Olympic Hangover

To be honest, I had already planned to write a blog based on the UK Olympic Hangover I was sure I was going to experience.  This was before I even touched down in the country.  I had envisioned photos of dreary grey cityscapes and depressed looking locals combined with a witty caption or two at their expense.  What I got was a city still high on the Olympic glow.  Everybody was so dam happy.  Not to mention how clean the bloody place was.  You could have served lunch up under the bench seats in the train stations.  I actually even rinsed the girls hands clean in some gutter water near a block of public toilets.  Previously this would be a sure fire way to contract The Plague..... or smallpox.   At the very least a persistent fungal condition.   Yet everything was all sparkling and shiny.  The weather was great.  It seriously was not like London at all.  We took the girls past Buckingham palace, as they were more than keen to see where the Queen lived, and went shopping at the Tudor-style Liberty department store.  What shameless tourists.  I must say though, it was pretty incredible to be catapulted out of a tiny island paradise to one of the world's great cities that was undergoing a seriously good moment.

Ye Olde Department Store

The girls were disappointed that we didn't actually see the Queen

However, rather than enjoy the glossy spectacle I was a woman on a mission. Usually an all-nighter on a plane in sweaty clothing, combined with that unmistakable beauty a healthy dose of PMT can inflict on body and soul, would see me laid up in my hotel room as quickly as possible wearing an eye mask that says "Fuck Off" across the outside (yes, I'm jealous of yours Hazza). However, I was engaging in the least likely activity any woman in my heinous condition would ever be tempted to do so. I was shopping for a wedding dress.

"For fuck's sake, why???" I hear the echo go out. "It was my only chance"  I answer you now.  Less than 24 hours in London does not offer up much time for these kind of activities.  I was pretty unmoved by my first experience.  Really unappealing dresses were plentiful (some were dirty and torn).  Plus the insistence - despite my feeble protests - that I wear a veil to "get the look" was also off-putting.  The pressuring from staff to order one of my reluctant short listed items started to get to me.  But the very worst moment, was when I was all dressed up, but forbidden to come out of the changeroom because a girl in "Her Actual Wedding Dress" was taking a stroll around the room and gazing at her reflection from every angle.  Taking my location into account, I guess I would have messed up the butt view (which wouldn't have been a bad thing in my opinion).  But still..... As I sat on a stool, waiting to be allowed out, I found the experience somewhat degrading.  A person trying on the most expensive item they have ever slipped on in their life, should not be made to feel like shit in my opinion.  Unless she rips it, or spills coffee on it.  Which I should have done.  Or perhaps release a dose of Tassie Bitchface Slut on someone's ass......As usual I'm all talk.  Attitude is far more easily accomplished with perspective.

Luckily, my second experience at a less expensive, yet more stylish establishment proved more fruitful. I believe I actually had that moment that your typical bride dreams of when she finds "The One".  Dress of course - not life partner...... Plus, the shop assistant was really nice and let me parade around perving at myself (with no enforced veil) as much as I pleased.  So there.  After a tragic start, my first wedding dress extravaganza day, proved to be a highly satisfying experience.  However, I somewhat suspect that I could have been deluded as to my own fabulousness.  Before I entered the shop, I had demolished the first coffee, not to mention the first sugar concentrated hit (a large red velvet cupcake), that I'd had in ten weeks.  I was sweaty and my voice was shrill with excitement. I definitely laughed more than a so-called sane individual should laugh.  At my own jokes too.   I'm cringing a little right now reminiscing.  This high could have also affected my judgement of my own perceived gloriousness.

Meanwhile, my poor suffering eventual groom to be, had to go back to the airport with two three year olds.  This was to collect the bag we forgot on the carousel before security firebombed it in the suspected bomb disarming unit (there were a very large amount of electrical cables inside).  Add the jetag/lack of sleep factor, and I don't think it was a memorable London moment for the three of them. Chalks in particular.  When finally we all touched down in slumber land that evening, it was like heaven.  How do nice hotels get their sheets so clean, soft, and yet crispy???  This was the first time we stayed in this particular hotel (and we only did because it was part of St Pancras Station (at least I've now stopped accidentally calling it St Pancreas) where we had to catch the Eurostar the next day.  It was absolutely brilliant.  The hotel itself used to be the old train station and it was all historical and that.  Like lots of other old pommy shit.

The old ticket booking office is now the restaurant

French toast in London

Somebody from the hotel even pushed our luggage all the way through the station and loaded it on the train.  We only just made it - by less than a minute.  We were searched upon entry as Chalks was strapping a hunting knife this time.  Well, it was in his suitcase and was last used to cut up pumpkin.  This flimsy excuse didn't stop Eurostar security who confiscated it and then went through that bag with a fine tooth comb.  And as half of it was Valli and Cordi's crap - let me just say that it takes quite some time to examine 100 blocks of Duplo.

mmmmmm

But made it we did, and away we went, bound for good old Gay (as I like to refer to it as such).  Love a bit of Paris.  Now, there's some serious historical shit going on in that fine city.  Not to mention macarons for that super sugar high.  Also, stay tuned to hear me describe how I over-indulged and vomited up red wine and Camembert in the kitchen sink.....The fun never stops at Club Saunders.