Fight For Your Right To Party

I've been back in Sydney for almost a week now. You wanna know what I've spent this past week doing? Sleeping. And blowing my nose. Yep, both Bobby and I have been ill. AND jet lagged. Whilst Bobby has tried more than once to convince me it's Swine Flu that's been plaguing us, I can safely reassure the few friends I have hugged/seen since arriving back in the land of Oz that it is not Swine Flu, merely a harmless, mildly annoying cold. I reckon he just thinks it's the cool thing to have right now. Which, let's be honest, it kind of is. I heard that my friend Jess had swine flu and how she was quarantined for two weeks and all her housemates had to wear swine flu MASKS. Can you imagine? All her housemates in piggy masks? Feeding her soup? I have to admit, it sounds pretty incredible. Alas, this whole lethargy thing has meant that I haven't spent more than five minutes on the computer (total), bar the time spent filling out online forms and doing the most utterly boring and monotonous yet essential administrative work imaginable. So, no blog posts for you, my friends.

One good thing to come out of this little sickness of ours however, is that it's given both Bobs and I a little time to become acquainted with our new housemates. Indeed, the shell of our home has changed little but when I say 'new' housemates, I really do mean brand spanking new. Like, all of them. We stumbled into the living room on Tuesday night to be greeted by four strangers sitting in our living room. Since that experience, I'm quite certain that Bobby and I are entirely qualified to be professional Big Brother intruders. Hello Grace, hello Dave, hello Dom and hello Katrina. Thankfully, they're super duper awesome. Actually, the whole situation is pretty frickin' awesome. I've spent more time hanging out in the living room in the past week than I think I ever have because it's just that good. Seriously, like, if I weren't me, I'd be totally jealous. Actually, even being me I'm still kinda jealous because imagine if I could live with all these incredible folks PLUS myself. Wow. I reckon we'd get along ace. Me and me. Although, I'd have to clean up after myself, which would kind of suck. But then I would still be just as lazy so I totally wouldn't but then I'd probably get annoyed at myself cause there'd be DOUBLE the mess. Double trouble? Cool. Double junk? Not so much. Unless it's the other kind of junk. Before I blow my own mind, I'd better change the subject:

Yes, Sydney is amazing and I missed it terribly and man, my cat? Totally missed her to bits. Though, luckily, she was returned to me not literally in bits, because that would have been really sad. However, I didn't really expect (well I might've a little bit. But not as much as I do) to miss England. The fact that those Eastbourners (and Brightoners) made our leaving do the best leaving do to ever happen to anyone ever didn't exactly help. I thought Eastbourners didn't 'do' dress up parties. How wrong I was. It was frickin' amazing. A M A Z I N G. The theme was the eighties and the nineties and everyone took it as far as they could. You might think that the amount of photos that I've posted here is a lot, but spare a thought to those that were subjected to the entirety of the night's photos. Three hundred? Nope. Try five hundred and something. I'm pretty sure I crashed the Internet trying to put them all on Facebook. And they're ALL brilliant. To be honest though, it's really difficult to take a non-brilliant photo when everybody's dressed so fantastically. Everybody should definitely dress like this all the time.

Looking COOL.

As, hopefully, you might have guessed, I was Madonna from Desperately Seeking Susan.

Patent bow, I made myself. Earrings and necklances from various charity stores.
Glittery top from a pay by the kilo store in Berlin.
Belt, shoes and scarf were both thrifted in Eastbourne.
And the pants are my stay-at-home pants, from Primark.

White Wedding

What a day. I feel completely secure in publicly declaring the wonderful wedding of the fabulous couple, Max and Helen, as an utter, hiccup-free success. Except for that time I slipped down the stairs. That was a bit of a hiccup. But I recovered quickly, with my glass of gin and something or other barely scathed. And that's the main thing, isn't it? Regrettably, I barely got a sober word with the bride and groom throughout the event, and won't do again before I leave back to Australia, as they're now on their honeymoon. Watching them mingle and laugh their way through the day slash evening was a good compromise, however. I don't think I've ever seen two happier people. The thought's crossed my mind that perhaps that was because they got away with only having to converse with me for five minutes tops but let's not go there. Again.

Also, I'm fully aware that I'm going straight to hell for taking photographs in a 'Please no photographs' church but you know what? No. Wait. That's all. Hell. Yep, can't really argue with God can you? Because, you know, last time I checked I couldn't have an argument with a unicorn either. And I did check. He point blank refused to acknowledge me. Waving that horn about, eating grass, flying all around the place. Arsehole (that's directed at the unicorn, not God. God doesn't have an Arsehole. He's HOLY.)



We all positively stuffed our faces at the reception mostly courtesy of Emma (below, with her husband Ford), who made not only brownies but oh-my-honey-cake.



Post-cake, we hopped on a coach to the next village over; a quaint little place with no street lights. Don't ask me how they walk home at night. I suspect they are all anti-vampires (like anti-christs but not), and that they will explode into flames if they go out at night. And when you have anti-vampires flamin' up everywhere, who needs street lights?

We were asked to detail a wish for the couple and hang it on the apple tree which was soon to be planted in their garden. If I'm completely honest, I don't actually remember what I wrote but I do remember distinguishing myself from the other Emma (who is known as Captain), by explaining that I was merely the co-pilot (a position which, in retrospect, has nothing to do with captains or ships), a fact which would have been quite obvious no doubt sans explanation, if only by my overzealous use of 'awesome' and 'like'. I'm pretty sure I broke the world record for the number of times 'awesome' was used in a wish.

Bobby had to do a reading and he was SHITTING his pants. Not literally of course, that would be disgusting. It went down a treat however (the reading, not the shitting) and was followed by the best men's speech (below). Ford, Ben and Ryan - the three best men - charmingly chattered away, humorously following a 'Speeches for Dummies' (or something to that effect) paperback.

Wonderfully feathered hat and patent heels were a few quid from Scope (a charity shop),
the glomesh little bag I found in another cluttered charity shop in Eastbourne,
the dress I made (sans pattern) from some fabric we found in Berlin
and the patent bow I hand made.

Although I feel that it hardly needs to be said, given the photos and the nature of the party, I had the most brilliantly wonderful time at the absolutely amazing event and I wish the now-married couple the world. That's right, THE WORLD.

Addicted

Mmm... Clothes by the kilo. My favourite kind of clothes. I found Garage, on Ahornstraße, to be the best for Berliner vintage. The clothes were relatively inexpensive (if you stuck to the by-the-kilo bit) and if you spent enough time in there, you could be sure to find a few bits and bobs to delight and satisfy your craving. Because everyone has clothes cravings, right? Or is it just me? Like, don't tell my therapist or anything but when I don't go charity shopping for more than two or three days I start to go a bit mad. Okay, not a bit mad, kind of totally crazy, agitated, bored. Go on Tuesdays when it's happy hour (for two hours from 11am) when you only pay €10 per kilo.


I contentedly bounced around the city the next day, dressed up in a well loved fraction of my finds.

Shirt and leggings, both paid by the kilo from Garage.
Patent shoes: From Mauerpark Flohmarkt, a bustling market in Prenzlauer Berg.
Sunnies and bag, both from Eastbourne Charity shops. The sunnies only set me back 50p. Good thing too, considering how many times I have dropped them in the past month.