Some sort of learning at the British Museum

I recently went to the British museum for the first time ever. What a great place! When you arrive you know it's special. It's in the type of building that has droves of tourists outside taking selfies in front of it. I have no idea if the architecture is as significant as it looks because what's inside is even more distracting. The British Museum basically houses everything we Brits ever stole from another country as we expanded our empire throughout the world.

Did I make full use of this fantastic resource and learn extensively about all the relics of rich culture around the globe? No. Well, maybe sort of.

During the course of that museum visit, I came to develop a theory that one's experience of an exhibit depends entirely on who you go with. I just so happened to be there with  Jess (who you may remember from the aqua aerobics class). We are two highly energetic and distractable souls, so happy to see each other that we couldn't stop talking long enough to read any of the placards in the building. In this way we educated each other about everything we saw. I told her all I knew about Roman coinage and she taught me about the Rosetta stone. Neither of us knew much about mummies so we swept through the Egypt section and speculated briefly. Sometimes if something was particularly  interesting, we would read half the placard, usually out loud in order to share the information with the other (and stop them from talking!) When you look at a sign and a particular word jumps out, that's how you know you've found the half worth reading. If you're wrong, you'll never know. Sometimes we stood in front of the sign, intending to read it, but couldn't get to a suitable point to pause our conversation and so just generally got in the way.

One of my favourite stories was the Elgin marbles (a great game - I suggest you ask a member of museum staff how to play). Apparently Greece want them back but we keep telling them that the marbles are too delicate to move and so for many years now we've been bound to keep them in the British museum. Our lies were then totally blown open when we took the marbles on a tour of Russia. That's awkward! But our blushes were spared as the Greeks then accidentally blew up the Parthenon (an old building storing old Greek treasures and, apparently, gunpowder) so now we tell them that they are too irresponsible to have their marbles back and we'll be keeping them safe in the British museum for the foreseeable future. At least, that is my recollection of Jess' version of events and with a story like that who cares for an alternative?!

The Elgin Marbles. To be honest, they're already broken.

Loving what we're seeing. Don't know what it is.

It's the type of architecture that tourists take selfies with.

I can tolerate anything except intolerace

Before letting me lose in Kenya, there is a certain amount of pre departure training that must be done. We had some sessions looking at cross-cultural understanding, not judging people by their appearance and considering issues from other people's point of view (amongst others). Although fun I can't say I had any revelations. After studying a human geography degree it would be somewhat disappointing if I still had a lot to learn on the subject of respecting individual or collective differences (or so I thought).

That evening I found myself sat with 2 other volunteers in the bar, (a male and female) and we ended up talking about feminism. Nancy was a black feminist (sic) and Luke wanted to know what feminism was (I always like it when people ask this as I generally find that people who are anti tend not to know what it is that they're opposing. I was in for a surprise). After I'd explained, he thought for a moment:

"Yeah, but it's a woman's role to prepare the home isn't it? I mean, a man doesn't do that" 

I was surprised to hear that. Young people in the 21st century tend not to come out with anything so antiquated and offensive.

"Don't you think that in a modern relationship men and women can share responsibilities?" I tried to get him to reconsider. I shouldn't have bothered

"Yeah, well the husband can tell the wife what to do and he can oversee it can't he? But he can't do it for her"

Good god the man was digging his hole faster than an autonomous mechanical digger.

Nancy, the black feminist across the table, wasn't much help.

"There are certain things women just can't do. I mean men can't breast feed." I wondered what this had to do with housework and whose side she was on. Certainly she didn't strike me as the most convicted of feminists. But then she reverted to the other extreme, "I hate men. All men. They are Satan." If I thought I couldn't be any more shocked I was wrong.

Luke joined in, "I hate men too. Especially black men" (WTF, he is a black man!) and as if to misalign himself further to the patriarchal corner he added "I don't trust women either." I wanted to hold my head in my hands (but I didn't, that would have been rude). I can't handle this much unjustified hatred! I did try to throw him a life raft. Surely no one intends to come across this badly (Nancy I felt was well informed and beyond help - Luke may be just confused).

"You've just said that you don't like men and you don't  trust  women, so you've ruled out everyone. Are you perhaps trying to  say that you have to decide who you like  on a case by case basis?"

I knew it was a long shot but I so wanted it to be true. 

It wasn't. 

Of course it wasn't.

At that point another girl sat down with us. Thanks goodness! A distraction! I'm not open minded enough to tolerate this obnoxious boarder-line-incoherent prejudice. I admit it! I'll discriminate against discriminators. It takes someone more accommodating than me to put up with it. I give up. Let me talk about the weather...

At last! Proof that I've got better at drinking

A few weekends ago I ended up going to a 2-day training course in London with a load of 18 year-olds and a handful of fresh uni grads. It was funny going out drinking with that lot. I was the oldest, but not by a long way. This has only served to highlight to me how much you change from 18 to 25. It's like a social experiment. If you put us in a bar with the express and repeatedly reiterated message of 'do not get drunk' there is general confusion. The poor lambs don't know what to do.

"Shots! Yes, let's do shots! Oh I bought water"
"There's a minimum spend of £10 so I got 3 gin and tonics. Do you want one?"
"\Surely you're not going to drink alcohol?!"

I decided to order independently of this melee. Never has 1 pint of cider seemed so bold or so complicated. It's funny to think I might have matured since I was 18. It's nice to have some proof at last!

Every Londoner should know about The Euston Tap

This post is not a narrative for once, but instead I have to write and report a fantastic new discovery, which I feel I should have learnt about within my first week in London. I can't believe it's taken me nearly 18 months to find the Euston Tap and I now feel obliged to spread the word! One very serious blog post coming up...The Tap impressed me for several reasons. Firstly it seems to be built inside a monument reminiscent or marble arch in style. Secondly it serves pints for under £4 (which is a big deal in London) and thirdly the graffiti in the toilets is so amusing that I must have been in there for a good 10 minutes just reading it. As you would imagine, the place is full of hipsters who are quite friendly (they have to be, it's cosy) and also very beardy.

So if you haven't already been, here's another bar for your London bucket list.

Some sort of Victorian gatehouse.
Don't be put off by my crummy photography

There is nothing better than a good friend

I've often joked (or at least I like to claim I'm joking) that I'm not sure what relationships are for. I see boyfriends as a bit of an inconvenience. I mean, they do things like share their flu, require you to meet their extended family twice removed and eat sensible meals at a sensible time (no more emergency cornflakes at 10pm). I could go on. I won't. You might start to think I'm not kidding.

Last week I went to the cosy little pub in my parent's village with a good friend. Drinking nothing more potent than diet coke I laughed until my sides hurt. We prattled on until we were the last people in the pub and the staff were waiting to go home (probably wondering why they were being paid to wait on 2 individuals who clearly only intended to part with a pitiful amount of coinage in order to fuel their evening). By the time we bumbled out I was quite high on endorphins (which was lucky as it proofed me against the heavy rain) and my cheerfulness carried over into the following day. I swear, if any guy can make me laugh this much, I'll put aside everything I wrote in that first paragraph. He can have a second date regardless of all other flaws*.

* Unless he doesn't want one, in which case, I'll have escaped this rash promise with my freedom and flu-free status in tact.

Sleeping on the job

There was a particularly late night (/early morning) at work after which I couldn't recover. It compounded a week(/quarter), and, having not set a sustainable pace, I floundered the next day. Being in the office on so little sleep felt a lot like being hungover (which, I would guess is no coincidence. Hangovers & Sleep deprivation go hand in hand).

At 5:30pm on the dot, I decided to mitigate this problem by going for a nap in one of our cave-like meeting rooms. No windows, no natural light, one sofa, lots of cushions. Perfect. At the time I didn't think I was asleep. I remember being annoyed when a telephone rang outside and no one answered it. I recall a vague concern at the idea that the floor might get locked up with me inside. I batted the thought away  - if you start to give in to little worries you'll never get any rest.

When I woke I found that it was quite dark and this was exactly what had happened and it seemed a lot more important now that I wasn't asleep. Worse still I had no idea where the burglar alarm sensors were and so I didn't feel I could safely get up and walk about, which unfortunately means staying exactly where I was, re-ruffling my hair (to look more presentable) and requesting someone should come and rescue me.

That's one good thing about my office. It turns out that you can wake up in a meeting room at almost any time of the day, safe in the knowledge that at least one person will be available to free you. Never before have I seen this fact with such a rosy glow!

The least relaxing massage

One of the things my office does to try to convince you that they care about your wellbeing (other than increase headcount of course - you can't have the one thing you need) is to invite a masseuse in every month and offer us all subsidised massages. I was really looking forwards to this when I learnt that head massages were on offer and this is probably my biggest weakness in life (and when you consider the stiff competition for that title, it's clearly a big deal!) Nothing could be more relaxing. Done right, I just lie limp and grin happily. Like a cat.

At first as she began I wondered if I ought to practice mindfulness (I can never usually find the time) then I decided that was too much of a chore and instead proceeded to be entertained by my own thoughts, which is ironic, as I'm pretty sure that an observation of your own thoughts is what mindfulness is.

At the beginning the masseuse worked on my neck and my most prominent thought was; if she had it in for me I would be very quickly dispatched. I took this to be a clear sign that the relaxing effect wasn't working yet. Then she started massaging the back of my head and everything changed. I wondered if I should give some sort of positive feedback, but it was no good, I was feeling too limp to talk. My thoughts got progressively more silly (I shan't document them here, it's probably for the best!) until it dawned on me that she'd made my hair quite knotty. Not that I minded (there's little a tough hairbrush can't solve), but she was trying to run her fingers through it and they kept getting stuck. She was gently trying to tug them out again while pretending it was intentional. I snapped right out of my reflective daze. There's nothing therapeutic about this any more. Suddenly I was wide awake trying very hard not to laugh (as I thought this would be disheartening!) There is nothing unfunny about a perfect stranger who is trying to pretend she hadn't got her hand stuck in your hair!

Some self (re)discovery up London's Monument

Oh my gosh! I've just been up the monument at Monument. I think my legs are still shaking.

Initially I'd never thought to question how the tube stop got its name, so was slightly surprised to discover that an actual monument existed (it does make sense though) and even more surprised to find you could go inside. I mean, look at it, it looks like it's made of solid stone! But, as I now know, there's a little door hidden at the back. Inside are an awful lot of steps that go up in a tight spiral. I started climbing these with a great gusto that had thoroughly worn off by the 200 step mark. At this point I looked over the banister to see how I was doing and realised that I was afraid of heights. Also I was a long way up on a flimsy looking staircase. It's horrible to think about how much stone vs thin air is under your feet!

When you get up to the top the view is great. You can see quite far in all directions and get a good view of Tower Bridge off to the South West. However, my capacity to appreciate any of this was severely compromised by vertigo, which had kicked in like a bucking bronco giving up heroin. It was extremely windy up there and I had an irrational feeling that I might blow off the viewing platform if I didn't hold on to the wall. Why didn't I remember this fact about myself before climbing the massive tower!?! It would be a highly relevant fact for someone to recall when gazing up at the massive pillar they're about to climb (something that I'd only done about 10 minutes before). I suppose I haven't been off the ground in anything less rickety than a large passenger aeroplane in so long that I'd forgotten it might be an issue.

There's a scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere climbs up the fire escape to Julia Roberts' room to give her flowers. His character is afraid of heights and keeps holding on to the wall. I remember wondering what on earth he was up to when I first watched it but I've now become that person!

Gere puts the Roses in his mouth so as to use both hands to hold onto the wall.
Very sensible.

The view from the top is excellent, but you do have to let go of the wall if you want to take pictures of it.

It feels like there is an almost infinite number of steps (seriously, can you see the bottom here?) My advice: don't look down! Taking photos like this is an extremely bad idea as it is likely to cause you to realise how high up you are, sending unhelpful survival instincts into overdrive.

When I got down they gave me a certificate of achievement to show I'd climbed the 311 steps to the top. To me it was so much more - proof I'd kept calm (and successfully held on to the wall) 50 meters high. I'll consider framing it.

If you would also like to have a go at climbing the monument and finding out if you too have a fear of heights it costs £4 and is right next to Monument tube station on the district, circle & northern lines.