fully aware that what they had with that one other fish was something special.
What I don't understand about the Angelfish is how they find their fish-mate. Is it a scent? Is it the way they chew their food? Maybe the curves of their dorsal fin? Or maybe it's the way their gills move when they breathe? I have absolutely no idea. And this haunts me in everyday life. Not the Angelfish part, but the how to find a mate part. Now, I can listen to Diana Ross and my mom over and over and no matter how much someone tells me I "can't hurry love, no you just have to wait!" it's not going to matter. You can't tell a girl raised on imagination and Disney movies that nobody's going to save her from distress for awhile.
But as anxious as I am to meet someone and have everything my parents have, my sisters have, my grandparents have; I'm doing pretty well by myself. And maybe that's how you find your Angelfish. You have to have your fish in a row, so to speak. Have your life together, your bad experiences behind you, lessons learned, and that's when you can welcome someone special into your life. Then maybe, you won't just be another fish in the sea, but you'll be a fish that knows exactly what they want...you'll be an Angelfish.


Other animals that mate for life? Gibbons, Termites, Swans, Black Vultures, Wolves, Albatrosses, Doves, and Schistosoma Mansoni Worms.

Oops.

First off, I'd like to apologize for all 3 of you that read my blog and were half-expecting to see my bucket list about 5 months ago. I'm extremely sorry! So, with a new inspiration to actually blog from time to time, here is my list:

Find my own, personal favorite song.
Make a hole-in-one.
Go fishing, eat what I catch.
Ride a bull (mechanical accepted).
Camp on the beach.
Donate/Volunteer for a cause I truly believe in.
Attend Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
Celebrate the Summer Solstice.
Go Star Gazing.
Go ghost hunting (with the bestie, Dave).
Ride a rollercoaster.
Go to a bar and speak with an accent the entire night.
Get a tatoo.
Create a popular blog.
Visit the land of my ancestors.
Make and sell 100 greeting cards for different occasions, donate the money made.
Make a scrapbook/memory box filled of my Europe adventures.
Earn a Girl Scout badge.
Ride a Greyhound Bus.
Save a life (any kind, any way).
Catch the bouquet at a wedding.
Throw a capital B, capital A party.
Karaoke.
Play my guitar in front of people.
Go to Vegas, gamble, preferably win.
Catch Fireflies.
Have a destination wedding.
Set/break a Guinness World Record.
Pick fresh fruit...in Chile (with the pops!)
Hit a half-court shot.
Make it RAIN!
Cook my grandma's favorite recipes, turn it into a cookbook.
Find faith/religion.
Meditate once a day for a month.
Road trip through my home state of Kansas.
Attend all 4 Grand Slam tennis tournaments (Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, US Open).
Snorkel
Remodel a house.
Try being a vegetarian for an extended amount of time (2 weeks-a month)
Mope-ed my way through Greece.
See Bob Dylan or Dolly Parton in Concert.
Meet a Spice Girl.
Visit Casablanca, Morocco (With all intentions to sit at a bar, drink gin on the rocks and say "Of all the gin joints in all the world, she walks into mine").
Join a gym.
Hitchhike/pick up a hitchhiker.
Visit 5 of the top zoos in the US.
Bike across Kansas.
Rent a limo for a night.
Rent a personal bodyguard for the weekend.
Get a metal detector, find something cool.
Have my palm read.
Send a message in a bottle, throw it out to sea.
Give an amazing toast at a wedding.
Finish writing my Grandpa's fight against cancer story.
Learn each of my grandparent's life stories.
Brew my own beer/make my own wine/or attempt sloe gin.
Get a Master's Degree.
Frame and hang my diploma.
Make a short film.
Have a picnic.
Spend a day building a sand castle.
Take dance lessons.
Learn to surf.
Play a really great April Fool's joke.
Participate in a Beer Pong tournament.
Have a windowsill garden of herbs.
Win a tennis tournament.
Run a 1/2 marathon.
Play gin rummy/bridge with old people.
Make friendship bracelets.
Construct a tire swing.
Study my astrological sign.
Attempt Fung-shui.
Learn about my car (change a tire, change the oil, etc..).
Own a pair of Jimmy Choos.
Live in New York.
See 100 classic films.
Ride in the side car of a motorcycle wearing goggles and a leather helmet.
Eat with chopsticks.
Create/Find my personal style.
Study Mixology.
Pick and can pears with my aunt.
Visit 7 World Wonders.
Go on a road trip with my mom to the largest Farmer's Market in the US.
Visit all 7 continents.
Read 100 works of classic literature.
Stay up for 24 hours doing only fun things.
Get on the Game Show Network.
Ride in a hot air balloon.
Take a cooking class.
Conquer a fear.
Visit all 50 states.
Go Cliff Jumping.
Swing from a rope into a lake.
Celebrate all holidays in one year, include the obscure.
Skinny dip.
Send birthday/holiday cards to friends and family.
See the Northern Lights.
Invent an alcoholic drink, give it an impressive name.
Yell "Drinks on me!" at a crowded bar...and be able to pay.

I have since: joined the LAC gym where I run and swim, Caught the bouquet and made an amazing Maid-of-honor speech at my bestie Maddy's wedding in Kentucky, I was forced to Karaoke with to "All the single ladies" with my little sister and my cousin, I built a tire swing in my back yard (yet have only used it twice), and I also made a memory box filled with my Europe souvenirs.

To those paying close attention, I also have create a popular blog on this list. Here's hoping I remember to update more often! :)

I hope this inspires a lot of people to make bucket lists! And I'll try post pictures of any more bucket list conquests in the future!

It's been a long while.

So, in an effort to carpe diem, I've decided to make my very own "Bucket List". I have a few things down, you know, things that aren't so epic that I'm redefining who I am, but good enough that I'll be satisfied with what I accomplish. Example: Ride a rollercoaster. It's a fear, and it needs to be beaten in the head. I have a list of about 15 things so far, and with the help of my roommate Adam, by Sunday, we'll have 100 things combined of things we want to accomplish before we die. It's pretty epic and I plan on keeping everyone up to date on my list. :) Enjoy the adventurous blogs to follow, and while you wait for mine to come around, make your own list of things you want to do before you die! My finalized list will be up around next week. Enjoy!
xo's, jill

On the Verge of Holiday

“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” - Samuel Johnson



I can remember sitting in French class my Freshman year of high school and staring at the picture of the Louvre that graced the cover of my textbook. I never though I'd actually get a chance to see it in person, but I could imagine it. I could so easily close my eyes and see the Roman ruins scattered about Italy and the beaches of Greece with the white and blue buildings speckled across the cliffs. And, even now, I can lay in my bed before I fall asleep and try to imagine all the places I'll see on my vacation that's so near.
Three weeks from today, my stint as an American waitress in London will be over and I'll have nearly four weeks to enjoy what Europe has to offer. Sure, it'll be with an organized tour of 20 year olds drinking their Euros away, but it's also seeing everything I studied in school come to life. How I'll react to seeing the canals of Venice for the first time or the coast of Kotor Bay in Croatia, I have no idea. I'm assuming I'll be either shocked and amazed or simply disappointed in a "this is it?" kind of way. But knowing me, the girl that leaped across border control in Spain after getting my passport stamped for the third time, I'm sure I'll be more than overwhelmed.
The past week, I've been annoying customers with my mere excitement just to leave on this trip. I've been telling them where I'm going, what I'm excited to see, and I even demonstrated how I want to pose when I see the Leaning Tower of Pisa (because I WILL get that picture!). The customers who are most fun to have these converstations with are the ones that have really great advice about Europe. Their the ones that write down what to see and what to skip while I'm touring. I talked to a man a few weeks ago that suggested I take an unadvised right turn at the entrance of St. Mark's Basillica and sneak through a door and up a flight of stairs, ending up on a balcony that over looks all of St. Mark's Square. He said nobody really knows about it, but it's the best view he found. I had another man tell me to go to the top of the Arc de Triumph, because everyone does the Eiffel Tower, but the Arc was just as impressive. And last night, I spoke with a table of people for nearly 20 minutes about how amazing Italy and Prague are. One of the older ladies at the table, just before they left, came up to me and said, "You can have a drunken weekend vacation anytime you want, but how often can you come to Europe and see all the history you read about while growing up?" Well, I actually think her British phrase was, "a weekend on the piss," but her point was taken and much appreciated. So, while everyone back home will be thinking I'm sitting on a beach drinking gin and tonics in the hot, Ionian sun, I'll really be seeing the history of civilations past and learning to appreciate the art and architecture of another continent. But I'm sure I can find spare time for gin and tonics....

talk to everyone again soon! love, jill

The Grass is Always Greener in my Wimbledon Whites

“New Yorkers love it when you spill your guts. But spill your guts at Wimbledon, and they make you stop and clean it up.” -Jimmy Connors

I don’t want to say my only reason for coming to England was to visit the Wimbledon tennis grounds, but I’ll admit it was on top of my list of places to see. The Wimbledon tournament itself is a far cry from the drunks cheering at the Australian Open or the sticky clay courts at Roland Garros. And the US Open is even too revolutionary for the traditions that are upheld on the grass courts in London. Wimbledon, to me, is cheering on Roddick nearly four years ago only to see him lose to Roger Federer (but who hasn’t lost to Fed?). That same year, I saw a 17 year old Maria Sharapova beat Serena Williams for her first Grand Slam win. And, of course, last year Rafa Nadal put an end to an epic 5 years straight of Federer Wimbledon trophies. But the past five, or even ten years doesn’t define Wimbledon. While I’m too young to re-live the days of John McEnroe’s outcries (“You have GOT to be kidding me!”) or Bjorn Borg’s short shorts and Jimmy Connors’ red hair flopping as he pushed a backhand down the line, I am lucky enough to have grown up in the days of Pete Sampras, Andre Agassi, Lindsay Davenport, and then the William’s sisters hit the stage. I saw Andy Roddick turn pro when I was still in middle school, Sharapova win slam after slam throughout my high school years, and then the Serbian revolution of Jelena Jankovic, Ana Ivonovic, Novak Djokavic, and all the other “vic”’s in the past three years. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I would stay up until 4am watching the Aussie Open, or skip class to see Rafa Nadal win his 3rd French Open. There were nights in the summer when I could enjoy the US Open and Roddick almost beating Federer, but not quite pulling it off, but what a rush of pure enjoyment! On my tour of the grounds, while sitting and staring out onto Court 1, where legends have won and lost, I figured out why tennis is one of the great sports and why Wimbledon is a tennis player’s heaven.
The saying goes, “Tennis is a gentlemen’s sport,” but you only fully comprehend that when you visit Wimbledon. Here, traditions reign supreme. You only wear white, you bow to the Royals’ box after a match on Centre court, and, well, there is always a rain delay. But taking the journey deeper and deeper into the nooks and crannies of the grounds, I learned that no one is allowed on the grass courts until June, when the grass court season officially starts, and no one, not even any of the 500 hundred members of the club, is allowed on Centre Court or Court 1. Those courts are reserved for only the top players in the world. Why? Well, it’s tradition.
The way Wimbledon works is it’s a private club. No shareholders, no stocks, no presidents or board members that sell rights to TV channels so they can make money. BBC is the only channel in Britain that airs the tournament and they play it on a basic cable channel. No one has to pay to see the tournament on TV. And what else do these wealthy, tennis-loving feigns allow? 1600 tickets on any given day during the two weeks of the tournament for those that wait in the queues. That’s right. 1600 tickets. For those that aren’t lucky enough to win the lottery tickets before Christmas, there’s still a chance to see the epic battles that ensue on the grassy greens.
“Tennis is the perfect combination of violent action taking place in an atmosphere of tranquility”- Billie Jean King.
Our tour guide began with a quick summary of Wimbledon’s beginnings; how they wanted to raise a few shillings for a new lawn mower and how it eventually grew into one of the biggest tennis tournaments in London, and then the world. We climbed to the top of Henmen Hill where everyone, in the summer, will pop open Pimm’s and Lemonade and have a picnic while watching the tennis on a jumbo screen planted outside one of the courts. We then walked through a tunnel to the BBC television area where all the players are interviewed before and after matches, and then on into the global interview room. I plopped right down and of course had my photo taken a few times! Our tour then took us to Court 1 where we enjoyed the magnitude of the tennis world. While Centre Court was still under construction (they’re building a roof to keep out the rain delays during championship matches) the whole of the tour and museum were well worth the trip, especially to someone who loves the sport so much. Walking through the museum, I could hold a racket that Jimmy Connors used to beat Johnny Mac in a Wimbledon final and compare it to a racket the players use now. It’s no longer wooden, and it’s much lighter. I saw the shoes Rafa Nadal wore last year when he beat Federer, and, on the topic of shoes, Maria Sharapova wore a pair of tennis shoes embedded with 16 carat gold during her appearance the year after her title win. And there was even a display dedicated to the fashionable Williams sisters. While browsing through, I managed to find the small room, off to the side of the cinema, where they all sat nice and clean, as if they’d never been touched: the trophies. They were an incredible site to see. I don’t know how anyone could lift them after a win on Centre Court. But there they were for all the world to see and gaze upon.
I think the look on my face when seeing the trophies was the same look I had on my face all day. It was a look of disbelief that I was actually there crossed with amazement. Wimbledon is known for it’s tradition and to be where all the greats have been and see a place filled with so much history about something I’m so passionate about was just completely amazing for me. And so, for anyone who is as stupidly obsessed with tennis as I am, take the Southfields stop on the tube, walk a mere 15 minutes down the road, past all the Wimbledon souvenir shops, and stop at the gates of one of the greatest sports sights in Europe and just soak in everything that has been since 1877.

Feeling Old? Visit the Natural History and Science Museums. Feeling rich? Visit Harrod’s. And feeling homesick? The Hop on Beauchamp.”

“Growing up is never easy. You hold on to things that were. You wonder what’s to come. But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be. Other days, new days, days to come. The thing is, we don’t have to hate each other for getting older. We just had to forgive ourselves for growing up” --Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years.

Feeling small isn’t exactly a feeling I get too often. I’ve been 5’8” since 7th grade, size 10 shoe for just as long, and after eating desserts the size of my head, I feel far from small. But London has it’s ways. Take the museums scattered around the city, for example. Last week, I managed to get into the British Museum for the second time to see the Rossetta Stone, Egyptian mummies, among other things crammed into a fairly large space. But yesterday, getting off the tube at South Kensington and walking up the steps into the rainy weather, it hit me. The Natural History Museum. The place is ginormous. Sorry, British Museum, but where you have a block of stone that features clues into deciphering hieroglyphics, Natural History has dinosaur bones, millions of years old, glaring at you as you make your entrance into the Grand Hall of the Waterhouse building. It has an exact size replica of a blue whale hanging from it’s rafters. There’s the extremely long escalator that takes voyagers from the ground floor to the 4th floor via the center of the earth. And, of course, there’s a recreation of the extinct dodo bird. Just when I was starting to feel old, I read about the creation of the earth, the extinction of dinosaurs, and, well, the dodo bird. Turning 23 is nothing compared to turning 128 million years old. I don’t think the queen has even hit that milestone yet. And then there was the Science Museum. I walked through the evolution of space exploration, starting with the Greek and Romans ideas of the heavens straight to the last NASA mission. I experienced mankind’s ability to go from horse-drawn carriage to an environmentally friendly Japanese “futuristic” car. And then there was the special exhibit featuring a light show and big screen that read real time moments in chat rooms to create a visual art show (“dude, luv the new iphone” was featured multiple times).
The day was filled with feeling small and insignificant and I don‘t mean that in a horrible way. But when you walk around a city with a population 7 times your state, you can imagine how tiny and unimportant you are to a place like London. I can pay most of my thanks for feeling that way to Harrod’s, the world’s largest department store (second is Macy’s in New York). But don’t let “department store” fool you. It’s no JC Penny’s. Avoiding the crowd at the main entrance, I skipped past to one of the smaller side doors. As I walked in, I was overwhelmed with name brands. Not just semi fancy names, but huge names. Chanel, Dior, D&G, Michelle Perry, Armani, Juicy Couture, and basically any other name that is way out of my price range. But there’s a reason why all of those collections are expensive. Some of the purses, shoes, and sunglasses were absolutely amazing. I felt like I had walked into another museum. I definitely didn’t touch anything fearing a “you break it, you buy it“ rule that I had maybe missed seeing. And those are just stores inside the shopping center. Think about what kind of food court this place had. Oyster and Sushi bars, Tapas, Gelato, and, what caught me off guard, a very fancy Krispy Kreme. Yep. I’m still a little confused about that one. So, I quietly walked around Harrod’s in my worn-out tennis shoes and jeans and Old Navy tank with my Hollister hoodie. These brands ate my clothes for breakfast. After all the awe-inspired glances, I finally found my mom a couple birthday presents. While I didn’t break bank, just walking around with a Harrod’s bag made me feel a little bit more classy. And the name “Harrod’s” on the birthday presents (no, I’m not going to say what the presents actually are, sorry mom!) is worth the money. Call it a souvenir, but don’t call it cheap.
Wondering around museums and Harrod’s can sure put a girl in her place. She’s just another 22 year old soul that roams around yet another city that never sleeps (and often never sleeps in the Spring rain!). But during that day of feeling that I would be stuck in limbo for the remainder of my life, with no direction and no clue of what I’d do when I get back to the states, let alone what I’d do on my next day off, I found a place where I could find some peace, and for an afternoon call “home”. Well, it’s actually called “The Hop” and it’s run by Americans that moved overseas years ago. They play 50’s music, the floor is black and white checkered, and they have red-swirling bar stools. It’s no bigger than my room and they usually only have one or two people working. But what they always have for sale for those poor, lonely American students abroad in a new country: packets of Kool-Aid, Applejacks (among other American cereals), Dr. Pepper and Root Beer, Twinkies, Aunt Jemima’s Pancake mix, and, get this: Milk Duds. I can’t tell you how I managed to stumble upon this place. It was a mixture of hunger and tiredness that drove me to take an unadvised right turn off Chelsea high street, away from all the designer shops and expensive cafes. All I wanted was a pizza and a soda, and what I got was my childhood shipped to me via air mail and sold, overpriced at that, in some hole in the wall diner. I can honestly say I’ll be headed back. I actually have to. I put in an order for a box of Count Chocula and Frankenberries.
Just when I thought London was out to confuse me on the underground, or make me look the wrong direction while crossing the street (look right, not left!), and make me feel small compared to the ancient buildings that line Oxford street, London picks me back up and throws me into a spot so familiar it’s like I’ve known it for years. I lift my bowl of Count Chocula to you, London. Cheers, big ears.
Xo’s, jill