I’ve decided I quite like the process of just blogging images of the new things I’ve done (as demonstrated in the ‘I Can’t be Bothered’ post). I mean, I’ve got a life, you’ve got a life, no-one really wants to hear me dissect the experience of eating a hard-boiled egg salad for breakfast. I mean, maybe if I were a much better writer than I am (Salman Rushdie, say, or Virginia Woolf, the description of eating a hard-boiled egg salad for breakfast might be spell-binding. But, as it is, I am not Rushdie or Woolf (not yet, anyway!) so I will not continue to bore you. That said, I would like to blog more regularly and I am attached to this recording of new things for every day of the last year of my twenties, so the image posts are a neat compromise.
I went here for dinner –
It was excellent. I find that the Indian in London is, on the whole, much better than that in Australia. Don’t worry, Australians, the Thai is much better back home, as is the Chinese, and the beer is still colder and the beaches still nicer (I’ve noticed how amazingly country-proud Australians are since starting working in the hotel – they usually don’t even recognise I’m Australian, but they’re always bragging in some subtle way about Australia or being Australian. It’s weird). But, the Indian… well, its just better over here.
I used a large amount of my Moroccan toiletries altogether during and after a long and luxurious bath.
It was my attempt at recreating my sensual Moroccan hammam experience in my shared, slightly falling apart bathroom in Clapham Common. It kind of worked. Bits of me feel very soft and I smell of all sorts of lovely fragrant things like jasmine and tangerine and argan trees and not like dirt and sweat and oil anymore. I used a face mask. It was all very self-indulgent and I enjoyed it immensely.