WANTED: 1 job, London

I’m back in London and I need a job.

My CV is awaiting a polish up.

Registering with a temping agency is the first thing to cross my mind, then teaching in an English Language School.

Everyone is talking about a crisis. Are there vacancies out there?

I got myself a Journalism Diploma last year.

The classes had a strong focus on the impossibility of breaking into the industry.

“But you have to try,” the tutor would add.

The effect of this message is, that despite all the studying and a cosy little distinction on my certificate, it doesn’t even occur to me to look for a job in the media.

That said, I’ll now spend a moment looking wistfully out of the window while I imagine this blog was a column in a newspaper.

How I’d love to be able to write for a living!

I’m disciplined, I’m determined, I love the satisfaction of meeting deadlines and I love tea.

In Bogota I was able to dedicate entire months to my novel.

It was the first time in my life I’d been able to do that.

Up until then I’d always written in moments snatched before and after work.

Being able to write every day actually made writing easier.

I started to get into the zone more quickly; my ideas developed and the novel began to take shape.

Now two weeks have passed without me looking at it and I already feel it drifting away.

I just need to find a new routine so I can keep at it.

I want to get something good enough to send off to an agent.

Of course meanwhile I need a paid job, a job which might teach me something and help me develop my skills.

This blog has brought me a lot of luck, a lot of support and a lot of advice... so if any of you readers know of any opportunities out there, or have any tips for me, I’d love to hear from you!

What a Sight!

Laser eye surgery... how do you imagine it?

I imagined a huge green laser beam ready to burn off my eyebrows if I moved a hair.

Not so.

It’s incredible.

Incredibly quick.

Five minutes an eye.

It’s not pleasant. There’s glaring lights, the sensation of a sticky plaster being pressed over your eye, the sound of an electric drill which turns out to be a gentle dryer.

Later you spend three hours with your eyelids taped closed and your eyes stinging.

But it’s still not as awful as that wax I once had in Peru.

Because of my surgery, I have been off the computer for a few days and I haven’t been able to share last week’s special event: Our official engagement party (Colombian style).

It was only fair to celebrate our commitment to each other in each country and include all our friends and family.

Our party began at 7.30am with the Fiancé and I sticking single flower stems into a sandpit in the drizzle.

We were in the finca, the house in the countryside belonging to my sister-in-law and her family, and it had never been so cloudy.

“Look, the sun,” my father-in-law said, pointing at a tiny spec of white amidst all the grey. “It will clear.”

As the rain increased and our dream of an outdoor celebration looked like it wasn’t to be, we began emptying the house and preparing to move all the tables indoors.

But a few hours later, while the guest started to arrive, the sun made a miraculous appearance.

The simple and beautiful ceremony was held outside as planned with a reading by the local priest and a blessing of our rings.

“I never thought I’d ever say ‘yes’ to a man before I’d met his mother,” I began my speech.

It meant a lot to me to be able to address all these people that had come to share our special day. Many of them I’d never met while others I’d still not got to know fully.

My sister-in-law made the occasion feel particularly complete.

She had researched different wedding traditions from all over the world.

I stepped on an egg, my fiancé on a glass, my father-in-law threw acorns over my head while my mother-in-law held up a green leaf to show her approval.

I can’t match the countries with the traditions now, except the Polish one, where we tasted bread (‘may you never go hungry’), salt (‘may you overcome all bitterness’) and wine (‘may you enjoy the sweetness in life’).

The local band, la papayera, burst into a chaotic melee of drums and trumpets as we finished off a rodizio (rotation) of succulent meat.

Then came the Mariachis to woo us in the night.

All our guests had come to enjoy themselves and there was no holding back as the music played.

I danced all night, exchanging my heels for flip flops and best of all, barefoot.

As it grew colder, the party moved inside beside a roaring fire.

The Fiancé and I were the last ones standing.

When I felt my eyes starting to close, he took my hand and we went outside.

Amidst the eucalyptus trees we sat and watched big, blurry stars.

It was a perfect day and a perfect way to bring to a close my time in Colombia.

I can’t thank my new family enough for taking me in with such an open heart.

The Little One

I’m convinced my newly acquired nephew is drinking Red Bull on the sly.
This wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t 4 years old.
In fact he’s 3 years and 10 months and he knows he’s not a baby anymore.
He hasn’t stopped for one minute since he arrived in Bogotá a week ago.
The sword fighting starts before we’ve even had breakfast.
Then comes the fall outs and reconciliations between Tiger and Mr Donkey, the plasticine creations including the fish with a tumour on his face, the hospital made of chunky lego, the piecing together of Sponge Bob, the re-piecing together of Sponge Bob and of course the acting out of scenes from superman, batman, spiderman, the fantastic four, transformers and the green lantern.
By 5pm I’m knackered and craving a soothing glass of wine, (by glass I mean bottle).
Meanwhile he’s just warming up.
After my first play day with my little nephew, a thought occurred to me.
What if baby animals were anything like humans ones?
Little calf: No Mummy, I don’t want to eat grass! I want chocolate!Baby Seal: Why do I have to go in the water? Baby bear hasn’t gone in!
Baby lion curls his lip after one bite of antelope: I don’t like it. I want zebra.
Mummy Lion: You asked for antelope. Eat it.
Baby Lion: No!
Mummy Lion: All superlions eat antelope, don’t you want to be a superlion?Baby Lion: No they don’t! They eat zebra!Yes I’ve resorted to talking animals. That’s what relentless playing does to you.
In short, baby humans are inconsistent.
One minute my nephew loves me, the next he is attacking me with a cardboard tube under the guise of Optimus Prime.
Admittedly I’m not much different.
When I’m tired and he’s being grumpy, I think having kids is an absurd idea.
Then there are those other moments.
When he’s giggling his socks off because I’m giving Tiger a silly voice,
When he’s sitting on the sofa explaining to me something very seriously and looking so little,
When he sneaks into my room and switches off the light, then runs off squealing with nervous anticipation of me chasing him to tickle his tummy...
Those moments give me an insight into something special, something you would fight every superhero in the world to protect.

Ode to Rome

Sorry I haven’t written for a while.

I’ve been grieving.

The pain began as soon as I left Rome.

What a beautiful city. What history. What fantastic men in fantastic suits driving down the cobble stoned streets on their Vespas.

We arrived at the five star Baglioni Hotel after a killer journey from Bogotá (all courtesy of Peroni).

Our double bed turned out to be a twin, the toilet was broken and there was no hot water.

This was great news since we were promptly upgraded to an executive suite.

Ah, what luxury. The kind that would make you feel slightly ill if you thought about it.

We had a private city tour with a very knowledgeable and good-humoured guide and had our own driver, Lorenzo, who drove us around the capital in a spotless silver Mercedes.

He collected us from the Olympic Stadium after we watched Lazio versus Bologna, and waited for us while we had lunch.

For a special evening, the concierge booked us into an exquisite restaurant with a view over the city.

Luckily my lady’s menu had no prices or I wouldn’t have been able to order a slice of bread.

It was our pre-honey moon and we clinked our glasses of prosecco and wished ourselves a happy marriage!

On day four, Peroni’s promise had been fulfilled and it was time to leave the hotel that had housed royalty and head to slightly more humble lodgings.

The porter took our luggage out to the entrance.

“Shall I call you a car, Sir?” he asked.

“Oh no, our friends are waiting for us down the road,” my Fiancé lied.

One feels compelled to keep up appearances in places like the Baglioni.

We couldn’t possibly admit that we were walking our bags by ourselves to a three star hotel.

Rome was heaven even without the fancy bottles of body lotion and chocolates on our pillows.

I fell in love with the ancient skyline and the wonderful hues of burnt umber, terracotta and olive green.

I’d never seen such elegant pine trees and I thought of my Mum, who in the past had used up whole films on snaps of trees rather than of us lot on holiday.

We walked until our legs ached and then walked some more.

I bought one half of Rome and admired the other.

A few more weeks and I’d have been posing as a silver-painted cowgirl with a money pot in front of me.

I may be gone now but my absence is temporary.

I threw a coin in the Fontana di Trevi which means my return is assured!

Yoga and Beer

I used to think Yoga was just a relaxed roll-about on the floor.

A bit like taking a nap on your special mat in nursery.

I wasn’t going to do it because it obviously didn’t involve any sweating.

Then my shoulders started to ache a lot and I worried I was getting arthritis.

“You should do yoga,” the masses advised me.

So I did and I was shocked to find it was the most physically challenging exercise I’d ever done in my life.

Every stretch made my body cry out ‘I’m not meant to be doing this!’

Despite the pain, I’ve taken it up here in Bogotá and I love it.

It’s a two hour session but the teacher always tries to waste a bit of time at the beginning explaining what yoga is.

I mean to arrive late to miss the talking but then I tell myself it’s good for me.

While I’m thinking I’ve heard it all before I’m probably missing something key.

I like the sound of the positions in Spanish, especially Guerrerro* 1 (*Warrior) and Guerrero 2.

With legs firmly on the ground, arms stretching out at each side, eyes focused ahead and Indian music playing in the background, there is a moment where I think I’m Arjuna (from the Mahabharata).

A whole enemy army awaits me but I am not afraid.

That’s what happens when you inhale and exhale deeply with every movement.

It goes to your head.

You just don't get such brilliant illusions on the treadmill.

The melodic music, which could be from Bollywood for all I know, gives the class a special feel.

It’s not the same when the teacher’s ipod selects some wishy-washy version of a film sound track.

That happened last week and I was distracted from my Guerrerro positions because I was trying to guess what film it was from.

The soppy English lyrics killed off any spiritual element there might've been.

I wanted to ask him if he’d please change it but being half British it really goes against my genes to make a fuss.

Luckily it swapped back to the Indian chant.

My favourite bit about my yoga class is at the end when the teacher comes over and rubs tiger balm over my nose.

It stings a bit but it smells delicious and I feel myself drifting to sleep.

Pity I can’t go next week.

But not too much of a pity because I’ll be in Rome!

The Fiancé won the trip in a Peroni raffle. I’ve never been to Italy before so I’m very excited.

Yoga and Beer.

Happiness is about finding that balance.

I’ll tell you how it goes.

Until then… Arrivederci!

Video Malfunction and the Little Cow

I miss my friends and crave a proper catch up in a pub with a pint and a packet of crisps (salt & vinegar).
“You have to think of yourself as a monk,” Petra says.
She’s the only person I can talk to on Skype without a problem.
It refuses to cooperate when I try to speak to Mum.
Either the video works for her and she can see me, or it works for me and I can see her.
We can’t see each other at the same time.
Only once we’ve resigned to chatting without a video, the audio dies and we have to hang up.
At least I can talk to Petra.
She reminds me of what I already know. One of the reasons I came to Bogotá was to write my book.
I’m not living like a monk and I am writing more than ever.
My writing is diabolical but I just need to get the ideas on paper.
Hopefully it will become readable during the editing process.
Despite odd moments of longing for home, life is good.
The Fiancé’s family feed me as if every day was Christmas.
Last weekend we went up to La Calera, a pretty town up a mountain, close to Bogotá.
We stopped in a busy open air restaurant where they were grilling all sorts of animal parts.
A vegetarian would’ve had to content themselves with a plate of guacamole.
As for me, I loved it.
We all ate out of a single big basket and there was so much, we were still eating it the following day.
Talking of Christmas (sort of), I’m convinced I’m living with Mrs Santa Claus.
My mother in-law is so generous and is always buying me treats.
Last week in Bogotá book fair they were selling boxes of plasticine.
It made my fingers twitch.
My mother in law didn’t think twice about buying a box.
A couple of days later, I was rolling it between my fingers with a big grin on my face.
It was a moment of bliss. I felt about six years old as I made my little cow.
Would I have made that cow if I’d been in London?
I can’t be sure.
The great thing about being here is having the time and space to create.
It’s good I’m staying a while longer.
That pint and those salt & vinegar crisps will taste even better if I come back with a book half written.

A Spell on the Coast

I went to Cartagena de las Indias to do research for my book.
This involved a lot of sitting on park benches with my cousin, Rosie.
We watched people coming and going as we sipped our sugary tinto bought from one of the men with the flasks.
If you sit long enough in a park something will happen.
Like a presenter from Cartagena TV appearing and rolling up her t-shirt to record a news’ slot.
Or a preacher man stepping up to deliver the word of the Lord and being applauded.
We saw Afro Caribbean folk dancers in the park and a man feeding an Iguana.
After a few days we left town and headed to the harbour.
Beside a reeking fish market we climbed into a boat headed for the beautiful beach of Playa Blanca.
The small vessel was already full when we arrived but not full enough for the locals who wanted to take half of Cartagena across to the island in one trip.
A man approached with a huge sack of plantain and I scrambled up onto my seat to avoid getting crushed. With no space for my feet I lifted my legs on top of the sack as another man handed me a large electric fan to hold onto.
Once the rest of the cargo had been packed in around us, the heaving little boat set off.
The wind whipped against us as our boat sped over the waves and the fan in my hands spun like mad.

Items were inching towards us.
“We have a sausage situation,” Rosie said.
I looked down to see that the largest frankfurters I’d ever seen in my life had slid from their place and were edging slowly up her skirt.
We tried to push them back but they wouldn’t budge.
The boat was bouncing, the fan was blowing, the sausages were slippery and we were helpless to do anything because we were laughing so much.
Two days on a beach didn’t lead to much research but it was fun.
Less fun was having to say no to all the people trying to give us massages or sell us jewellery.
I’ve always found it difficult to say ‘no’.
“The key is no eye contact,” my cousin said.
But I couldn’t resist a peak at those brightly coloured stones and my curiosity landed me with an insistent sales man.
I bought a necklace and some bracelets. That should’ve been the end of it.
The next day, just before we were set to leave the island, my eyes roamed again.
The seller was on me like a flash.
“No, really,” I said, accepting the necklace to look at, “I’ve got no money.”
He halved the price.
“No, really, it’s beautiful, but I can’t.”
I could’ve kicked myself for showing interest. The man wasn’t going to leave me alone.
“I’ll swap it for your sun glasses,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, feeling relieved there was way out.
I handed over my sand-encrusted glasses and took the necklace.
A moment later I got that sinking feeling.
I was on the blazing Caribbean coast with no shade.
My survival instincts had failed me.
What I didn’t know was that in swapping my sunglasses I had cast a spell.
From that moment on the sun ceased to be as blinding.
The days that followed were boiling hot but overcast.
Back in Cartagena new arrivals complained about the rain while I felt relieved I wouldn’t have to buy replacement specs.
I don’t know if the spell has broken yet as I’ve come back to Bogotá.
Maybe it won’t break unless I return.
I could handle that.
Cartagena is the most beautiful city I’ve ever visited.