Tuesday, 11 March 2014
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
My New Year (or Late January…don't judge me) Resolutions
Okay, so I am a little behind on my New Years Resolutions this year. My 2014 didn’t technically start until 6th January, when I started back to work and it has taken a couple of weeks for me to wean myself off chocolate and get my fitness back (and by that I mean getting to my no-lift-six-flights-of-stairs-fourth-floor-office without passing out).
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
It's Getting Hot in Here...
So lets all pile into a moving metal box, a couple of hundred feet under the ground and sweat on one another...sexy right?
Summer has well and truly arrived, and Londoners really are making the most of it. Office workers are fighting their way to the nearest patch of grass, stripping off ties and tights as they go. Tourists are descending on Oxford Street in their masses, with every unneccessary picture taken being photobombed by a bedraggled, sweaty commuter.
The summer has also brought my stressful work load to a slow, as clients and colleagues jet off to various islands all over the world (no really, I'm not jealous at all....) and has given me some time to revamp and get blogging again. It's good to be back! Don't worry you can still catch my old posts here.
So some tips to stop us London dwellers complaining in all this hot weather; don't be that person who blocks the Tube window, it is cramped and boiling, please do not block the only source of air. Certainly don't be the tourist from warmer climates, whose main concern is their imaculate hair is being blown all over the place, and close the window. You don't want to feel the wrath of the London commuter; it's not good at the best of times, but especially not when temperatures are close to boiling point on the train. Get yourself outside and enjoy it, before we have to start complaining about the rain again!
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Heeeey Salty Lady
‘Welcome back’ I hear you cry! Well, realistically the majority of you didn’t even know I was away but yes, I have been jet setting quite a lot recently hence the lack of blog posts, for which I do apologise.
I have ventured North of the Wall (a.k.a Scotland), to the sunny Marrakech in Morocco and then finally back to the Emerald Isle.
When I chose Marrakech as a holiday destination for myself, my sister and my mum, I was quite honestly just looking for somewhere that would inject a bit of Vitamin D into my borderline translucent body (please see featured image on the Home Page). And Marrakech did not disappoint.
Although I just wanted to remain horizontal on a sun lounger for the week, I knew I ought to do some cultural things and was advised that the Old Town, or Medina’s, souks and food stalls were one of the top things to visit. I was well prepared for the haggling that would be needed and knew to wear long trousers, having had to resort to wrapping my scarf around my bare legs last year after realising that I was the only person not in something below the knee in Egypt’s Old Town. These long pins certainly did cause a frenzy with the stall owners…. (Anyone who knows my leg to body ratio will note the irony of that statement).
As soon as we arrived in the Medina, with our guide La La [please insert appropriate Teletubbies joke here], I realised that I was very thankful for my daily Oxford Street commute. Weaving through tourists, avoiding charity collectors and saying a firm NO to those people giving out ‘free’ bags of makeup put me in good stead.
My twin sister and I, as some of you will know, are not the type to accept being ripped off, so we were fiercely haggling and bartering with every stall owner, much to the mortification of my mum. One particular man tried to sell my sister a unique, one of a kind, never to be seen anywhere else in the world EVER, carpet, for a casual £1,000. Following a swift exit we, unsurprisingly, saw that same unique, one of a kind carpet hanging on a cheaper stall 100m away – the con artist!
We day-tripped to the seaside town of Essaouira where we found out that its Medina was known as the Lucky Square. Much to my horror, Essaouira gained this name due to the copious number of seagulls and their frequent bowel movements. My irrational fear of seagulls was tested to breaking point, and I did come very, very close to being ‘lucky’ at one point, much to the amusement of our tour guide; ‘’Oooh that was a big s**t” – thanks mate, I’m aware.
Our tour guide taught us a lot about the history of Morocco, its political and education systems, but if I am perfectly honest I only took one piece of information away that day. Apparently, in Essaouira, instead of saying someone is sexy, they call them salty – from the expression salt of the earth- which had me singing ‘ Heeey salty lady op op op op oppan Gangnam Style’ for the remainder of the holiday. And although I did get asked out by a Moroccan Peter Andre, sadly no one actually called me Salty Lady.
So despite my mum’s attempts to rid herself of her embarrassing twin daughters, she realised that Ryanair may have charged her just a tiny additional fee to get camels into the hold, so we all arrived safely back in the UK without a Moroccan husband or a caravan of camels. Although my dad did suggest she try a 2 for 1 offer next time. Cheers Dad…
Follow me on Twitter: @HollyJ_Brown
I have ventured North of the Wall (a.k.a Scotland), to the sunny Marrakech in Morocco and then finally back to the Emerald Isle.
When I chose Marrakech as a holiday destination for myself, my sister and my mum, I was quite honestly just looking for somewhere that would inject a bit of Vitamin D into my borderline translucent body (please see featured image on the Home Page). And Marrakech did not disappoint.
Although I just wanted to remain horizontal on a sun lounger for the week, I knew I ought to do some cultural things and was advised that the Old Town, or Medina’s, souks and food stalls were one of the top things to visit. I was well prepared for the haggling that would be needed and knew to wear long trousers, having had to resort to wrapping my scarf around my bare legs last year after realising that I was the only person not in something below the knee in Egypt’s Old Town. These long pins certainly did cause a frenzy with the stall owners…. (Anyone who knows my leg to body ratio will note the irony of that statement).
As soon as we arrived in the Medina, with our guide La La [please insert appropriate Teletubbies joke here], I realised that I was very thankful for my daily Oxford Street commute. Weaving through tourists, avoiding charity collectors and saying a firm NO to those people giving out ‘free’ bags of makeup put me in good stead.
My twin sister and I, as some of you will know, are not the type to accept being ripped off, so we were fiercely haggling and bartering with every stall owner, much to the mortification of my mum. One particular man tried to sell my sister a unique, one of a kind, never to be seen anywhere else in the world EVER, carpet, for a casual £1,000. Following a swift exit we, unsurprisingly, saw that same unique, one of a kind carpet hanging on a cheaper stall 100m away – the con artist!
We day-tripped to the seaside town of Essaouira where we found out that its Medina was known as the Lucky Square. Much to my horror, Essaouira gained this name due to the copious number of seagulls and their frequent bowel movements. My irrational fear of seagulls was tested to breaking point, and I did come very, very close to being ‘lucky’ at one point, much to the amusement of our tour guide; ‘’Oooh that was a big s**t” – thanks mate, I’m aware.
Our tour guide taught us a lot about the history of Morocco, its political and education systems, but if I am perfectly honest I only took one piece of information away that day. Apparently, in Essaouira, instead of saying someone is sexy, they call them salty – from the expression salt of the earth- which had me singing ‘ Heeey salty lady op op op op oppan Gangnam Style’ for the remainder of the holiday. And although I did get asked out by a Moroccan Peter Andre, sadly no one actually called me Salty Lady.
So despite my mum’s attempts to rid herself of her embarrassing twin daughters, she realised that Ryanair may have charged her just a tiny additional fee to get camels into the hold, so we all arrived safely back in the UK without a Moroccan husband or a caravan of camels. Although my dad did suggest she try a 2 for 1 offer next time. Cheers Dad…
Follow me on Twitter: @HollyJ_Brown
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