In the Immortal words of Britney: Sometimes I Run

Born to Run
Cool Runnings
Run It, Run It
Baby, Run More Time
You're the Run that I Want
Run't Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)
Naked Run
The Rescuers Down Runder
Run, Two, Three, Four
The Arsenal Runnars
Runderwall
Rungry Like the Wolf


Seriously, I could go on this marathon of a runpage forever--but I won't.

Anyway, just wanted to jog your memories--re: the greatness of running.
And funnily enough--like so many things--running is even better in Rundon--er, London.

First of all, there are loads of parks--Hyde, Regents, Green, Greenwhich--if you're jonesing for a scenic little jaunt. Now you have to be warned, this scenic jaunt tends to include loads of drippy couples white-knuckling each others' hands with nauseating cuteness, all-too public displays of affection, 'couplesy' picnics with TWO glasses, TWO plates and FOUR eyes laserbeaming into each other. And then they senselessly ogle the puppies and little children like a pack of slobbering school girls with cartoon hearts rising like convection waves above their thick skulls. It's not what you would call tasteful scenery. But if my outlook on these people sounds negative, not to worry! I take heart in the fact that while they get fat on brie, wine, and chocolate, I am running (over their picnics).

If the park isn't to your taste--as it often isn't--London also boasts some great waterfront paths along the Thames. These paths are also sweet because they hit up most of the iconic hotspots--Tower Bridge, the Tower, St. Paul's, Temple, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, The London Eye, the London Aquarium, etc. Swell! That said, especially on weekends, they are replete with touristas. If I had a beer for every time--while running--I've seen someone take the picture on the South Bank with their finger "pushing over" or "squashing" Big Ben, I would be comatose. In fact, if I see it again, I probably will go comatose with boredom, filled with absolute distaste for the lack of creativity our species often possesses.

Speaking of comatose, let's talk some more about tourists and herds of people in general. I think it's rumoured that we share something like 90% of our genetic make-up with cattle; I'd wager that with further study, we're closer to sharing 99% of our DNA with--specifically--inbred mules. We even make that lowing din, while our cell phones clang like pocket-sized Bessie bells. Generally, the most muleish tourists congregate in large numbers around the London Eye and the Tower of London. Maybe there's a giant magnet for mule-mans at these places. If so, that'd be great; we could collect these muleman beings and dispose of them in a rolling field somewhere. They probably wouldn't know the difference. At least the running routes would be clearer.

Bitching and moaning aside, I do really love running in London and it's so much easier to run for longer--I ran for an hour-and-a-half on Sunday! Maybe I should run more in order to deploy more endorphins to kick my foul mood re: lovebirds and tourists!

xox
HC

Clever Crisps, Boozey Treasure, and Feather Beds

Ever seen a treasure chest FULL of booze?
no?

How about crisps/chips that call themselves "medium", and then qualify that statement with "not the kind that talks to the spiritual realm"?
no again?

And feather beds? how does ANYONE live without them? I feel like I only just began my life this Wednesday.

Those, friends, are the highlights of my week (minus learning iMovie and creating the twitteo montage of the postal strike, posted below...oh, and, having the pleasure of stumbling upon an interactive 20-ft-tall sculptural triptych of a nude Naomi Campbell--one of the more bizarre moments of my life).

Yes, I am loving life. But lest you think it's all fun and games over here in London, here's one for the parents: Mum, Dad, Deb--I am working very very hard and have taken up the schmoozing torch and holding it high. I attend a grueling two-ish networking events a week and am meeting/greeting all sorts of industry types. Usually I Twitter the event too (sorry to all whose fbook pages get blown up by those status updates) It's all exceedingly hard work, chatting and cocktailing, but I'm managing despite it all. Thank goodness these events tend to foot the bill for drinking and dining, otherwise I simply do not know how I'd manage. You all know how much I HATE chatting, snacking, drinking, and generally socializing.

But enough droning, back to the fun.

Last night the girls and I went to this great little club in Green Park called Mahiki. Apparently the princes hang there. Anyway, one thing led to another and soon we were drinking champagne and schnapps out of a treasure chest with fruit and straws. In fact, one thing led to another again, and I was soon cramming as many Nando's Medium Peri Peri Chicken crisps--the ones that claim not to be spiritual media--as possible into my face. I think even the non-ESP-gifted bag of crisps knew how I was going to feel in the morning.

Good thing I could cozy down into my downy, be-featherbedded bed. Just a word on featherbeds: the featherbed has transformed my mattress from an asphalt, bricks, and cement sandwich into something that can only be likened to a baby chick panini--minus the general smells and sounds of a horde of baby chicks. I guess they'd have to be dead. But still quite fluffy and warm, no rigor mortis. A recently-dead baby chick panini, then. Similes aside, the bed is cheepin'--er, bleepin'--grand. (and THAT is the worst pun of the week.)

Oh, and I'm teaching myself computer coding in the interests of becoming more marketable in a web-based world. Unlike other career-developers like networking opportunities, however, HTML and CSS have yet to foot my drink & dine bill. Pity, maybe one day.

Ok, this is getting long.
Gotta cut it off somewhere!

Happy Sunday!
xo
H

me, myself, and imovie.

This may be one of the sillier things I've ever done. Here's the fruit of my labour for the last few hours as I tried to figure out how to work iMovie. I took some shots today on my camera around the Royal Mail depot near me (it's on my way to school), intending to use the footage to create something splendid. Instead, I ended up with this--a montage of Twitter comments about the current Royal Mail strike. Unfortunately, the quality of video uploader for blogger is a little bit crap--I swear, that part's not my fault! I can't say I've churned out a particularly brilliant piece of journalism, commentary, or editing, but it was fun to do, so enjoy!
xo
H

UK POSTAL STRIKE, a Twitter Montage:

That Time I Was Homeless...

So, I hate to admit it, but for the past month, I have self-imposed a bit of a press imbargo.

I know, I know, "The people should know the news as soon as it's fit to print," but the fact of the matter is, it wasn't fit to print. But now it is. Because it's over *knocking on wood.

To summarize (because it's a really boring story), I was supposed to live in halls in Old Street, but it was a shit room and they were charging a shitload of money. Thanks to my scatter-brained Dad and my own confused communications, I couldn't move in when I was slated to and had to wait until the Halls received my payment. Between not-moving-in and the Halls receiving payment, I found a better spot with more space, a real kitchen, and a more central location. Then, there was a mad dash to ensure that Halls did not, in fact, receive my payment. (During this time, I pictured myself in a thriller movie all about bank transfers, deposits, and wires--I quickly realized why Holly/Bollywood has yet to make a movie about nail-biting bank transfers--they are boring to all except those who are waiting on tenterhooks for the particular outcome. Then, of course, Halls received the payment and I had to put on my sweetest face and voice in order to get the cash back--finally, I did (but not before the CEO of the residence company went on holiday and I had to wait a week until he returned in order to plead my case)

Throughout this, I imposed astronomically on friends and I do not know what I would have done without them. *cue Beatles song that Harper recently sang at the NAC with YoYoMA--minus Harper, of course.

BIG THANK YOUS are due to Talia (and her old housemates), Julie, Jennifer, and Melvyn (and of course Caitlyn--who's two...we shared each others toast for the last week and a bit.)

It's been a long time--a month, to be relatively exact, and now I think I can finally say with confidence that I've got a place to stay. I'm living in a flat in Russell Square (uber central) with a couture fashion designer and a lovely girl who's on the Olympic committee for London in 2012. There will be housewarming fiestas imminently.

I love you all and I hope life is treating you well!
now, I'm off to sleep in MY VERY OWN BED!

xo
HC

London's Legions of Lefties

Ho-Lee-Chow, it's been a nutty couple o' weeks!

And it still is, actually, but luckily I've made some time to spew a bit (Andy, Will, thanks for harassing me about the abysmal trickle of writing!) In my defense, most of my time and energy has been spent on my current housing crisis (about which I will not speak until it's resolved--but don't worry--I just know that a really sweet post will come out of it! I just need a home to come out of it first). But enough of that, here's what's been running around my head recently:

There are a lot of lefties in London. Now, for all of you south-pawed folks out there, I think you'll understand what I'm going to drive at. For the dextrous majority, what a sweet opportunity to hear it straight from the mouth (fingers?) of quite a sinister minority!

So, the thing with lefties (and I've polled many of us about this) is that we recognize each other immediately. Whether we mention it or not, we scan classrooms, public transit, grocery stores, and coffee shops, to suss out who among the people around us are in the club. And when we stumble upon such like-handed individuals it's as though we've found kindred spirits. Not that we're not friends with right-handed folk, but there is something fundamental that binds southpaws together and makes us more likely to become fast friends or at least good aquaintances. Maybe it's just due to a mental tick I've picked up from absorbing too much ink through the side of my hand, but roughly seven of my top 20 people for whom I've got loads of respect are left-handed. With lefties clocking in at only five percent of the population, this is an interesting stat. (Granted, the sample size could make for some skewed interpretations).

But back to London's plethora of lefties. I see them all--ALL--the time. I probably notice an average of about seven lefties a day. In Toronto, by contrast, I'd be lucky to spot one. The accumulated effect of spotting so many members of my particular minority subject group is a very strong sense of belonging. I walk onto the tube and spot southies doing crosswords or writing in a notebook and I feel like I've just walked into my crew's secret party lodge! It's quite nice.

What I don't know, and holla atcha girl if you've got any ideas about this, is why does there seem to be more lefties in London? Am I just more observant than I have been in the past? Does a larger proportion of the population--and as such a higher number of lefties--take part in activities requiring a writing utensil in public? Are there actually more left-handed individuals in London? Or, better yet, do I have OCD? I'd love to know what you think!

I'm dwelling, sorry. It's just an interesting puzzle.

Anyway, gotta jet.

Hope you're all well!

xo

H

Yet Another Problem with Journalism

One of the pieces of information that has been drilled into our heads over the course of the last few weeks (and indeed, if we've had our eyes open, for the last year or so) has been the fact that journalism is in a bit of a pickle. There has been hand-wringing, wingeing, and generally much ado about the demise of the printed word, specifically that which appears on newsprint.

Whither newspapers? Nobody knows and everyone is up in arms. One professor asked us last week why we're bothering with an industry that is shrinking at such a record pace. Another stated that so-called journalists are nothing more than the lapdogs of corporate conglomerates. All have driven home the point that traditional journalism is--oh the horrors!--in shambles.

Now I'm not going to argue that the industry isn't at a turning point. Nor am I going to argue that the changes that will occur are going to be easy. But I do believe that there is a predominantly conservative (small-, not big-C) attitude toward Our Irreparably Damaged Industry that clouds the judgment of otherwise rational individuals.

I am consistently shocked at the aversion and--sometimes--downright repulsion to change voiced by my colleagues. In a class discussion last week a classmate had a great moan about being thrown willy-nilly into any number of start-up projects the newspapers are thinking up in order to save their skins. How awful! To think that someone could be sent as a lamb to the slaughter, shipped off cruelly to the vanguard of experimental frontlines of This Great Battle!

Those frontlines are what's making headlines these days. Since we're in the business of headlines, I would imagine, then, that the frontlines are where we ought to be. Closing eyes and hoping that traditional reporting will prevail at the end of the day is not only lazy and cowardly but it is also a great recipe for unemployment.

Perhaps the days of the breakfast broadsheets are gone. Perhaps gone, too, are the days of gathering 'round the fire on a lazy Saturday with a thick stack of flimsy paper, ink-stained hands and a big mug of tea. But dwelling on those bygone idylls is not a particularly competitive attitude with which to greet the day, or indeed a burgeoning career.

Greeting change whole-heartedly and with a vicious appetite is, I suspect, the sure-fire way to succeed in These Dark Days (*thunderclap) of Print. The failure to embrace changes in journalism is akin to cutting off one's fingers, scooping out one's eyes, and vowing never to speak again.

The Cult of Craft

Trust the notoriously eccentric English to operate a council devoted exclusively to crafting. Now don't get me wrong, I love crafts as much as the next guy and gal, but seriously? A CRAFTS COUNCIL!? Cities have councils, as do various professional groups, and while crafting is certainly a noble occupation it hardly screams "lets make by-laws and occupational regulations!"

I stumbled across the Crafts Council, pictured above, on yesterday's long walk from The Angel (the location of the illustrious City University) to Russell Square. *As a side note: it's very easy to think of London as a messy web of tube stops without any surface geography to connect them up. It seems that walking/busing/biking is the best way to make the city better hang together in my mind.

Anyway, on the walk, I happened upon a huge Georgian building with shinily-embossed words above the door that read "CRAFTS COUNCIL." Naturally, I did a bit of a double take. Who'dha thought that such a traditionally low-brow pastime would occupy such a high-brow building!?

For me, crafting is something that immediately brings to mind messy-faced, paint-stained children and elderly be-sweater-setted retirees desperately attempting to fill bags and bags of free time. But maybe I shouldn't be so quick to assign such stereotypes. The crafting community is indeed a diverse one, stretching across cultures and through time; it seems to be a pretty long-standing fixture in human society. The Council is quick to point out that in the UK alone, crafting is an 800 million pound-a-year (~$1.4 billion CAD) industry--Holy PVA glue, Batman! And yet, we always distinguish common crafts from their more exclusive artsy cousins.

A bit of Googling reveals that the Crafts Council's mission is "to position the UK as the global centre for the making, seeing and collecting of contemporary craft." Why they're doing this, I'm not sure, but I guess when you occupy a building that looks like it'll stand the test of time and has the endorsement of dominant culture, you can really do whatever the chuck you want, gosh darn it all!

Ahem, well,.... I really didn't mean to go on so long about crafts...ooops! The whole idea of such an elevated crafting culture still strikes me as a bit odd, though. Maybe I'll figure it out between now and the next post!

I hope you're all doing splendidly. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to track down some lunch!

H
xo

Sunday, Foodie Sunday!

Photo-documentation of the most excellent picnic that Stef, Julie, and I had this Saturday in Hyde Park. We hoofed over to the Marks&Spencer on Oxford street and deliberated in the food halls over which delicacies would grace our pic-a-nic basket. We finally settled on multi-grained walnut bread, creamy brie, a perfect wedge of Gorgonzola, and cheek-puckering cherry tomatoes and grapes. Plus olives and chips and dip (we ate like queens). Another added perk was an already-chilled bottle of rose bubbly (how great is in-store refrigeration!?)...oh, and PERFECT weather--23 degrees C and sunny...helllls yeah!
All in all a perfect day.
xo

Chumpelstiltskin and the Curse of the Red Tape

Do you ever get the feeling that accomplishing basic tasks (such as--oh, I don't know--getting a phone or bank account) is sometimes FARRR more difficult than it need be? In fact, has attempting to accomplish these tasks--that are arguably necessary for life in even the middle lane, not to mention the fast lane--ever made you feel like a complete and utter chump?

No?

Then you musn't have ever attempted to paste together a life in Jolly Ol' England.

I have spent the last few days at the whim of a whole GAGGLE of admin monkeys. Each with an obnoxiously polite way of squawking their demands at me.

"Sorry, Ms. Christie, you'll have to come back with your passport"

"Ooooh, my regrets, Ms. Christie, we're going to need five copies of your grocery list from last week"

"Ms. Christie, I regret to inform you that we will be needing to conduct a variety of brain and body scans in order to ensure that you are not--in fact--a terrorist/android/Jane Fonda impersonator."

Unless you've been in this situation of complete and utter chumpdom, I'm not sure if you can fully appreciate the irritation of having to travel up and down a single flight of stairs between the "registration" and "records" floors in order to gather an elusive piece of photo ID that--much like the Loch Ness Monster-- is rumored to exist but, in fact, does not.

Yes, I am a chump.

But although I've been caught so perilously like a rubber duck at the amusement park in the chump-and-grind of Blighty life, an end does appear to be in sight (don't worry, I have now knocked every piece of wood in site). If all goes according to plan (which it hardly ever does) I should finish today with both a mobile AND a bank account...what a win for the good guys!

No doubt I will again find myself in chumpton, but for the time being, I have escaped the red plaugue. phew.

Penny Lane is in My Ears and in My Eyes...

Hey there lovers, friends, and sports fans!

Welcome to day four of my latest and greatest adventure. Now that the Blog in the Fog is up and running, I'm hoping to post weekly updates, phots, notes, etc. for your relaxed perusal and general enjoyment when you've got the time (or even as a delightful procrastination tool when you don't have the time!)

Cutting to the chase, for the past four days, Penny Lane--that most delightful of Beatles songs--has been on repeat in my brain. While I'm not too sure how keen I am on a fish and finger pie at the moment, the upbeat and quirky tune has held quite a nice thematic thread.

Wednesday night I hopped a plane in Toronto--Penny Lane spinning through my internal 45 player--and had an absolutely fabulous flight. Jennifer, a friend of our fam was at Heathrow to pick me up and we headed back to her home in Surrey. Delicious jacket potato lunch with beans and cheese and tea. siiiiigh...all in all the blue-suburban-skies feeling PL exudes to boot!

After making myself more presentable than sweaty-airplane-Heather was (ew), I got on a train to Central London and met up with Talia at her flat in Kentish Town. Kentish Town High Street is totally a-bustle with fruit stands, fish mongers, butchers, pubs, news agents, and florists...not to mention barbers, bankers, children, nurses, and firemen!

NAP!

INDIAN MEAL!

TOO MANY DRINKS AT THE PUB!

(*side note: the Oxford, just around the corner from Tal's is probably one of the best, least expensive, most well-decorated, and all-around homey gastropubs in which I've ever had the pleasure of drinking--er, sharing--a bottle of wine)

In our travels that night we also met some great girls from a theatre school in Camden--hoorah for new friends!

And the next day? *shudder.

All we could barely manage was a trip to IKEA, dinner, and a James Bond flick on ITV.

Today was better. Breakfast and The Guardian on the terrace at the Cafe Renoir on Kentish Town High Street. I attempted to get a bank account (no luck, Lloyds' systems were down--wah) and back to IKEA for cheap cheap cheap duvets!

Who knows what tonight will hold!

Pasta and Inglourious Basterds?

Salad and Sleep?

Curry and chilling in the shelter in the middle of the roundabout?

Only time will tell....

xo

H